na 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 

-V  2  6 


SOUTHERN  BRANCH, 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA, 

LIBRARY, 
iU>S  ANGELES,  CALIF. 


V 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


14 


EDITED  BY 

PERCY  H.   BOYNTON 

ASSOCIATE  PROEESSOB..OF  ENGLISH,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CHICAGO 
AUTHOR  OF  "  LONDON  IN  ENGLISH  LITERATURE  " 


WITH  THE  ASSISTANCE  OF  HOWARD  M.  JONES, 
ASSISTANT  PROFESSOR,  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 
MONTANA,  AND  GEORGE  W.  SHERBURN  AND 
FRANK  M.  WEBSTER,  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CHICAGO 


-f/SOO 

NEW  YORK 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1918 

J1'19 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published   April,    1918 


J3H 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The  poems  by  William  Cullen  Bryant  are  used 
by  permission  of  D.  Appleton  &  Company. 

The  selections  from  the  writings  of  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  Henry  Wads- 
worth  Longfellow,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  James 
Russell  Lowell  and  William  Vaughn  Moody  are 
used  by  permission  of  and  by  arrangement  with 
Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  authorized  publishers 
of  their  works. 

The  poems  by  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  are  used 
by  permission  of  Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shepard  Co. 

The  poems  of  Sidney  Lanier  are  reprinted  from 
"The  Poems  of  Sidney  Lanier,"  published  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

The  poems  by  Walt  Whitman  are  used  by  per 
mission  of  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  authorized 
publishers  of  his  works. 

The  poems  of  Joaquin  Miller  are  used  by  per 
mission  of  the  Harr  Wagner  Publishing  Co.,  San 
Francisco,  Cal.,  publishers  of  the  complete  works 
of  Joaquin  Miller. 

The  poems  by  Richard  Hovey,  "Spring,"  "Love 
in  the  Winds,"  "The  Call  of  the  Bugles,"  "Un- 
manifest  Destiny,"  "After  Business  Hours,"  "  From 
'Taliesin:  A  Masque'"  and  "Faith  and  Fate," 
are  used  by  permission  of  Duffield  &  Company; 
and  the  poems  "Comrades,"  "At  the  End  of  Day" 
and  "The  Wander  Lovers"  by  permission  of  Small, 
Maynard  &  Company. 


PREFACE 

This  book  has  been  prepared  for  the  purpose  of  encouraging  the  intelligent  study 
of  the  history  of  American  literature  by  assembling  representative  text  of  the  poetry 
and  adequate  critical  machinery  to  accompany  it. 

In  making  the  selections  two  main  points  have  been  kept  in  mind:  First,  that, 
taken  as  a  whole,  the  poems  should  be  observable  as  an  index  both  to  the  progress  of 
American  poetry  and  to  the  progressions  of  American  thought;  second,  that  they 
should  fairly  represent  the  chief  characteristics  of  the  authors.  In  order  to  have  them 
hit  this  latter  mark,  it  was  necessary  that  they  be  ample  enough  to  furnish  material 
for  real  study  of  the  successive  poets,  and  this  fulness  limited  the  number  of  units  to 
twenty-nine,  twenty-five  poets  and  four  time-groups:  songs,  epigrams  and  elegies  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  almanac  verse  of  the  eighteenth,  and  the  lyrics  of  the  Revolu 
tionary  and  Civil  Wars  not  included  in  the  works  of  the  more  important  poets.  In 
surmountable  copyright  restrictions  will  account  for  the  lack  of  a  few  late  products 
by  four  of  the  best  known  poets,  and  for  the  total  omission  of  one  or  two  others  who 
could  not  be  adequately  represented.  These  omissions,  however,  have  only  slightly 
disturbed  the  balance  of  the  text. 

The  material,  aside  from  the  text,  has  been  prepared  with  the  aim  of  assisting  the 
student  to  use  his  mind  rather  than  his  memory,  and  of  suggesting  lines  of  study  for 
him  to  follow.  The  criticisms  are,  therefore,  not  offered  as  dogmatic  finalities,  but  as 
"aids  to  reflection."  Wherever  they  can  be  construed  as  representing  the  debatable 
opinions  of  the  authors,  they  will  be  of  more  service  to  the  students  who  arrive  at  in 
telligent  dissent  from  them  than  to  those  who  mark  and  learn  them  with  unthinking 
docility.  Pains  have  been  taken  to  indicate  as  far  as  possible  the  original  places  of 
publication  in  various  types  of  periodicals,  from  newspapers  to  annuals,  and  a  separate 
index  of  these  data  has  been  prepared.  The  importance  of  this  information,  and  the 
deductions  that  can  be  drawn  from  it,  have  thus  far  been  almost  wholly  overlooked. 
The  editor  will  be  grateful  for  corrections  or  additions. 

Assistance  of  the  greatest  value  has  been  rendered  by  Mr.  Howard  M.  Jones,  in  the 
writing  of  the  criticisms  on  Emerson,  Poe,  Whittier,  Lowell,  Longfellow  and  Lanier; 
by  Mr.  George  Sherburn,  in  the  supply  of  the  text  and  criticism  on  the  hitherto  un 
noticed  poem  by  the  eighteenth  century  Lewis;  by  Mr.  Frank  M.  Webster,  in  the 
writing  of  the  criticism  on  Anne  Bradstreet,  and  in  extensive  work  on  the  notes;  and 

vii 


viii  PREFACE 

by  Miss  Agnes  L.  Pickering,  in  help  in  preparation  of  the  manuscript.  Among  many 
librarians  who  have  been  liberal  in  their  courtesies,  especial  acknowledgment  is  due 
Mr.  J.  S.  Schwab,  Yale  University,  in  connection  with  the  use  of  the  Aldis  collection; 
to  Mr.  H.  L.  Koopman,  Brown  University,  in  connection  with  the  use  of  the  Harris 
collection,  and  to  Mr.  W.  G.  Forsythe,  of  the  Boston  Public  Library,  in  connection 
with  use  of  the  haven  for  students  over  which  he  presides  in  the  Barton  library  room. 

PERCY  H.  BOYNTON. 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS 


PART  I— POEMS 

ANNE   BRADSTREET 

To  Her  Most  Honoured  Father 1 

Queen  Elizabeth 1 

The  Prologue '   3 

Contemplations 4 

The  Author  to  Her  Book 8 

Letters  to  Her  Husband 8 

SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  SONGS, 
EPIGRAMS  AND   ELEGIES 

Song Thomas  Morton     11 

From  "The  Simple  Cobler  of  Aggawam" 

Nathaniel  Ward     11 

On  "The  Tenth  Muse" Nathaniel  Ward     13 

Upon  Mrs.  Anna  Bradstreet,  Her  Poems,  &c. 

J.  Rogers     13 

Acrostic  on  William  Paddy 15 

Upon  the  Author  B.  W.     15 
A  Funeral  Elegy  Upon  the  Death  of  the  Truly 
Reverend,  Mr.  John  Cotton,  Late  Teacher 
of  the  Church  of  Christ  at  Boston,  in  New- 
England  John  Norton 

Threnodia  on  Samuel  Stone 

Edward  Bulkley  (?) 


15 


16 

Bacon's  Epitaph,  Made  by  His  Man 17 

MICHAEL  WIGGLESWORTH 

From  The  Day  of  Doom 18 

Sentence  and  Torment  of  the  Condemned  19 

The  Saints  Ascend  to  Heaven 21 

The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes 21 


R.  LEWIS 

A  Journey  from  Patapsco  in  Maryland  to  An 
napolis,  April  4,  1730 24 

THE  ALMANACKS  OF  NATHANIEL  AMES 

From  the  Almanack  for  1733 30 

From  the  Almanack  for  1738 31 

From  the  Almanack  for  1743 32 

From  the  Almanack  for  1751 33 

FRANCIS  HOPKINSON       ~~ 

Ode  on  Music 35 

Song 35 

Advice  to  Amanda 35 

A  Morning  Hymn 36 

Verses 36 


Louisbourg 37 

To  Celia 38 

The  Wasp 39 

Date  Obolum  Bellesario 39 

The  Battle  of  the  Kegs 40 

The  Birds,  the  Beasts,  and  the  Bat 41 

My  Generous  Heart  Disdains 42 

JOHN  TRUMBULL         «-~ 

From  The  Progress  of  Dulness,  Part  III 43 

Lines  Addressed  to  Messrs.  Dwight  and  Bar 
low 49 

From  M'Fingal,  Canto  III,  The  Liberty  Pole  50 

POETRY  OF  THE  REVOLUTION 

From  "Braddock's  Fate  and  an  Encitement 

to  Revenge  " 58 

To  Arms,  To  Arms  !     My  Jolly  Grenadiers. ..  58 
How  Stands  the  Glass  Around  ? 

General  Wolfe  (?)  59 

The  Death  of  Wolfe (Anon.)  59 

Sure  Never  Was  Picture  Drawn  More  to  the 

Life Virginia  Gazette  60 

Come  Join  Hand  in  Hand,  Brave  Americans 

All John  Dickinson  (?)  61 

A  Tory  Parody  of  the  Above . .  Boston  Gazette  62 
The  Parody  Parodized  or  The  Massachusetts 

Song  of  Liberty 62 

The  Liberty  Pole  Satirized (Anon.)  63 

A  Song Joseph  Stansbury  64 

The  Boston  Tea  Party (Anon.)  64 

A  Lady's  Adieu  to  Her  Tea-Table 65 

Virginia  Banishing  Tea 65 

When  Good  Queen  Elizabeth  Governed  the 

Realm Joseph  Stansbury  65 

Liberty  Tree Thomas  Paine  66 

A  Song Pennsylvania  Journal  66 

The  Ballad  of  Nathan  Hale 67 

Independence Freeman's  Journal  68 

A  Ballad Freeman's  Journal  68 

Song Jonathan  Odell  69 

The  Congress Towne's  Evening  Post  70 

Bold  Hawthorne 70 

A  Birthday  Song Jonathan  Odell  71 

The  Fate  of  John  Burgoyne 72 

A  Pastoral  Song Joseph  Stansbury  72 

The  Epilogue A  Broadside  73 

Yankee  Doodle 73 

Yankee  Doodle's  Expedition  to  Rhode  Island 

Rivington's  Gazette  74 

A  Fable David  Matthews  (?)  75 

A  Cry  to  Battle J.  M.  Sewall  75 

War  and  Washington J.  M.  Sewall  76 

The  Old  Year  and  the  New:  A  Prophecy 

J.  M.  Sewall  77 


CONTENTS 


The  Present  Age Freeman's  Journal  77 

The  Congratulation Jonathan  Odell  78 

The  American  Times 

Camillo  Querno  (Jonathan  Odell)  81 

Ode  for  the  New  Year Jonathan  Odell  83 

Lords  of  the  Main Joseph  Stansbury  84 

A  Pasquinade Joseph  Stansbury  85 

Volunteer  Boys Henry  Archer  85 

Song,  for  a  Venison  Dinner.  .Joseph  Stansbury  86 

The  Dance ...  86 

Cornwallis  Burgoyned 87 

Let  Us  Be  Happy  as  Long  as  We  Can 

Joseph  Stansbury  87 

PHILIP  FRENEAU 

The  Power  of  Fancy 89 

On  Retirement - 90 

A  Political  Litany 90 

American  Liberty 91 

The  Midnight  Consultation 92 

America  Independent 94 

George  the  Third's  Soliloquy 95 

The  British  Prison  Ship,  Canto  II 97 

Oh  the  Memorable  Victory  of  Paul  Jones 99 

Arnold's  Departure 101 

Prologue  to  a  Theatrical  Entertainment  in 

Philadelphia 101 

Epigram 102 

A  Prophecy 102 

The  Political  Balance 103 

A  News-Man's  Address 106 

A  Newsman's'  Address 106 

To  Sir  Toby 107 

The  Progress  of  Balloons 108 

Literary  Importation 109 

The  Wild  Honey  Suckle 110 

May  to  April 110 

The  Indian  Burying  Ground 110 

On  the  Prospect  of  a  Revolution  in  France.  .  .  Ill 

Congress  Hall,  N.  Y 112 

On  the  Death  of  Dr.  Benjamin  Franklin 112 

The  American  Soldier 112 

To  the  Public 113 

Seventeen  Hundred  and  Ninety-One 113 

To  My  Book 114 

Epistle 114 

Ode 115 

To  the  Americans  of  the  United  States 115 

The  Political  Weather-Cock 115 

On  a  Honey  Bee 116 

On  the  British  Commercial  Depredations 116 

To  a  Caty-Did 117 

TIMOTHY  DWIGHT 

From  Greenfield  Hill,  Part  IV,  The  Destruction 

of  the  Pequods 118 

From  Greenfield  Hill,  Part  VI,  The  Farmer's 

Advice  to  the  Villagers 121 

Columbia 123 

Love  to  the  Church. . .  .124 


JOEL  BARLOW 

From  The  Vision  of  Columbus.  .  . 
The  Hasty  Pudding. 


JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE 

•The  American  Flag 136 

To  a  Friend 136 

The  Culprit  Fay ./' .  139 

FROM  THE  "CROAKER  PAPERS"  BY 
DRAKE  AND  HALLECK 

To  Mr.  Simpson 147 

To  Croaker,  Junior 147 

The  National  Painting 148 

The  Man  Who  Frets  at  Worldly  Strife 148 

To  E.  Simpson,  Esq 149 

To  Captain  Seaman  Weeks 149 

Abstract  of  the  Surgeon-General's  Report ....  150 

To  XXXX,  Esquire 150 

To  Mrs.  Barnes ; 151 

An  Address.  .                                                     .  152 


FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK 

From  Fanny 154 

On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake 158    / 

Marco  Bozzaris 158  / 

The  Iron  Grays 159    , 

Connecticut 160  v 

Red  Jacket 165     / 

The  Field  of  the  Grounded  Arms 167  / 

WILLIAM   CULLEN  BRYANT 

Thanatopsis 169 

To  a  Waterfowl 170 

O  Fairest  of  the  Rural  Maids 170 

Summer  Wind 171 

Monument  Mountain 171 

Hymn  to  the  North  Star 173 

A  Forest  Hymn 174 

Hymn  to  Death 176 

"II  Broke  the  Spell  That  Held  Me  Long" 179 

"I  Cannot  Forget  with  What  Fervid  Devo 
tion" 179 

June 179 

A  Meditation  on  Rhode  Island  Coal 180 

The  Past 182 

The  Twenty-Second  of  December 182 

The  Evening  Wind 183 

Hymn  of  the  City 183 

Song  of  Marion's  Men 184 

To  the  Fringed  Gentian 184 

Seventy-Six 185 

The  Antiquity  of  Freedom 186 

"O  Mother  of  a  Mighty  Race" 187 

Robert  of  Lincoln 187 

The  Planting  of  the  Apple-Tree 188 

Our  Country's  Call 189 

The  Song  of  the  Sower 189 

The  Poet 191 

Abraham  Lincoln 192 

Christmas  in  1875 192 

A  Lifetime 193 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

•From  the  Poet 195 

Good-Bye - 195 


CONTENTS 


XI 


Thine  Eyes  Still  Shined 196' 

Written  in  Naples 106 

Written  at  Rome 196 

Webster 197 

The  Rhodora ,  . .  197 

Each  and  All 197 

_JfThe  Apology 198 

Hymn 198 

e  Humble-Bee 198 

The  Problem 199 

Woodnotes  1 200 

Woodnotes  II 201 

The  Snow-Storm ' . .  .  204 

Holidays 205 

Art 205 

v  Compensation 205 

Friendship 205 

Forbearance 206 

Blight 206 

Character 207 

Politics 207 

Dirge 207 

Fable 208 

—  Threnody 208 

Ode 211 

~^The  World-Soul 212 

Merlin 213 

Hamatreya 214 

Musketaquid 214 

Etienne  de  la  Boece 216 

Brahma 216 

Days 216 

The  Romany  Girl 216 

Seashore 217 

Two  Rivers 217 

Waldeinsamkeit 218 

Worship. . 218 

The  Test 218 

The  Titmouse 219 

Voluntaries 230 

My  Garden 221 

Terminus 222 

Fragments 222 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Tamerlane 224 

To 226 

A  Dream  Within  a  Dream 226 

Romance 227 

Sonnet — To  Science 227 

To 227 

To  Helen 227 

Israfel 228 

The  City  in  the  Sea 228 

The  Sleeper 229 

Lenore 229 

The  Valley  of  Unrest 230 

To  One  in  Paradise 230 

The  Coliseum 230 

Hymn 231 

To  F 231 

Sonnet  to  Za.n\.e 231 

The  Haunted  Palace 232 

The  Conqueror  Worm 232 

Dream-Land ...  .233 


~^The  Raven 233 

Ulalume 235 

The  Bells 236 

To  My  Mother 237 

Annabel  Lee 238 

Eldorado 238 

JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

To  William  Lloyd  Garrison 239 

Expostulation 239 

Pentucket 241 

Memories 242 

Hampton  Beach 242 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia 243 

The  Shoemakers 245 

The  Huskers 246 

The  Crisis ' 248 

Ichabod 249 

Kossuth 250 

Pictures 250 

First-Day  Thoughts 251    . 

Summer  by  the  Lakeside 251 

Maud  Muller 253 

Letter 255 

The  Barefoot  Boy 256 

AriseTTat  Last 256 

The  Panorama 257 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride 257 

The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn 259 

The  Garrison  of  Cape  Ann 262 

Telling  the  Bees 263 

The  Double-Headed  Snake  of  Newbury 264 

Brp^n  of  Ossawatomie 265 

Tfie  Waiting 266 

,/Barbara  Frietchie 266 . 

Laus  Deo! 267 

The  Eternal  Goodness 268 

From  "  Snow-Bound  " 269 

Our  Master 272 

Abraham  Davenport 274 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

"I  Would  Not  Have  This  Perfect  Love  of 

Ours" 275 

"  For  This  True  Nobleness  I  Seek  in  Vain  "...  275 
-"My  Love,   I   Have  No    Fear  That   Thou 

Shouldst  Die" 275 

"Our  Love  Is  Not  a  Fading  Earthly  Flower"  275 

The  Sheperd  of  King  Admetus 276 

\  An  Incident  in  a  Railroad-Car 276 

S  Song 277 

Wendell  Phillips 278 

To  the  Dandelion 278 

Columbus 279 

^he  Changeling 282 

\She  Came  and  Went 283 

From  The  Biglow  Papers,  First  Series 283 

From  "  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal  " 288 

JFrom  "  A  Fable  for  Critics  " 290 

4The  First  Snow-Fall 295 

Without  and  Within 295 

Auf  Wiedersehen 296 

Palinode 296 

Invita  Minerva. ..  .  296 


Xll 


CONTENTS 


The  Origin  of  Didactic  Poetry 297 

The  Washers  of  the  Shroud 298 

From  The  Biglow  Papers,  Second  Series 300 

On  Board  the  '76 310 

Ode  Recited  at  the  Harvard  Commemoration.  311 


POEMS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR 

How  Old  Brown  Took  Harper's  Ferry 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 

The  Great  Bell  Roland Theodore  Tilton 

The  Picket-Guard Ethel  Lynn  Beers 

Farewell  to  Brother  Jonathan ....  By  Caroline 

The  Heart  of  Louisiana Harriet  Stanton 

Maryland James  R.  Randall 

The  Battle  Summer Henry  R.  Tuckerman 

Dixie Albert  Pike 

The  Song  of  the  Exile 

The  Southern  Cross St.  George  Tucker 

On  to  Richmond John  R.  Thompson 

A  Farewell  to  Pope John  R.  Thompson 

Stonewall  Jackson's  Way John  W.  Palmer 

Original  Version  of  the  John  Brown  Song 

H.  H.  Brownell 
The  President's  Proclamation 

Edna  Dean  Proctor 
Glory  Hallelujah!  or  John  Brown's  Body 

Charles  Sprague  Hall 
Glory  Hallelujah,  or  New  John  Brown  Song 

(Anon.) 

The  Sweet  South Wm.  Gilmore  Simms 

God  Save  the  Nation  ! Theodore  Tilton 

A  Battle  Hymn George  H.  Boker 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier George  H.  Boker 

Three  Hundred  Thousand  More 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic 

Julia  Ward  Howe 
Ode:  Our  City  by  the  Sea 

Wm.  Gilmore  Simms 

Who's  Ready? Edna  Dean  Proctor 

Claribel's  Prayer 

Little  Giffen F.  O.  Ticknor 

Sheridan's  Ride T.  B.  Read 

Marching  Through  Georgia .  Henry  Clay  Work 
When  Johnny  Comes  Marching  Home 

Patrick  S.  Gilmore 

The  Sword  of  Robert  Lee Abram  J.  Ryan 

In  the  Land  Where  We  Were  Dreaming 

Dan  R.  Lucas 

The  Closing  Scene. .  .Thomas  Buchanan  Read 
After  All ...  . .  William  Winter 


HENRY  TIMROD 

Sonnet 

From  "A  Vision  of  Poesy" 

Sonnet 

Sonnet 

Sonnet 

Katie 

Ethnogenesis 

Spring 

Carolina 

Charleston 

Christmas 

The  Cotton  Boll 


317 

319 

320- 

320 

321 

322 

323 

323 

324 

325 

325 

327 

328 

328 


Address  Delivered  at  the  Opening  of  the  New 

•    Theatre  at  Richmond 353 

Storm  and  Calm 354 

Address  to  the  Old  Year 355 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

The  Will  and  the  Wing 356 

My  Study 356 

Beyond  the  Potomac 356 

Vicksburg— A  Ballad 357 

A  Dream  of  the  South  Winds 358 

Sonnet— Poets 358 

Aspects  of  the  Pines 358 

Unveiled 359 

The  Mocking-Bird 361 

Under  the  Pine 361 

The  Snow-Messengers 362 

A  Little  While  I  Fain  Would  Linger  Yet 364 

In  Harbor...  .  365 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 


Woods  in  Winter 366 

\  Burial  of  the  Minnisink 366 

329   "*  A  Psalm  of  Life 367 

Prelude 367 

329  The  Village  Blacksmith 368 

The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus 369 

330  '  The  Skeleton  in  Armor 370 

Excelsior 371 

Serenade 372 

The  Arsenal  at  Springfield 372 

The  Day  Is  Done 373 

The  Bridge 373 

The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs 374 

The  Arrow  and  the  Song 375 

Dante 375 

Seaweed 375 

Birds  of  Passage 376 

From  "  Evangeline  " 376 

From  "  The  Building  of  the  Ship  " 382 

Twilight 382 

Resignation 383 

From  "  The  Song  of  Hiawatha  " 383 

From  "  The  Courtship -of  Miles  Standish  ". . .  .  395 

My  Lost  Youth.. 399 

Sandalphon 400 

Paul  Revere's  Ride 401 

The  Sicilian's  Tale 402 

The  Musician's  Tale 403 

The  Birds  of  Killingworth 412 

The  Children's  Hour 415 

The  Cumberland 416 

Weariness 416 

Hawthorne 417 

The  Wind  Over  the  Chimney 417 

Christmas  Bells 418 

Divina  Commedia 418 

Killed  at  the  Ford 419 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

To  the  Portrait  of  "A  Lady" 421 

The  Ballad  of  the  Oyster-Man 421 

The  Music-Grinders : 422 


330 
331 
331 
331 
332 

332 

333 
334 
335 
336 
336 
337 

337 
338 

338 
339 
341 


342 
342 
345 
345 
345 
345 
346 
347 
348 
349 
350 
351 


I 


CONTENTS 


Xlll 


Ironsides 

••The  Last  Leaf 

My  Aunt 

The  Comet 

A  Portrait 

Daily  Trials 

From  "  Poetry  " 

"Qui  Vive?  " 

From  "  A  Rhymed  Lesson  " 

On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl 

The  Stethoscope  Song 

Lexington • 

Latter-Day  Warnings 

%The  Chambered  Nautilus 

Contentment .._. 

<  The  Deacon's  Masterpiece. 

The  Voiceless 

The  Boys 

At  a  Meeting  of  Friends 

Hymn  of  Trust 

A  Sun-Day  Hymn 

Meeting  of  the  Alumni  of  Harvard  College . .  . 

Brother  Jonathan's  Lament  for  Sister  Caroline. 

To  My  Readers 

To  Canaan 

Non-Resistance 

The  Moral  Bully 

The  Statesman's  Secret 

Shakespeare 

Bryant's  Seventieth  Birthday 

A  Farewell  to  Agassiz 

All  Here... 


SIDNEY  LANIER 

The  Dying  Words  of  Stonewall  Jackson . . . 

Night  and  Day 

Corn 

Acknowledgment 

The  Symphony 

Clover 

Sonnets  on  Columbus 

Heartstrong  South  and  Headstrong  North. 

Song  of  the  Chattahoochee 

The  Stirrup-Cup 

The  Mocking  Bird 

The  Bee 

Under  the  Cedarcroft  Chestnut 

A  Song  of  the  Future 

The  Revenge  of  Hamish 

The  Marshes  of  Glynn 

Marsh  Song — At  Sunset 

Remonstrance 

How  Love  Looked  for  Hell 

Sunrise... 


WALT  WHITMAN 


There  Was  a  Child  Went  Forth 

From  "Walt  Whitman" 

From  "  Song  of  the  Broad-Axe  " 

From  "  Song  of  the  Open  Road  " 

Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry 

From  "As  I  Sat  Alone  by  Blue  Ontario's  Shore' 

Out  of  the  Cradle  Endlessly  Rocking 

Starting  from  Paumanok 


422  A  Song 512 

423  .  I  Saw  in  Louisiana  a  Live-Oak  Growing 512 

423  I  Hear  It  Was  Charged  Against  Me 513 

424  Me  Imperturbe 513 

425  I  Hear  America  Singing 513 

425       With  Antecedents 514 

425  Myself  and  Mine 515 

426  Drum-Taps 516 

428  Beat!    Beat!    Drums! 517 

429  The  Centenarian's  Story 518 

430  Vigil  Strange  I  Kept  on  the  Field  One  Night..  521 

431  The  Dresser 521 

432  Give  Me  the  Sp.endid  Silent  Sun 523 

432  Song  of  the  Banner  at  Day-Break 524 

433  Pioneers!    O  Pioneers! 528 

434  Years  ot  the  Modern 531 

435  When  I  Heard  the  Learn'd  Astronomer 531 

436  President  Lincoln's  Burial  Hymn 532 

437  Death  Carol 535 

438  •»£)  Captain!     My  Captain! 537 

438       One's-Self  I  Sing 537 

438       The  Singer  in  the  Prison 538 

440       Ethiopia  Saluting  the  Colors 539 

440  The  Base  of  All  Metaphysics 540 

441  O  Star  of  France! 540 

441  A  Carol  Closing  Sixty-Nine 541 

442  Good-Bye  My  Fancy 541 

443 

444 

445  RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD 

446  The  Witch's  Whelp 542 

447  To  a  Celebrated  Singer 543 

"How  Are  Songs  Begot  and  Bred?" 544 

"The  Yellow  Moon  Looks  Slantly  Down" 544 

The  Flight  of  Youth 544 

449       The  Divan 545 

449       "Poems  of  the  Orient" 545 

449       Imogen / 545 

452  Without  and  Within 547 

453  Abraham  Lincoln 549 

457  VatesPatriae 551 

458  The  Country  Life 552 

460  A  Catch 552 

461  The  King  Is  Cold 552 

461       The  Flower  of  Love  Lies  Bleeding 553 

461  "What  Harmonious  Is  with  Thee" 553 

462  "Though  Thou  Shouldst  Live  a  Thousand 

462  Years" 554 

463  "To  Bear  What  Is,  to  Be  Resigned" 554 

463 

465 

467  "JOAQUIN"  MILLER 

4"       With  Walker  in  Nicaragua 555 

*:„       The  Last  Taschastas 556 

*'u       Kit  Carson's  Ride 558' 

England 559 

From  "A  Song  of  the  South  " 560 

Question? 560 

473  Crossing  the  Plains 561 

474  Westward  Ho! 561 

486       The  Sioux  Chief's  Daughter 562 

489       By  the  Pacific  Ocean 563 

493       At  Our  Golden  Gate 563 

497    '  Columbus 564 

500       Songs  from  Sappho  and  Phaon 564 

505       Adios 566 


XIV 


CONTENTS 


RICHARD   HOVEY 

Comrades 568 

The  Wander  Lovers 568 

Spring 569 

At  the  End  of  Day 572 

Love  in  the  Winds 572 

The  Call  of  the  Bugles 572 

Unmanifest  Destiny 575 

After  Business  Hours , 576 

From  "Taliesin:  A  Masque" 576 

Faith  and  Fate 576 

WILLIAM  VAUGHN   MOODY 

Good  Friday  Night 577 

An  Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation 577 

Gloucester  Moors 580 

The  Menagerie 581 

The  Daguerreotype 583 

The  Death  of  Eve 586 


PART  II— CRITICAL  COMMENTS 

Foreword 593 

Anne  Bradstreet 594 

Seventeenth  Century  Elegies,  Songs' and  Epi 
grams  597 

Michael  Wigglesworth .  . 598 

R.  Lewis 600 

The  Almanacs  of  Nathaniel  Ames 602 


Francis  Hopkinson 604 

John  Trumbull 606 

Poetry  of  the  Revolution 611 

Philip  Freneau 614 

Timothy  Dwight 618 

Joel  Barlow 621 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake 624 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck 626 

William  Cullen  Bryant 629 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 634 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 638 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier 644 

James  Russell  Lowell 648 

The  Poetry  of  the  Civil  War 654 

Henry  Timrod 656 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 659 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 661 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes   666 

Sidney  Lanier 670 

Walt  Whitman 676 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard 680 

"Joaquin"  Miller 684 

Richard  Hovey 687 

William  Vaughn  Moody 690 

Index  of  Subjects 699 

Index  of  Periodical  Publication 709 

Index  of  Titles 712 

Index  of  First  Lines 717 


PART   I 
POEMS 


J 


if 


ANNE   BRADSTREET 
(1612-1672) 


(The  text  is  taken  from  the  edition   by 
J.  H.  Ellis,  1867.) 

To  her  most  Honoured  Father 

THOMAS  DUDLEY  ESQ.; 
THESE  HUMBLY  PRESENTED. 

Dear  Sir  of  late  delighted  with  the  sight 

Of  your  four  Sisters  cloth'd1  in  black  and 
white, 

Of  fairer  Dames  the  Sun,  ne'r  saw  the 
face; 

Though  made  a  pedestal  for  Adams  Race ; 

Their  worth  so  shines  in  these  rich  lines 
you  show 

Their  paralels  to  finde  I  scarcely  know 

To  climbe  their  Climes,  I  have  nor 
strength  nor  skill 

To  mount  so  high  requires  an  Eagles  quill; 

Yet  view  thereof  did  cause  my  thoughts  to 
soar ;  9 

My  lowly  pen  might  wait  upon  these  four 

I  bring  my  four  times  four,  now  meanly 
clad 

To  do  their  homage,  unto  yours,  full  glad : 

Who  for  their  Age,  their  worth  and  quality 

Might  seem  of  yours  to  claim  precedency: 

But  by  my  humble  hand,  thus  rudely  pen'd 

They  are,  your  bounden  handmaids  to  at 
tend 

These  same  are  they,  from  whom  we  be 
ing  have 

These  are  of  all,  the  Life,  the  Nurse,  the 
Grave, 

These  are  the  hot,  the  cold,  the  moist,  the 
dry, 

That  sink,  that  swim,  that  fill,  that  up 
wards  fly,  2° 

Of  these  consists  our  bodies,  Cloathes  and 
Food, 

The  World,  the  useful,  hurtful,  and  the 
good, 

Sweet  harmony  they  keep,  yet  jar  oft 
times 

Their  discord  doth  appear,  by  these  harsh 
rimes 

Yours  did  contest  for  wealth,  for  Arts, 
for  Age, 

My  first  do  shew  their  good,  and  then 
their  rage. 

1  Thomas  Dudley  was  a  man  of  considerable 
culture  (See  Appendix).  The  reference  in  the 
opening  lines  is  to  a  supposed  manuscript  poem 
"On  the  Four  Parts  of  the  World"  of  which 
nothing  further  is  known. 


1 


My  other  foures  do  intermixed  tell 

Each  others  faults,  and  where  themselves 

excell ; 
How  hot  and  dry  contend  with  moist  and 

cold, 
How   Air   and   Earth   no  correspondence 

hold,  30 

And  yet  in  equal  tempers,  how  they  'gree 
How  divers  natures  make  one  Unity 
Something  of  all  (though  mean)  I  did  in 
tend 
But  fear'd  you'ld  judge  Du  Bartas  was 

my  friend 
I    honour    him,    but    dare    not    wear   his 

wealth 
My  goods  are  true  (though  poor)   I  love 

no  stealth 

But  if  I  did  I  durst  not  send  them  you 
Who  must  reward  a  Thief,  but  with  his 

due. 

I  shall  not  need,  mine  innocence  to  clear 
These  ragged  lines,  will  do't,  when  they 

appear :  4° 

On  what  they  are,  your  mild  aspect  I  crave 
Accept   my  best,    my  worst  vouchsafe   a 

Grave. 

From  her  that  to  your  self,  more   duty 

owes 
Then    water    in    the    bound  [1]  ess    Ocean 

flows. 

ANNE  BRADSTREET. 
March  20,  1642. 


In    Honour    of    that    High    and    Mighty 
Princess 

QUEEN  ELIZABETH 

t 

OF    HAPPY    MEMORY  i  M 

THE    PROEME 

Although  great  Queen  thou  now  in  silence 

lye 

Yet  thy  loud  Herald  Fame  doth  to  the  sky 
Thy   wondrous   worth   proclaim   in   every 

Clime, 
And  so  hath  vow'd  while  there  is  world  or 

time. 
So  great's  thy  glory  and  thine  excellence, 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


The  sound  thereof  rapts   every  humane 

sence, 

That  men  account  it  no  impiety, 
To  say  thou  wert  a  fleshly  Diety: 
Thousands  bring  offerings  (though  out  of 

date) 

Thy  world  of  honours  to  accumulate,     10 
'Mongst  hundred   Hecatombs   of   roaring 

verse, 
Mine    bleating    stands    before    thy   royal 

Herse. 

Thou  never  didst  nor  canst  thou  now  dis 
dain 

T'  accept  the  tribute  of  a  loyal  brain. 
Thy  clemency  did  yerst  esteem  as  much 
The  acclamations  of  the  poor  as  rich, 
Which  makes  me  deem  my  rudeness  is  no 

wrong, 
Though  I  resound  thy  praises  'mongst  the 

throng. 

THE  POEM 

No  Phoenix  pen,  'nor  Spencers  poetry, 
No  Speeds1  nor  Cambdens2  learned  His 
tory,  2° 
Elisahs  works,  warrs,  praise,  can  e're  com 
pact, 

The  World's  the  Theatre  where  she  did  act. 
No  memoryes  nor  volumes  can  contain 
The  'leven  Olympiads  of  her  happy  reign : 
Who  was  so  good,  so  just,  so  learn'd  so 

wise, 
From  all  the  Kings  on  earth  she  won  the 

prize. 

Nor  say  I  more  then  duly  is  her  due, 
Millions  will  testifie  that  this  is  true. 
She  hath  wip'd  off  th'  aspersion  of  her  Sex, 
That   women   wisdome   lack   to    play   the 
Rex :  f 

Spains  Monarch,  sayes  not  so,  nor  yet  his 
host: 

1  "THE  HISTORIE  OF  GREAT  BRITAINE  UNDER 
THE  CONQUESTS  OF  THE  ROMANS,  SAXONS,  DANES 
AND  NORMANS.  Their  Originals,  Manners,  Habits, 
Warres.  Coines,  and  Scales:  with  the  Succes 
sions,  Liues,  Acts,  and  Issues  of  the  English 
Monarchs,  from  Julius  Caesar,  to  our  most  gra- 
ciou«  Soueraigne,  King  JAMES."  "By  JOHN 
SPEED."  London,  1623. 

1  "ANNALES  RERUM  ANGLICARUM  ET  HIBERNI- 
CARUM,  REGNANTE  ELIZABETHA,  Ad  ANNUM  SALU- 
TIS  M.p.LXXXix.  Guilielmo  Camdeno  Authore. 
Londini,  M.DC.XV." 

"ANNALES  OR,  THE.  HISTORY  OF  THE  MOST 
RENOWNED  and  Victorious  Princesse  ELIZABETH, 
Late  Queen  of  England.  Containing  all  the 
Important  and  Remarkable  Passages  of  State, 
both  at  Home  and  Abroad,  during  her  Long 
and  Prosperous  Rcigne.  Written  in  Latin  by 
the  learned  Mr.  WILLIAM  CAMDEN.  Translated 
into  English  by  R.  N.  Gent.  Together  with 
divers  Additions  of  the  Authors  never  before 
published.  The  third  Edition."  London,  1635. 


She  taught  them  better  manners,  to  their 

cost. 
The  Salique  law,  in   force  now  had  not 

been, 
If    France   had    ever    hop'd    for    such    a 

Queen. 

But  can  you  Doctors  now  this  point  dis 
pute, 

She's  Argument  enough  to  make  you  mute. 
Since  first  the  sun  did  run  his  nere  run 

race, 
And   earth  had  once  a  year,  a  new  old 

face, 
Since  time  was  time,   and  man  unmanly 

man, 
Come    shew   me   such    a   Phoenix   if   you 

can  ?  4° 

Was  ever  people  better  rul'd  then  hers? 
Was  ever   land   more  happy   freed    from 

stirrs? 

Did  ever  wealth  in  England  more  abound? 
Her  victoryes  in  forreign  Coasts  resound, 
Ships  more  invincible  then  Spain's,  her  foe 
She  wrackt,  she  sackt,  she  sunk  his  Ar- 

mado: 
Her    stately   troops    advanc'd   to   Lisbons 

wall 

Don  Anthony  in's  right  there  to  install. 
She  frankly  helpt,  Franks  brave  distressed 

King, 
The    States    united    now    her    fame    do 

sing,  50 

She   their   Protectrix  was,   they   well   do 

know 

Unto  our  dread  Virago,  what  they  owe. 
Her  Nobles  sacrific'd  their  noble  blood, 
Nor  men  nor  Coyn  she  spar'd  to  do  them 

good. 

The  rude  untamed  Irish,  she  did  quel, 
Before  her  picture  the  proud  Tyrone  fell. 
Had    ever    Prince    such    Counsellours    as 

she? 

Her  self  Minerva  caus'd  them  so  to  be. 
Such   Captains  and   such   souldiers  never 

seen,  59 

As  were  the  Subjects  of  our  Pallas  Queen. 
Her  Sea-men  through  all  straights  the 

world,  did  round, 

Terra  incognita  might  know  the  sound. 
Her  Drake  came  laden  home  with  Spanish 

gold: 
Her  Essex  took  Cades,  their  Herculean 

Hold : 
But   time  would    fail   me,   so   my  tongue 

would  to, 

To  tell  of  half  she  did,  or  she  could  doe. 
Semiramis  to  her,  is  but  obscure, 
More  infamy  then  fame,  she  did  procure. 
She  built  her  glory  but  on  Babels  walls, 


ANNE   BRADSTREET 


Worlds  wonder   for  a  while,  but  yet  it 
falls.  TO 

Fierce    Tomris    (Cyrus  heads-man)    Scy 
thians  queen, 
Had  put   her  harness  off,   had   shee  but 

seen 

Our  Amazon  in  th'  Camp  of  Tilbury. 
Judging  all  valour  and  all  Majesty 
Within  that  Princess  to  have  residence, 
And  prostrate  yielded  to  her  excellence. 
Dido  first  Foundress  of  proud  Carthage 

walls, 

(Who  living  consummates  her  Funeralls) 
A  great  Eliza,  but  compar'd  with  ours, 
How    vanisheth    her    glory,    wealth    and 


powers. 


la 


Profuse,   proud   Cleopatra,  whose  wrong 

name, 
Instead   of    glory,    prov'd   her    Countryes 

shame  : 

Of  her  what  worth  in  Storyes  to  be  seen, 
But  that  she  was  a  rich  Egyptian  Queen. 
Zcnobya  potent  Empress  of  the  East, 
And   of   all   these,   without   compare   the 

best, 

Whom  none  but  great  Aurelius  could  quel ; 
Yet  for  our  Queen  is  no  fit  Parallel.  88 
She  was  a  Phoenix  Queen,  so  shall  she  be, 
Her  ashes  not  reviv'd,  more  Phoenix  she. 
Her  personal  perfections,  who  would  tell, 
Must  dip  his  pen  in  th'  Heleconian  Well, 
Which  I  may  not,  my  pride  doth  but  as 
pire 

To  read  what  others  write,  and  so  admire. 
Now   say,   have   women   worth?   or   have 

they  none? 
Or  had  they  some,  but  with  our  Queen  is't 

gone? 
Nay   Masculines,  you  have  thus  taxt  us 

long, 
But  she,  though  dead,  will  vindicate  our 

wrong. 

Let  such  as  say  our  Sex  is  void  of  Reason, 
Know  tis  a   Slander  now,  but  once  was 

Treason.  I0° 

But    happy    England   which    had    such    a 

Queen ; 
Yea  happy,  happy,  had  those  dayes  still 

been : 

But  happiness  lyes  in  a  higher  sphere, 
Then  wonder  not  Eliza  moves  not  here. 
Full  fraught  with  honour,  riches  and  with 

dayes 

She  set.  she  set.  like  Titan  in  his  rayes. 
No  more  shall  rise  or  set  so  glorious  sun. 
Untill  the  heavens  great  revolution, 
If  then  new  things  their  old  forms  shall 

retain, 
Eliza  shall  rule  Albion  once  again.          II0 


HER  EPITAPH 

Here  sleeps  THE  Queen,  this  is  the  Royal 

Bed, 
Of  th'  Damask  Rose,  sprung  from   the 

white  and  red, 
Whose  sweet  perfume  fills  the  all-filling 

Air: 

This  Rose  is  wither'd,  once  so  lovely  fair. 
On  neither  tree  did  grow  such  Rose  before, 
The  greater  was  our  gain,  our  loss  the 

more. 

ANOTHER 

Here  lyes  the  pride  of  Queens,  Pattern 

of  Kings, 
So  blase  it  Fame,  here's  feathers  for  thy 

wings. 

Here  lyes  the  envi'd,  yet  unparalled  Prince, 
Whose  living  virtues  speak,  (though  dead 

long  since)  12° 

//  many  worlds,  as  that  Fantastick  fram'd, 
In  every  one  be  her  great  glory  fam'd. 
1643.  1650. 

THE  PROLOGUE i 


To   sing  of   Wars,   of   Captains,   and   of 

Kings, 

Of  Cities   founded,   Common- wealths  be- 
^  gun, 
For    my    mean    pen    are    too    superiour 

things : 
Or  how  they  all,  or  each  their  dates  have 

run 

Let  Poets  and  Historians  set  these  forth, 
My  obscure  Lines  shall  not  so  dim  their 

worth. 

2 
But  when  my  wondring  eyes  and  envious 

heart 
Great  Bartas  sugar'd  lines,   do  but  read 

o're 

Fool  I  do  grudg  the  Muses  did  not  part 
'Twixt  him  and  me  that  overfluent  store ; 
A  Bartas  can,  do  what  a  Bartas  will      I: 
But  simple  I  according  to  my  skill. 


From  school-boyes  tongue  no  rhet'rick  we 
expect 

Nor  yet  a  sweet  Consort  from  broken 
strings, 

Nor  perfect  beauty,  where's  a  main  de 
fect  : 

1  To  the  long  poems  The  Four  Elements,  The 
Four  Humours,  The  Four  Ages,  and  The  Four 
Seasons. 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


\ 


My    foolish,    broken,   blemish'd   Muse   so 

sings 

And  this  to  mend,  alas,  no  Art  is  able, 
'Cause  nature,  made  it  so  irreparable. 


Nor  can  I,  like  that  fluent  sweet  tongu'd 

Greek, 
Who  lisp'd  at  first,  in  future  times  speak 

plain  2° 

By  Art  he  gladly  found  what  he  did  seek 
A  full  requital  of  his,  striving  pain 
•  Art  can  do  much,  but  this  maxime's  most 

sure 
A  weak  or  wounded  brain  admits  no  cure. 


I  am  obnoxious  to  each  carping  tongue 
Who  says  my  hand  a  needle  better  fits, 
A  Poets  pen  all  scorn  I  should  thus  wrong, 
For  such  despite  they  cast  on  Female  wits : 
If  what  I  do  prove  well,  it  won't  advance, 
They'l   say  it's   stoln,  or   else   it  was   by 

chance.  3° 

6 
But   sure   the   Antique   Greeks   were   far 

more  mild 
Else  of  our  Sexe,  why  feigned  they  those 

Nine 

And  poesy  made,  Calliope's  own  Child ; 
So  'mpngst  the  rest  they  placed  the  Arts 

Divine, 
But  this  weak  knot,  they  will  full  soon 

untie, 
The  Greeks  did  nought,  but  play  the  fools 

&  lye. 

7 
Let  Greeks  be  Greeks,  and  women  what 

they  are 

Men  have  precedency  and  still  excell, 
It  is  but  vain  unjustly  to  wage  warre;    39 
Men  can  do  best,  and  women  know  it  well 
Preheminence  in  all  and  each  is  yours ; 
Yet  grant  some  small  acknowledgement  of 

ours. 

8 
And  oh  ye  high  flown  quills  that  soar  the 

Skies, 
And  ever  with  your  prey  still  catch  your 

praise, 
If  e're  you  daigne  these  lowly  lines  your 

eyes 
Give  Thyme  or  Parsley  wreath,  I  ask  no 

bayes, 

This  mean  and  unrefined  ure  of  mine 
Will  make  youtr]  glistring  gold,  but  more 

to  shine. 


CONTEMPLATIONS1 

1 

Some  time  now  past  in  the  Autumnal  Tide, 
When  Phoebus  wanted  but  one  hour  to 

bed, 

The  trees  all  richly  clad,  yet  void  of  pride, 
Where  gilded  o're  by  his  rich  golden  head. 
Their  leaves  &  fruits  seem'd  painted,  but 

was  true 

Of  green,  of  red,  of  yellow,  mixed  hew, 
Rapt   were   my   sences   at  this   delectable 

view. 


I  wist  not  what  to  wish,  yet  sure  thought 

If  so  much  excellence  abide  below;  9 
How  excellent  is  he  that  dwells  on  high? 
Whose  power  and  beauty  by  his  works  we 

know. 

Sure  he  is  goodness,  wisdome,  glory,  light, 
That  hath  this  under  world  so  richly 

dight : 
More   Heaven   then    Earth   was   here   no 

winter  &  no  night. 


Then  on  a  stately  Oak  I  cast  mine  Eye, 

Whose  ruffling  top  the  Clouds  seem'd  to 
aspire ; 

How  long  since  thou  wast  in  thine  In 
fancy  ? 

Thy  strength,  and  stature,  more  thy  years 
admire, 

Hath  hundred  winters  past  since  thou 
wast  born? 

Or  thousand  since  thou  brakest  thy  shell 
of  horn,  20 

If  so,  all  these  as  nought,  Eternity  doth 
scorn. 

4 

Then  higher  on  the  glistering  Sun  I  gaz'd. 
Whose   beams   was  shaded  by  the   leavie 

Tree, 
The    more    I    look'd,    the    more    I    grew 

amaz'd, 

And  softly  said,  what  glory's  like  to  thee? 
Soul  of  this  world,  this  Universes  Eye, 
No  wonder,  some  made  thee  a  Deity : 
Had  I  not  better  known  (alas)  the  same 

had  I. 

5 
Thou  as  a  Bridegroom  from  thy  Chamber 

rushes,  29 

And  as  a  strong  man,  joyes  to  run  a  race, 

1  First  published  in  edition  of  1678. 


ANNE   BRADSTREET 


The  morn  doth  usher  thee,  with  smiles  & 

blushes, 

The  Earth  reflects  her  glances  in  thy  face. 
Birds,  insects,  Animals  with  Vegative, 
Thy  heart  from  death  and  dulness  doth 

revive : 
And   in  the   darksome  womb  of   fruitful 

nature  dive. 

6 

Thy  swift  Annual,  and  diurnal  Course, 
Thy  daily  streight,  and  yearly  oblique  path, 
Thy   pleasing   fervor,   and   thy   scorching 

force, 
All    mortals    here    the    feeling    knowledg 

hath. 
Thy  presence  makes  it  day,  thy  absence 

night,  4<> 

Quaternal  Seasons  caused  by  thy  might : 
Hail  Creature,   full  of  sweetness,  beauty 

&  delight. 

7 

Art  thou  so  full  of  glory,  that  no  Eye 
Hath  strength,  thy  shining  Rayes  once  to 

behold? 

And  is  thy  splendid  Throne  erect  so  high? 
As  to  approach  it,  carf  no  earthly  mould. 
How  full  of  glory  then  must  thy  Creator 

be? 
Who   gave  this   bright    light   luster   unto 

thee ;  4« 

Admir'd,  ador'd  for  ever,  be  that  Majesty. 

8 

Silent  alone,  where  none  or  saw,  or  heard, 
In  pathless  patifis  I  lead  my  wandring  feet, 
My  humble  Eyes  to  lofty  Skyes  I  rear'd 
To    sing    some    Song,    my    mazed    Muse 

thought-meet. 

My  great  Creator  I  would  magnifie. 
That  nature  had,  thus  decked  liberally : 
But  Ah,  %nd  Ah,  again,  my  imbecility ! 


I  heard  the  merry  grashopper  then  sing, 
The  black  clad  Cricket,  bear  a  second  part, 
They  kept  one  tune,  and  plaid  on  the  same 

string, 

Seeming  to  glory  in  their  little  Art.         6° 
Shall  Creatures  abject,  thus  their  voices 

raise? 
And  in  their  kind  resound  their  makers 

praise : 
Whilst   I   as   mute,   can   warble   forth   no 

higher  layes. 

10 

When   present  times   look  back   to   Ages 
past, 


And  men  in  being  fancy  those  are  dead, 
It  makes  things  gone  perpetually  to  last, 
And  calls  back  moneths  and  years  that 

long  since  fled 

It  makes  a  man  more  aged  in  conceit, 
Then    was    Methuselah,    or's    grand-sire 

great : 
While  of  their  persons  &  their  acts  his 

mind  doth  treat.  7° 

11 

Sometimes  in  Eden  fair,  he  seems  to  be, 
Sees  glorious  Adam  there  made  Lord  of 

all, 

Fancyes  the  Apple,  dangle  on  the  Tree, 
That  turn'd  his  Sovereign  to  a  naked  thral. 
Who  like  a  miscreant's  driven  from  that 

place, 
T-o  get  his  bread  with  pain,  and  sweat  of 

face : 
A  penalty  impos'd  on  his  backsliding  Race. 

12 

Here  sits  our  Grandame  in  retired  place, 
And  in  her  lap,  her  bloody  Cain  new  born, 
The   weeping   Imp   oft   looks   her   in   the 
face,  80 

Bewails  his  unknown  hap,  and  fate  for 
lorn; 

His  Mother  sighs,  to  think  of  Paradise, 
And  how  she  lost  her  bliss,  to  be  more 

wise, 

Believing  him  that  was,  and  is,  Father  of 
lyes. 

13 
Here  Cain  and  Abel  come  to  sacrifice, 

Fruits  of  the  Earth,  and  Failings  each  do 
bring, 

On  Abels  gift  the  fire  descends  from 
Skies, 

But  no  such  sign  on  false  Cain's  offering; 

With,  sullen  hateful  looks  he  goes  his 
wayes. 

Hath  thousand  thoughts  to  end  his  broth 
ers  dayes,  90 

Upon  whose  blood  his  future  good  he 
hopes  to  raise. 

14 

There  Abel  keeps  his  sheep,  no  ill  he 
thinks, 

His  brother  comes,  then  acts  his  fratri 
cide, 

The  Virgin  Earth,  of  blood  her  first 
draught  drinks 

But  since  that  time  she  often  hath  been 
cloy'd ; 


6 


AMERICAN   POETRY 


The  wretch  with  gastly  face  and  dreadful 

mind, 
Thinks  each  he  sees  will  serve  him  in  his 

kind, 
Though  none  on  Earth  but  kindred  near 

then  could  he  find. 

15 
Who   fancyes  not  his  looks  now  at  the 

Barr, 
His  face  like  death,  his  heart  with  horror 

fraught,  I0° 

Nor  Male-factor  ever  felt  like  warr, 
When  deep  dispair,  with  wish  of  life  hath 

fought, 
Branded  with  guilt,  and  crusht  with  treble 

woes, 

A  Vagabond  to  Land  of  Nod  he  goes. 
A  City  builds,  that  wals  might  him  secure 

from  foes. 

16 

Who  thinks  not  oft  upon  the  Fathers  ages. 
Their   long   descent,    how   nephews    sons 

they  saw, 

The  starry  observations  of  those  Sages, 
And  how  their  precepts  to  their  sons  were 

law, 

How  Adam  sigh'd  to  see  his  Progeny,    II0 
Cloath'd  all  in  his  black  sinfull  Livery, 
Who  neither  guilt,  nor  yet  the  punishment 

could  fly. 

17 
Our  Life  compare  we  with  their  length 

of  dayes 
Who   to   the    tenth   of   theirs    doth    now 

arrive? 
And  though  thus  short,  we  shorten  many 

wayes, 

Living  so  little  while  we  are  alive ; 
In  eating,  drinking,  sleeping,  vain  delight 
So  unawares  comes  on  perpetual  night, 
And  puts  all  pleasures  vain  unto  eternal 

flight. 

18 

\Yhen  I  behold  the  heavens  as  in  their 
prime,  I2° 

And  then  the  earth  (though  old)  stil  clad 
in  green, 

The  stones  and  trees,  insensible  of  time. 

Nor  age  nor  wrinkle  on  their  front  are 
seen; 

If  winter  come,  and  greeness  then  do  fade, 

A  Spring  returns,  and  they  more  youth- 
full  made ; 

But  Man  grows  old,  lies  down,  remains 
where  once  he's  laid. 


19 

By  birth  more  noble  then  those  creatures 

all, 
Yet    seems    by   nature    and    by    custome 

curs'd, 
No  sooner  born,  but  grief  and  care  makes 

fall 

That  state  obliterate  he  had  at  first :      J3Q 
Nor    youth,    nor    strength,    nor    wisdom 

spring  again 

Nor  habitations  long  their  names  retain, 
But  in  oblivion  to  the  final  day  remain. 

20 

Shall  I  then  praise  the  heavens,  the  trees, 
the  earth 

Because  their  beauty  and  their  strength 
last  longer 

Shall  I  wish  there,  or  never  to  had  birth. 

Because  they're  bigger,  &  their  bodyes 
stronger? 

Nay,  they  shall  darken,  perish,  fade  and 
dye. 

And  when  unmade,  so  ever  shall  they  lye, 

But  man  was  made  for  endless  immor 
tality.  140 
21 

Under  the   cooling   shadow   of   a  stately 

Elm 

Close  sate  I  by  a  goodly  Rivers  side, 
Where    gliding    streams    the    Rocks    did 

overwhelm ; 

A  lonely  place,  with  pleasures  dignifi'd. 
I  once  that  lov'd  the  shady  woods  so  well. 
Now    thought    the    rivers    did    the    trees 

excel, 
And  if  the  sun  would  ever  shine,  there 

would  I  dwell. 

22 
While  on  the  stealing  stream  I  fixt  mine 

eye, 
Which  to  the  long'd  for  Ocean  held  its 

course, 
I  markt,  nor  crooks,  nor  rubs  that  there 

did  lye  '5° 

Could  hinder  ought,  but  still  augment  its 

force : 
O  happy  Flood,  quoth  I,  that  holds  thy 

race 

Till  thou  arrive  at  thy  beloved  place, 
Nor  is  it  rocks  or  shoals  that  can  obstruct 

thy  pace. 

23 
Nor  is't  enough,  that  thou  alone  may'st 

slide. 
But  hundred  brooks  in  thy  cleer  waves  do 

meet, 


ANNE   BRADSTREET 


So   hand  in   hand   along   with   thee  they 

glide 
To   Thetis  house,  where  all  imbrace  and 

greet : 
Thou  Emblem  true,  of  what  I  count  the 

best, 

0  could  I  lead  my  Rivolets  to  rest,         l6° 
So  may  we  press  to  that  vast  mansion, 

ever  blest. 

24 

Ye  Fish  which  in  this  liquid  Region  'bide, 

That  for  each  season,  have  your  habita 
tion, 

Now  salt,  now  fresh  where  you  think  best 
to  glide 

To  unknown  coasts  to  give  a  visitation, 

In  Lakes  and  ponds,  you  leave  your  nu 
merous  fry, 

So  nature  taught,  and  yet  you  know  not 
why, 

You  watry  folk  that  know  not  your  fe 
licity. 

25 

Look  how  the  wantons  frisk  to  tast  the 
air, 

Then  to  the  colder  bottome  streight  they 
dive,  '7° 

Eftsoon  to  Neptun's  glassie  Hall  repair 

To  see  what  trade  they  great  ones  there 
do  drive, 

Who  forrage  o're  the  spacious  sea-green 
field, 

And  take  the   trembling  prey  before  it 
yield, 

Whose     armour     is     their     scales,     their 
spreading  fins  their  shield. 

26 
While    musing   thus    with    contemplation 

fed, 

And  thousand  fancies  buzzing  in  my  brain, 
The  sweet-tongu'd  Philomel  percht  ore  my 

head, 

And  chanted  forth  a  most  melodious  strain 
Which  rapt  me  so  with  wonder  and  de 
light,  .    l8° 

1  judg'd  my  hearing  better  then  my  sight, 
And  wisht  me  wings  with  her  a  while  to 

take  my  flight. 

27 
O    merry   Bird    (said    I)    that    fears   no 

snares, 
That  neither  toyles  nor  hoards  up  in  thy 

barn, 
Feels    no    sad    thoughts,    nor    cruciating 

cares 


To  gain  more  good,  or  shun  what  might 

thee  harm 
Thy  cloaths  ne're  wear,  thy  meat  is  every 

where, 
Thy   bed  a   bough,   thy   drink  the  water 

cleer, 
Reminds  not  what  is  past,  nor  what  to 

come  dost  fear. 

28 

The  dawning  morn  with  songs  thou  dost 

prevent,1  19° 

Sets    hundred   notes   unto   thy    feathered 

crew, 

So  each  one  tunes  his  pretty  instrument, 
And  warbling  out  the  old,  begin  anew, 
And  thus  they  pass  their  youth  in  sum 
mer  season, 

Then  follow  thee  into  a  better  Region, 
Where  winter's  never  felt  by  that  sweet 
airy  legion. 

29 

Man  at  the  best  a  creature  frail  and  vain, 

In  knowledg  ignorant,  in  strength  but 
weak, 

Subject  to  sorrows,  losses,  sickness,  pain, 

Each  storm  his  state,  his  mind,  his  body 
break,  2°° 

From  some  of  these  he  never  finds  cessa 
tion, 

But  day  or  night,  within,  without,  vexa 
tion, 

Troubles  from  foes,  from  friends,  from 
dearest,  near'st  Relation. 

30 

And  yet  this  sin  full  creature,  frail  and 
vain, 

This  lumo_of  wretchedness,  of  sin  and 
sorrow, 

This  weather-beaten  vessel  wrackt  with 
pain, 

Joyes  not  in  hope  of  an  eternal  morrow; 

Nor  all  his  losses,  crosses  and  vexation. 

In  weight,  in  frequency  and  long  duration 

Can  make  him  deeply  groan  for  that  di 
vine  Translation.  2I° 

31 
The  Mariner  that  on  smooth  waves  doth 

glide, 
Sings  merrily,  and  steers  his  Barque  with 

ease, 

As  if  he  had  command  of  wind  and  tide. 
And   now   become    great    Master   of    the 

seas; 

1  Anticipate. 


8 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


But  suddenly  a  storm  spoiles  all  the  sport, 
And  makes  him  long  for  a  more  quiet 

port, 
Which  'gainst  all  adverse  winds  may  serve 

for  fort. 

32 

So  he  that  saileth  in  this  world  of  pleas 
ure, 

Feeding  on  sweets,  that  never  bit  of  th' 
sowre, 

That's  full  of  friends,  of  honour  and  of 
treasure,  22° 

Fond  fool,  he  takes  this  earth  ev'n  for 
heav'ns  bower. 

But  sad  affliction  comes  &  makes  him  see 

Here's  neither  honour,  wealth,  nor  safety ; 

Only  above  is  found  all  with  security. 

33 

O  Time  the  fatal  wrack  of  mortal  things, 
That  draws  oblivions  curtains  over  kings, 
Their  sumptuous  monuments,  men  know 

them  not, 

Their  names  without  a  Record  are  forgot, 
Their  parts,  their  ports,  their  pomp's  all 

laid  in  th'  dust 
Nor  wit   nor   gold,   nor   buildings    scape 

times  rust;  f3o 

But  he  whose  name  is  grav'd  in  the  white 

stone1 
Shall  last  and  shine  when  all  of  these  are 

gone. 


THE  AUTHOR  TO  HER  BOOK 

Thou    ill-form'd   offspring  of   my   feeble 

brain, 

Who  after  birth  did'st  by  my  side  remain, 
Till  snatcht  from  thence  by  friends,  less 

wise  then  true 

Who  thee  abroad,  expos'd  to  publick  view, 
Made  thee  in  raggs,  halting  to  th'  press 

to  trudg, 
Where  errors  were  not  lessened  (all  may 

judg) 

At  thy  return  my  blushing  was  not  small, 
My    rambling    brat     (in     print)     should 

mother  call, 

I  cast  thee  by  as  one  unfit  for  light, 
Thy  Visage  was  so  irksome  in  my  sight ;  I0 
Yet  being  mine  own,  at  length  affection 

would 

Thy  blemishes  amend,  if  so  I  could: 
I  wash'd  thy  face,  but  more  defects  I  saw, 
And  rubbing  off  a  spot,  still  made  a  flaw. 
1  Rev.  ii.  17. 


I  stretcht  thy  joynts  to  make  thee  even 

feet, 
Yet  still  thou  run'st  more  hobling  then  is 

meet; 

In  better  dress  to  trim  thee  was  my  mind, 
But  nought  save  home-spun  Cloth,  i'  th' 

house  I  find 
In  this  array,  'mongst  Vulgars  mayst  thou 

roam 
In  Criticks  hands,  beware  thou  dost  not 

come ;  2° 

And  take  thy  way  where  yet  thou  art  not 

known, 
If   for  thy  Father  askt,  say,  thou  hadst 

none  : 

And  for  thy  Mother,  she  alas  is  poor, 
Which  caus'd  her  thus  to  send  thee  out 

of  door. 

1678. 


LETTERS   TO   HER  HUSBAND  2 
To  my  dear  and  loving  Husband 

If  ever  two  were  one,  then  surely  we. 
If  ever  man  were  lov'd  by  wife,  then  thee; 
If  ever  wife  was  happy  in  a  man 
Compare  with  me  ye  women  if  you  can. 
I  prize  thy  love  more  then  whole  Mines 

of  gold, 

Or  all  the  riches  that  the  East  doth  hold. 
My  love  is  such  that  Rivers  cannot  quench, 
Nor  ought  but  love  from  thee,  give  rec- 

ompence. 

Thy  love  is  such  I  can  no  way  repay,  9 
The  heavens  reward  thee  manifold  I  pray. 
Then  while  we  live,  in  love  lets  so  per- 

sever, 
That  when  we  live  no  more,  we  may  live 

ever. 

A  Letter  to  her  Husband,  absent  upon 
Publick  employment 

My  head,  my  heart,  mine  Eyes,  my  life, 
nay  more, 

My  joy,  my  Magazine  of  earthly  store, 

If  two  be  one,  as  surely  thou  and  I, 

How  stayest  thou  there,  whilst  I  at  Ips 
wich  lye? 

So  many  steps,  head  from  the   heart  to 
sever 

If   but   a   neck,   soon   should   we   be   to 
gether  : 

I    like    the    earth    this    season,    mourn    in 
black, 

My  Sun  is  gone  so  far  in's  Zodiack, 
2  First  published  in  edition  of  1678. 


ANNE   BRADSTREET 


Whom  whilst  I  'joy'd,  nor  storms,  nor 
frosts  I  felt, 

His  warmth  such  frigid  colds  did  cause 
to  melt.  I0 

My  chilled  limbs  now  nummed  lye  for 
lorn; 

Return,  return  sweet  Sol  from  Capricorn; 

In  this  dead  time,  alas,  what  can  I  more 

Then  view  those  fruits  which  through  thy 
heat  I  bore? 

Which  sweet  contentment  yield  me  for  a 
space, 

True  living  Pictures  of  their  Fathers  face. 

0  strange    effect !    now   thou   art   South 

ward  gone, 

1  weary  grow,  the  tedious  day  so  long; 
But   when   thou   Northward  to   me   shalt 

return, 

I  wish  my  Sun  may  never  set,  but  burn  2° 
Within  the  Cancer  of  my  glowing  breast, 
The  welcome  house  of  him  my  dearest 

guest. 

Where  ever,  ever  stay,  and  go  not  thence, 
Till  natures  sad  decree  shall  call  thee 

hence ; 

Flesh  of  thy  flesh,  bone  of  thy  bone, 
I  here,  thou  there,  yet  both  but  one. 

A.  B. 
Another 

Phoebus  make  haste,  the  day's  too  long, 

be  gone, 
The    silent    night's    the    fittest    time    for 

moan; 

But  stay  this  once,  unto  my  suit  give  ear, 
And  tell  my  griefs  in  either  Hemisphere : 
(And  if  the  whirling  of  thy  wheels  don't 

drown'd) 

The  woful  accents  of  my  doleful  sound, 
If  in  thy  swift  Carrier  thou  canst  make 

stay, 

I  crave  this  boon,  this  Errand  by  the  way, 
Commend  me  to  the  man  more  lov'd  then 

life, 
Shew  him  the  sorrows  of  his  widdowed 

wife;  I0 

My    dumpish    thoughts,    my    groans,    my 

brakish  tears 
My  sobs,  my  longing  hopes,  my  doubting 

fears, 

And  if  he  love,  how  can  he  there  abide? 
My  Interest's  more  then  all  the  world  be 
side. 

He  that  can  tell  the  Starrs  or  Ocean  sand, 
Or  all  the  grass  that  in  the  Meads  do 

stand, 
The  leaves  in  th'  woods,  the  hail  or  drops 

of  rain, 
Or  in  a  corn-field  number  every  grain, 


Or  every  mote  that  in  the  sun-shine  hops, 
May  count  my  sighs,  and  number  all  my 

drops :  x 

Tell   him,   the   countless   steps   that   thou 

dost  trace, 
That  once  a  day,  thy  Spouse  thou  mayst 

imbrace; 
And  when  thou  canst  not  treat  by  loving 

mouth, 

Thy  rayes  afar,  salute  her  from  the  south. 
But  for  one  moneth  I  see  no  day  (poor 

soul) 

Like  those  far  scituate  under  the  pole, 
Which  day  by  day  long  wait  for  thy  arise, 
O  how  they  joy  when  thou  dost  light  the 

skyes. 
O  Phoebus,  hadst  thou  but  thus  long  from 

thine 
Restrain'd    the    beams    of    thy    beloved 

shine,  30 

At  thy  return,  if  so  thou  could' st  or  durst 
Behold  a  Chaos  blacker  then  the  first. 
Tell   him   here's   worse   then   a  confused 

matter, 

His  little  world's  a  fathom  under  water, 
Nought  but  the  fervor  of  his  ardent  beams 
Hath  power  to  dry  the  torrent  of  these 

streams. 
Tell  him  I  would   say  more,  but  cannot 

well, 

Opressed  minds,  abruptest  tales  do  tell. 
Now  post  with  double  speed,  mark  what 

I  say, 
By  all  our  loves  conjure  him  not  to  stay.  4° 


As  loving  Hind  that  (Hartless)  wants  her 

Deer, 
Scuds  through  the  woods  and  Fern  with 

harkning  ear, 

Perplext,  in  every  bush  &  nook  doth  pry, 
Her  dearest  Deer,  might  answer  ear  or 

eye; 
So  doth  my  anxious  soul,  which  now  doth 

miss, 
A  dearer  Dear  (far  dearer  Heart)   then 

this. 
Still  wait  with  doubts,  &  hopes,  and  fail- 

,    ing  eye, 

His  voice  to  hear,  or  person  to  discry. 
Or  as  the  pensive  Dove  doth  all  alone 
(On  withered  bough)  most  uncouthly  be 
moan  io 
The  absence  of  her  Love,  and  loving  Mate, 
Whose  loss  hath  made  her  so  unfortunate: 
Ev'n  thus  doe  I,  with  many  a  deep  sad 

groan 
Bewail  my  turtle  true,  who  now  is  gone, 


10 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


His   presence   and   his   safe   return,    still 

wooes, 

With   thousand   dolefull   sighs  &   mourn- 
full  Cooes. 

Or  as  the  loving  Mullet,  that  true  Fish, 
Her  fellow  lost,  nor  joy  nor  life  do  wish, 
But  lanches  on  that  snore,  there  for  to 

dye, 
Where   she   her   captive   husband   doth 

espy.  2° 

Mine  being  gone,  I  lead  a  joyless  life, 
I  have  a  loving  phere,  yet  seem  no  wife : 
But  worst  of  all,  to  him  can't  steer  my 

course, 
I  here,  he  there,  alas,  both  kept  by  force: 


Return  my  Dear,  my  joy,  my  only  Love, 
Unto  thy   Hinde,   thy    Mullet   and   thy 

Dove, 
Who  neither  joyes  in  pasture,  house  nor 

streams, 
The  substance  gone,  O  me,  these  are  but 

dreams. 

Together  at  one  Tree,  oh  let  us  brouze, 
And   like   two   Turtles    roost   within   one 

house,  3° 

And  like  the  Mullets  in  one  River  glide, 

Let's  still  remain  but  one,  till  death  divide. 

Thy  loving  Love  and  Dearest  Dear, 

At  home,  abroad,  and  every  where. 

A.  B. 


SEVENTEENTH    CENTURY    SONGS,   EPIGRAMS 
AND    ELEGIES 


SONG1 
BY  THOMAS  MORTON 

Drinke  and  be  merry,  merry,  merry  boyes ; 

Let   all   your   delight  be   in   the   Hymens 
joyes ; 

Joy  to  Hymen,  now  the  day  is  come, 

About  the  merry  Maypole  take  a  Roome. 
Make  greene  garlons,  bring  bottles  out 
And  fill  sweet  Nectar  freely  about. 
Uncover  thy  head  and  feare  no  harme, 
For  hers  good  liquor  to  keepe  it  warme. 

Then  drinke  and  be  merry,  etc. 

Joy  to  Hymen,  etc.  I0 

Nectar  is  a  thing  assign'd 

By  the  Dieties  owne  minde 

To  cure  the  hart  opprest  with  greife, 

And  of  good  liquors  is  the  cheife. 

Then  drinke,  etc. 

Joy  to  Hymen,  etc. 

Give  to  the  Mellancolly  man 
A  cup  or  two  of  't  now  and  than ; 
This  physick  will  soone  revive  his  bloud, 
And  make  him  be  of  a  merrier  moode.  2° 

Then  drinke,  etc. 

Joy  to  Hymen,  etc. 

Give   to  the  Nymphe  thats   free   from 

scorne 

No  Irish  stuff  nor  Scotch  over  worne. 
Lasses  in  beaver  coats  come  away, 
Yee  shall  be  welcome  to  us  night  and 

day. 

To  drinke  and  be  merry,  etc. 
Joy  to  Hymen,  etc. 

1637. 

FROM    "THE    SIMPLE   COBLER   OF 

AGGAWAM" 
BY   NATHANIEL  WARD  2 

When  boots  and  shoes  are  torn  up  to  the 

lefts, 
Coblers  must  thrust  their  awles  up  to  the 

hefts. 

1  With  fine  inappropriatencss,  this  roistering 
song  by  Thomas  Morton  of  Merry  Mount  is 
actually  the  first  memorable  piece  of  verse  asso 
ciated  with  Puritan  New  England.  He  was  twice 
sent  back  to  England  and  after  the  return  from 


Gray  Gravity  it  self  can  well  beteam, 
That  Language  be  adapted  to  the  Theme. 
He  that  to  Parrots  speaks,  must  parrotise. 
He  that  instructs  a  fool,  may  act  th'  un 
wise. 

These  whimm'  Crown'd  shees,  these  fash- 

ion-fansying  wits, 
Are  empty  thin  "brain'd  shells,  and  fidling 

Kits. 

The  world  is  full  of  care,  much  like  unto 

a  bubble, 
Women  and  care,  and  care  and  Women, 

and  Women  and  care  and  trouble.    I0 

The   joyning  of  the   Red-Rose   with   the 

White, 
Did  set  our  state  into  a  Damask  plight. 

When  States  dishelv'd  are,  and  Laws  un 
twist, 

Wise  men  keep  their  tongues,  fools  speak 
what  they  list. 

TWO   PREDICTIONS 

1.  When  God  shall  purge  this  Land  with 

soap  and  nitre, 

Wo   be  to   the   Crown,   wo   be  to   the 
Mitre. 

2.  There  is  a  set  of  Bishops  coming  next 

behind, 

Will  ride  the  Devil  off  his  legs,  and 
break  his  wind. 

Where  clocks  will  stand,  and  Dials  have 

no  light, 
There  men  must  go  by  guess,  be't  wrong 

or  right. 

SONG 

Si  natura  negat,  facit  indignatio  versum 
Qualemcunque  potest. — JUVENAL. 

1 

They  seldome  lose  the  field,  but  often  win, 
They  end  their  warrs,  before  their  warrs 
begin. 

his  second  deportation  was  imprisoned  in  Boston 
for  a  year.     He   died   in   Maine  in   1646. 

3  See  note  on  "The  Tenth  Muse"  by  N. 
Ward,  page  13.  These  verses  are  scattered 
throughout  a  prose  text  of  89  pages. 


11 


12 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Their  Cause  is  oft  the  worse,  that  first 

begin, 
And  they  may  lose  the  field,  the  field  that 

win. 

3 
In  Civil  warrs  'twixt  Subjects  and  their 

King, 
There  is  no  conquest  got,  by  conquering. 


Warre  ill  begun,  the  onely  way  to  mend, 
Is  t'  end  the  warre  before  the  warre  do 

end. 

5 
They  that  will  end  ill  warrs,  must  have 

the  skill,  9 

To  make  an  end  by  Rule,  and  not  by  Will. 


In  ending  warrs  'tween  Subjects  and  their 

Kings, 
Great   things    are    sav'd,   by   losing   little 

things. 

The   crazy   world   will   crack,   in   all   the 

middle  joynts, 
If   all   the   ends   it   hath,    have   not   their 

parapoynts. 

The  body  beares  the  head,  the  head  the 

Crown, 
If   both    beare    not    alike,    then    one    will 

down. 

Subjects  their  King,  the  King  his  Sub 
jects  greets, 

Whilome  the  Scepter  and  the  Plough- 
staffe  meets. 

A   peace  well   made,   is   likeliest   then   to 

hold, 
When  'tis  both  dearly  bought  and  dearly 

sold.  » 

King  Charles  will  joyn  himself  to  bitter 

Griefe 
Then  joyne  to   God,  and  prove  a  Godly 

Chiefe. 

They  that   at   stake   their   Crownes   and 

Honours  set, 
Play  lasting  games,  if  Lust  or  Guilt  doe 

bet. 

Grace  will   dissolve,  but   rigour   hardens 

guilt : 
Break  not  with  Steely  blows,  what  oyle 

should  melt. 


In  Breaches  integrant,  'tween  Principalls 
of  States, 

Due  Justice  may  suppresse,  but  Love  red 
integrates. 

COUNTRY    HOBNAILS 

There,  lives  cannot  be  good, 

There,  Faith  cannot  be  sure, 
Where  Truth  cannot  be  quiet, 

Nor  Ordinances  pure. 

No  King  can  King  it  right, 

Nor  rightly  sway  his  Rod; 
Who  truely  loves  not  Christ, 

And  truely  fears  not  God. 

He  cannot  rule  a  Land, 

As  Lands  should  ruled  been,  i° 

That  lets  himself  be  rul'd 

By  a  ruling  Romane  Queen. 

No  earthly  man  can  be 

True  Subject  to  this  State; 
Who  makes  the  Pope  his  Christ, 

An  Heretique  his  Mate. 

There  Peace  will  go  to  War, 

And  Silence  make  a  noise: 
Where  upper  things  will  not 

With  nether  equipoyse.  2° 

The  upper  World  shall  Rule, 
While  Stars  will  run  their  race : 

The  nether  World  obey, 
While  People  keep  their  place. 

The  Clench 
If  any  of  these  come  out 

So  long's  the  World  doe  last 
Then  credit  not  a  word 

Of  what  is  said  and  past. 

The   World's   a   well   strung   fidle,    mans 

tongue  the  quill, 
That  fills  the   World  with   fumble   for 

want  of  skill, 
When  things  and  words  in  tune  and  tone 

doe  meet, 

The  universall   Song  goes  smooth  and 
sweet. 

He  that  to  tall  men  speakes,  must  lift  up's 

head; 

And   when   h'   hath    done,    must    set    it 

where  he  did  :  '° 

He  that  to  proud  men  talkes,  must  put  on 

pride ; 

And  when  h'  hath   done,  'tis  good  to 
lay't  aside. 


SONGS,    EPIGRAMS   AND    ELEGIES 


13 


When  Kings  are  lost,  and  Subjects  cast 

away, 
A    faithful    heart    should    speak    what 

tongue  can  say : 
It  skils  not  where  this  faithfull  heart  doth 

dwell, 

His    faithfull    dealing   should   be   taken 
well. 

The  World  is  grown  so  fine  in  words  and 

wit, 
That  pens  must  now  Sir  Edward  Nich'las 

it. 
He  that  much  matter  speaks,  speaks  ne'r 

a  whit. 
If's   tongue   doth   not   career't   above   his 

wit.  2° 

Coblers  will  mend,  but   some   will  never 

mend. 
But  end,  and  end,  and  end,  and  never 

end. 

A  well-girt  houre  gives  every  man  con 
tent, 

Six  ribs  of  beefe  are  worth  six  weeks 
of  Lent. 

Poore  Coblers  wel  may  fault  it  now  and 

then, 
They'r  ever  mending   faults   for   other 

men. 

And  if  I  worke  for  nought,  why  is  it  said. 
This  bungling  Cobler  would  be  soundly 
paid? 

So  farewell  England  old 

If  evil  times  ensue,  3<> 

Let  good  men  come  to  us, 

Wee'l  welcome  them  to  New. 

And  farewell  Honor'd  Friends, 

If  happy  dayes  ensue, 
You'l  have  some  Guests  from  hence. 

Pray  Welcome  us  to  you. 

And  farewell  simple  World, 
If  thpu'lt  thy  Cranium  mend, 

There  is  my  Last  and  All. 
And  a  Shoem-akers  4° 

END. 

Postscript 

This  honest  Cobler  has  done  what  he 
might : 

That  Statesmen  in  their  Shoes  might 
walk  upright. 

But  rotten  Shoes  of  Spannish  running- 
leather: 

No  Coblers  skill,  can  stitch  them  strong 
together. 


It   were    best   to   cast   such   rotten    stuff 

away: 
And  look  for  that,  that  never  will  decay. 

If   all   were   shod   with    Gospel's    lasting 

Peace ; 
Hatred  abroad,  and  Wars  at  home  would 

1647. 

ON  "THE  TENTH  MUSE" 
By  N.  WARD1 

Mercury  shew'd  Apollo,  Bartas  Book, 
Minerva  this,  and  whisht  him  well  to  look, 
And  tell  uprightly  which  did  which  excell, 
He  view'd  and  view'd,  and  vow'd  he  could 

not  tel. 
They   bid    him    Hemifphear   his    mouldy 

nose, 
With's  crackt  leering  glasses,  for  it  would 

pose 

The  best  brains  he  had  in's  old  pudding- 
pan, 
Sex  weigh'd,  which  best,  the  Woman,  or 

the  Man? 
He  peer'd  and  por'd,  &  glar'd,  &  said  for 

wore,  9 

I'm  even  as  wise  now,  as  I  was  before : 
They  both  'gan  laugh,  and  said  it  was  no 

mar'l 
The  Auth'ress  was  a  right   Du   Bartas 

Girle. 
Good  sooth  quoth  the  old   Don,   tell  ye 

me  so, 
I  muse  whither  at  length  these  Girls  will 

go; 

It  half  revives  my  chil  frost-bitten  blood, 
To  see  a  Woman  once,  do  ought  that's 

good; 

And  chode  by  Chaucers  Boots,  and  Ho 
mers   Furrs, 
Let  Men  look  to't,  least  Women  wear  the 

Spurrs. 

Cir.  1650. 
UPON 

MRS.    ANNA    BRADSTREET 

HER  POEMS,  &C. 

1 

Madam,  twice  through  the  Muses  Grove 

I  walkt, 
Under  your  blissful  bowres,  I  shrowding 

there, 

1  This  clergyman,  well-known  as  the  eccentric 
author  of  "The  Simple  Cobbler  of  Agawam," 
had  been  a  neighbor  of  Mrs.  Bradstreet  in 
Ipswich.  He  returned  to  England  in  1647,  and 
may  have  been  concerned  in  the  publication  of 
her  poems.  (Printed  with  this  note  in  "Works 
of  Anne  Bradstreet"  ed.  J.  H.  Ellis.) 


14 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


If  seem'd  with  Nymphs  of  Helicon  I 
talkt : 

For  there  those  sweet-lip'd  Sisters  sport 
ing  were, 

Apollo  with  his  sacred  Lute  sate  by 

On  high  they  made  their  heavenly  Son 
nets  flye, 

Posies  around  they  strow'd,  of  sweetest 
Poesie. 


Twice  have  I  drunk  the  Nectar  of  your 
lines, 

Which  high  sublim'd  my  mean  born  phan- 
tasie, 

Flusht  with  these  streams  of  your  Maro- 
nean  wines  I0 

Above  my  self  rapt  to  an  extasie : 

Methought  I  was  upon  Mount  Hiblas  top, 

There  where  I  might  those  fragrant  flow 
ers  lop, 

Whence  did  sweet  odors  flow,  and  honey 
spangles  drop. 


To  Venus  shrine  no  Altars  raised  are. 
Nor  venom'd  shafts  from  painted  quiver 

fly, 

Nor  wanton  Doves  of  Aphrodites  Carr, 
Or  fluttering  there,  nor  here  forlornly  lie, 
Lome  Paramours,  not  chatting  birds  tell 

news 

How  sage  Apollo,  Daphine  hot  pursues,  2° 
Or  stately  Jove  himself  is  wont  to  haunt 

the  stews. 


Nor    barking    satyrs    breath,    nor    driery 

clouds 
Exhal'd    from    Styx,    their   dismal    drops 

distil 
Within    these    Fairy,    flowry    fields,    nor 

shrouds 
The    screeching    night    Raven,    with    his 

shady  quill : 
But  Lyrick  strings  here  Orpheus  nimbly 

hitts, 

Orion  on  his  sadled  Dolphin  sits, 
Chanting  as  every  humour,  age  &  season 

fits. 

5 

Here  silver  swans,  with  Nightingales  set 
spells, 

Which  sweetly  charm  the  Traveller,  and 
raise  30 

Earths  earthed  Monarchs,  from  their  hid 
den  Cells, 

And  to  appearance  summons  lapsed  dayes, 


There  heav'nly  air,  becalms  the  swelling 

frayes, 

And  fury  fell  of  Elements  allayes, 
By  paying  every  one  due  tribute  of  his 

praise. 

6 
Thes  seem'd  the  Scite  of  all  those  verdant 

vales, 
And  purled  springs,  whereat  the  Nymphs 

do  play, 
With  lofty  hills,  where  Poets  rear  their 

tales, 
To  heavenly  vaults,  which  heav'nly  sound 

repay 
By  ecchoes   sweet  rebound,   here  Ladyes 

kiss,  4° 

Circling  nor  songs,  nor  dances  circle  miss ; 
But  whilst  those  Syrens  sung,  I  sunk  in 

sea  of  bliss. 


Thus  weltring  in  delight,  my  virgin  mind 
Admits  a  rape ;  truth  still  lyes  undiscri'd, 
Its  singular,  that  plural  seem'd,  I  find, 
'Twas  Fancies  glass  alone,  that  multipli'd ; 
Nature  with  Art  so  closely  did  combine, 
I  thought  I  saw  the  Muses  treble  trine, 
Which  prov'd  your  lonely  Muse,  superiour 
to  the  nine. 

8 

Your  only  hand  those  Poesies  did  com 
pose,  s° 

Your  head  the  source,  whence  all  those 
springs  did  flow, 

Your  voice,  whence  changes  sweetest  notes 
arose, 

Your  feet  that  kept  the  dance  alone,  I 
trow : 

Then  vail  your  bonnets,  Poetasters  all. 

Strike,  lower  amain,  and  at  these  humbly 
fall, 

And  deem  your  selves  advanc'd  to  be  her 
Pedestal. 


Should  all  with  lowly  Congies  Laurels 
bring, 

Waste  Floraes  Magazine  to  find  a  wreathe ; 

Or  Pineus  Banks  'twere  too  mean  offering, 

Your  Muse  a  fairer  Garland  doth  be 
queath  6° 

To  guard  your  fairer  front;  here  'tis  your 
name 

Shall  stand  immarbled;  this  your  little 
frame 

Shall  great  Colossus  be,  to  your  eternal 
fame. 


SONGS,    EPIGRAMS   AND   ELEGIES 


15 


I'le  please  my  self,  though  I  my  self  dis 
grace, 

What  errors  here  be  found,  are  in  Erra- 
taes  place. 

J.    ROGERS.1 


ACROSTIC  ON  WILLIAM  PADDY 

One,  who  was  well  acquainted  with  his 
worth  and  gracious  endowments,  pre 
sented  this  following,  as  a  testimonial 
of  his  good  respects  for  him.2 

W  eep  not  dear  wife,  children,  nor  dear 

friends, 

I  live  a  life  of  joys  that  never  ends. 
L  ove  God,  and  fear  him  to  end  of  your 

days: 

L  ive  unto  him,  but  die  to  sin  always. 
I  n  heavenly  place  of  bliss  my  soul  doth 

rest, 

A  mong  the  saints  and  angtls  I  am  blest ; 
M  uch  better  here,  than  in  the  world  at 

best. 

P  raising  my  God  is  now  my  great  em 
ploy, 

A  bove  such  troubles  as  did  me.  annoy. 

D  id  but  my   friends  know  what  I   here 
possess,  10 

D  oubtless  it  would  cause  them  to  mourn 
the  less : 

Y  our   souls    with    mine   e'er   long   shall 
meet  in  bliss. 

1658. 

1  These   verses   were   not    in   the    first    edition. 
Their  author  was  the  son  of  the  Rev.  Nathaniel 
Rogers,   of   Ipswich.      He   was   born    in    England 
in    1630,   and  came  to  America,  with  his  father, 
in    1636.     He   graduated   at   Harvard   College   in 
1649,    and   studied    both    divinity    and    medicine. 
He  preached  at  Ipswich  for  some  time,  but  after 
wards  devoted  himself  altogether  to  the  practice 
of    medicine.      In    1683,    he    succeeded   the    Rev. 
Urian    Oakes   as    President   of   Harvard   College. 
He   died   suddenly,   July   2,    1684,   the   day   after 
Commencement,    during   an    eclipse    of   the    sun. 
He    had    requested,    in    the    previous    December, 
that  the  Commencement  exercises  should  be  held 
a    day    earlier    than    usual,    as    he    feared    the 
eclipse     might     interfere     with     them. — MATHER 
PAPERS.     Cotton   Mather  says,   "He  was   One   of 
so    sweet   a   Temper,    that    the   Title   of    Deliciae 
humani  Generis  might  have  on  that   Score  been 
given   him;   and  his  Real   Piety  set  off  with  the 
Accomplishments  of  a  Gentlemen,  as  a  Gem  set 
in   Gold." — MAGNALIA,   iv.   p.    130. 

His  wife,  Elizabeth  Denison,  was  the  only 
daughter  of  Major-General  Dariiel  Denison  and 
Patience  Dudley,  and  therefore  Mrs.  Brad- 
street's  niece.  (Printed  with  this  note  in 
"Works  of  Anne  Bradstreet,"  ed.  J.  H.  Ellis.) 

2  Nathaniel   Morton's   "New   England's   Memo 
rial."     See  year    1658. 


UPON  THE  AUTHOR 
BY  A  KNOWN  FRIEND 
(ANNE  BRADSTREET) 

Now  I  believe  Tradition,  which  doth  call 
The  Muses,  Virtues,  Graces,  Females  all ; 
Only  they  are  not  nine,  eleven  nor  three; 
Our  Auth'ress  proves  them  but  one  unity. 
Mankind  take  up  some  blushes  on  the 

score ; 

Monopolize  perfection  no  more; 
In  your  own   Arts,   confess   your   selves 

out-done, 

The  Moon  hath  totally  eclips'd  the  Sun, 
Not  with  her  sable  Mantle  muffling  him; 
But  her  bright  silver  makes  his  gold  look 

dim :  i° 

Just  as  his  beams   force  our  pale  lamps 

to  wink, 
And    earthly    Fires,    within    their    ashes 

shrink. 

B.W.3 

A  FUNERAL  ELEGY  UPON  THE 
DEATH  OF  THE  TRULY  REV 
EREND  MR.  JOHN  COTTON, 
LATE  TEACHER  OF  THE 
CHURCH  OF  CHRIST  AT  BOS 
TON,  IN  NEW-ENGLAND 

BY  THE  REV.  JOHN  NORTON 

And  after  Winthrop's,  Hooker's,  Shep 
herd's  herse, 

Doth  Cotton's  death  call  for  a  mourning 
verse? 

Thy  will  be  done.  Yet  Lord,  who  dealest 
thus, 

Make  this  great  death  expedient  for  us. 

Luther  pull'd  down  the  Pope,  .Calviu  the 
Prelate  slew: 

3  These  initials,  which  appeared  for  the  first 
time  in  the  second  edition,  are  thought  to  be 
those  of  the  Rev.  Benjamin  Woodbridge.  D.D., 
brother  of  the  Rev.  John  Woodbridge.  He  was 
born  in  England,  and  after  having  studied  at 
Magdalen  College,  Oxford,  came  to  join  his 
brother,  and  some  other  relations,  in  this  coun 
try.  He  entered  Harvard  College,  and  his  name 
stands  first  on  the  list  of  graduates.  He  was 
among  the  first  settlers  of  the  town  of  An- 
dover;  but  he  soon  returned  to  England,  where 
he  succeeded  the  Rev.  William  Twiss,  D.D.,  as 
minister  of  Newbury,  in  Berkshire.  He  held 
that  position  until  his  death  in  1684,  a  period 
of  about  forty  years.  His  learning,  ability  and 
goodness  have  been  highly  eulogized.  (Printed 
with  this  note  in  "Works  of  Anne  Bradstreet," 
ed.  J.  H.  Ellis.) 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Of  Calvin's  lapse,  chief  cure  to  Cotton's 

due. 

Cotton,  whose  learning,  temper,  godliness, 
The  German  Phoenix,  lively  did  express. 
Melancthon's  all,  may  Luther's  word  but 

pass ;  9 

Melancthon's  all,  in  our  great  Cotton  was. 
Than  him  in  flesh,  scarce  dwelt  a  better 

one; 
So  great's  our  loss,  when  such  a  spirit's 

gone. 
Whilst  he  was  here,  life  was  more  life 

to  me; 
Now   he   is   not,   death   hence  less   death 

shall  be. 
That  comets,  great  men's  deaths  do  oft 

forego, 

This  present  comet1  doth  too  sadly  show. 
This  prophet  dead,  yet  must  in's  doctrine 

speak, 
This  comet  saith,  else  must  New-Engbnd 

break. 

Whate'er  it  be,  the  heavens  avert  it  far, 
That  meteors  should  succeed  our  greatest 

star.  2° 

In   Boston's   orb,   Winthrop    and   Cotton 

were ; 

These   lights   extinct,   dark  is  our  hemi 
sphere. 
In  Boston  once  how  much  shin'd  of  our 

glory, 

We  now  lament,  posterity  will  story. 
Let  Boston  live,  who  had,  and  saw  their 

worth ; 
And  did  them  honour,  both  in  life  and 

death. 

To  him  New-England  trust  in  this  distress, 
Who  will  not  leave  his  exiles  comfortless. 

1652. 

THRENODIA   ON   SAMUEL   STONE 

A  Threnodia  upon  our  churches  second  dark 
eclipse,  happening  July  20,  1663,  by  death's  inter 
position  between  us  and  that  great  light  and 
divine  plant,  Mr.  Samuel  Stone,  late  of  Hart 
ford,  in  New-England. 

BY  EDWARD  BULKLEY(?) 

Last  spring  this  summer  may  be  autumn 

styl'd, 
Sad  withering  fall  our  beauties  which  de- 

spoil'd : 

1  About  the  time  of  his  sickness  there  ap 
peared  in  the  heavens,  over  New  England,  a 
comet,  giving  a  dim  light;  and  so  waxed  dim 
mer  and  dimmer,  until  it  became  quite  extinct 
and  went  out;  which  time  of  its  being  extinct, 
was  soon  after  the  time  of  the  period  of  his 
life. 

(Printed  with  this  note  in  Nathaniel  Morton's 
"New  England's  Memorial."  See  year  1652.) 


Two  choicest  plants,  our  Norton  and  our 

Stone, 
Your  justs  threw   down;   remov'd,  away 

are  gone. 
One  year  brought  Stone  and  Norton  to 

their  mother, 

In  one  year,  April,  July,  them  did  smother. 
Dame  Cambridge,  mother  to  this  darling 

son; 

Emanuel,  Northampt  that  heard  this  one, 
Essex,  our  bay,  Hartford,  in  sable  clad,  9 
Come  bear  your  parts  in  this  Threnodia  sad. 
In  losing  one,  church  many  lost :  O  then 
Many  for  one  come  be  sad  singing  men. 
Man  nature,  grace  and  art  be  found  in  one 
So  high,  as  to  be  found  in  few  or  none. 
In  him  these  three  with  full  fraught  hand 

contested, 
With  which  by  each  he  should  be  most 

invested. 

The  largess  of  the  three,  it  was  so  great 
On  him,  the  stone  was  held  a  light  com- 

pleat. 

A  stone  more  than  the  Ebenezer  fam'd; 
Stone  splendent  diamond,  right  orient 

nam'd ;  -20 

A  cordial  stone,  that  often  cheered  hearts 
With  pleasant  wit,  with  Gospel  rich  im 
parts  ; 
Whetstone,     that     edgify'd     th'     obtusest 

mind; 

Loadstone,that  drew  the  iron  heart  unkind  ; 
A  pondrous  stone,  that  would  the  bottom 

sound 
Of  Scripture  depths,  and  bring  out  Ar- 

can's  found. 

A  stone  for  kingly  David's  use  so  fit, 
As  would  not  fail  Goliah's  front  to  hit; 
A  stone,  an  antidote,  that  brake  the  course 
Of  gangrene  errour,  by  convincing  force; 
A  stone  acute,  fit  to  divide  and  square; 
A  squared  stone  became  Christ's  building 

rare.  32 

A  Peter's  living,  lively  stone  (so  rear'd) 
As  'live,  was  Hartford's  life;  dead,  death 

is  fear'd. 
In  Hartford  old,  Stone  first  drew  infant 

breath, 

In  New,  effus'd  his  last:  O  ther  beneath 
His  corps  are  laid,  near  to  his  darling 

brother 
Of  whom  dead  oft  he  sigh'd,  Not  such 

another. 

Heaven  is  the  more  desirable,  said  he.    39 
For  Hooker,  Shepard,  and  Haynes's  com 
pany. 

1663. 

In  Nathaniel  Morton's  "New  England's  Memo 
rial."     See  year  1663. 


SONGS,    EPIGRAMS   AND   ELEGIES 


17 


BACON'S  EPITAPH,  MADE  BY  HIS 

MAN 

Death,  why  so  cruel?     What!   no  other 

way 

To  manifest  thy  spleen,  but  thus  to  slay 
Our  hopes  of  safety,  liberty,  our  all, 
Which,    through    thy    tyranny,    with    him 

must  fall 

To  its  late  chaos?     Had  thy  rigid  force 
Been  dealt  by  retail,  and  not  thus  in  gross, 
Grief  had  been  silent.   Now  we  must  com 
plain, 

Since  thou,  in  him,  hast  more  than  thou 
sand  slain, 
Whose   lives    and   safeties    did   so   much 

depend 

On  him   their  life,   with  him  their  lives 
must  end.  I0 

I  ft  be  a  sin  to  think  Death  brib'd  can  be 
We  must  be  guilty ;  say  'twas  bribery 
Guided  the  fatal  shaft.     Virginia's  foes, 
To  whom  for  secret  crimes  just  vengeance 

owes 

Deserved  plagues,  dreading  their  just  de 
sert, 

Corrupted  Death  by  Paracelsian  art 
Him  to  destroy;  whose  well  tried  courage 

such, 
Their    heartless    hearts,    nor    arms,    nor 

strength  could  touch. 
Who  now  must  heal  those  wounds,  or 

stop  that  blood 

The    Heathen    made,    and    drew    into    a 
flood?  2° 

Who   is't   must   plead   our  cause?   nor 

trump  nor  drum 

Nor  Deputations ;  these,  alas !  are  dumb 
And  cannot  speak.     Our  Arms    (though 

ne'er  so  strong) 

Will   want   the   aid   of   his   commanding 
tongue, 


Which  conquer'd  more  than  Caesar.  He 
o'erthrew 

Only  the  outward  frame :  this  could  sub 
due 

The  rugged  works  of  nature.  Souls  re 
plete 

With  dull  chill  cold,  he'd  animate  with 
heat 

Drawn  forth  of  reason's  limbec.  In  a 
word,  29 

Mars  and  Minerva  both  in  him  concurred 

For  arts,  for  arms,  whose  pen  and  sword 
alike 

As  Cato's  did,  may  admiration  strike 

Into  his  foes ;  while  they  confess  withal 

It  was  their  guilt  styl'd  him  a  criminal. 

Only  this  difference  does  from  truth  pro 
ceed  : 

They  in  the  guilt,  he  in  the  name  must 
bleed. 

While  none  shall  dare  his  obsequies  to 
sing 

In  deserv'd  measures;  until  time  shall 
bring 

Truth  crown'd  with  freedom,  and  from 
danger  free 

To  sound  his  praises  to  posterity.  40 

Here  let  him  rest;  while  we  this  truth 
report 

He's  gone  from  hence  unto  a  higher 
Court 

To  plead  his  cause,  where  he  by  this  doth 
know 

Whether  to  Caesar  he  was  friend,  or  foe. 

Cir.  1676. 

In  an  anonymous  account  of  "Bacon's  Re 
bellion"  called  the  "Burwell  Papers,"  in  pos 
session  of  a  Virginia  family  of  that  name. 
Reprinted  in  Mass.  Hist.  Soc.  Collections,  series 
II,  vol.  1;  and  more  correctly  in  the  Proceed 
ings  for  1866-67. 


MICHAEL   WIGGLESWORTH 
(1631-1705) 


(The  text  is  taken  from  the  edition  of  1673.) 
THE  DAY  OF  DOOM 

(The  Day   of   Doom;   or,   a  Poetical   Description 
of  the  Great  and  Last  Judgment.) 

SOUNDING  OF  THE  LAST  TRUMP 

Still  was  the  night,  Serene  &  Bright, 

when  all  Men  sleeping  lay ; 
Calm  was  the  season,  &  carnal  reason 

thought  so  'twould  last  for  ay. 
Soul,  take  thine  ease,  let  sorrow  cease, 

much  good  thou  hast  in  store : 
This  was  their  Song,  their  Cups  among, 

the  Evening  before. 

Wallowing  in  all  kind  of  sin,  I0 

vile  wretches  lay  secure : 
The  best  of  men  had  scarcely  then 

their  Lamps  kept  in  good  ure. 
Virgins  unwise,  who  through  disguise 

amongst  the  best  were  number'd 
Had  clos'd  their  eyes ;  yea,  and  the  wise 

through  sloth  and  frailty  slumber'd. 

Like  as  of  old,  when  Men  grow  bold 

God's  threatenings  to  contemn, 
Who  stop  their  Ear,  and  would  not  hear, 

when  Mercy  warned  them :  20 

But  took  their  course  without  remorse, 

till  God  began  to  powre 
Destruction  the  World  upon 

in  a  tempestuous  showre. 

.They  put  away  the  evil  day, 

and  drown'd  their  care  and  fears, 
Till  drown'd  were  they,  and  swept  away 

by  vengeance  unawares : 
So  at  the  last,  whilst  Men  sleep  fast 

in  their  security,  3° 

Surpriz'd  they  are  in  such  a  snare 

as  cometh  suddenly. 

For  at  midnight  brake  forth  a  Light, 

which  turn'd  the  night  to  day, 
And  speedily  an  hideous  cry 

did  all  the  world  dismay. 
Sinners  awake,  their  hearts  do  ake, 

trembling  their  loynes  surprizeth ; 
Amaz'd  with  fear,  by  what  they  hear, 

each  one  of  them  ariseth.  40 

They  rush  from  Beds  with  giddy  heads, 
and  to  their  windows  run, 


Viewing  this  light,  which  shines  more 

bright 

then  doth  the  Noon-day  Sun 
Straightway     appears     (they     see't     with 

tears) 

the  Son  of  God  most  dread; 
Who  with  his  Train  comes  on  amain 
to  Judge  both  Quick  and  Dead. 

Before  his  face  the  Heav'ns  gave  place, 

and  Skies  are  rent  asunder,  so 

With  mighty  voice,  and  hideous  noise, 

more  terrible  than  Thunder. 
His    brightness    damps    heav'ns    glorious 
lamps 

and  makes  them  hide  their  heads, 
As  if  afraid  and  quite  dismay'd, 

they  quit  their  wonted  steads. 

Ye  sons  of  men  that  durst  contemn 

the  Threatnings  of  Gods  \Vord. 
How  cheer  you  now?  your  heaits,  I  trow, 

are  thrill'd  as  with  a  sword,  6° 

Now  Athist  blind,  whose  brutish  mind 

a  God  could  never  see, 
Dost  thou  perceive,  dost  now  believe 

that  Christ  thy  judge  shall  be? 

Stout  Courages,   (whose  hardiness 

could  Death  and  Hell  out-face) 
Are  you  as  bold  now  you  behold 

your  Judge  draw  near  apace? 
They  cry,  no,  no :  Alas !  and  wo ! 

our  courage  all  is  gone :  7° 

Our  hardiness  (fool  hardiness) 

hath  us  undone,  undone. 

No  heart  so  bold,  but  now  grows  cold 

and  almost  dead  with  fear: 
No  eye  so  dry,  but  now  can  cry, 

and  pour  out  many  a  tear. 
Earth's  Potentates  and  pow'rful  States, 

Captains  and  Men  of  Might 
Are  quite  abasht,  their  courage  dasht 

at  this  most  dreadful  sight.  80 

Mean  men  lament,  great  men  dp  rent 

their  Robes,  and  tear  their  hair: 
They  do  not  spare  their  flesh  to  tear 

through  horrible  despair. 
All  Kindreds  wail :  all  hearts  do  fail : 

horror   the   World    doth    fill 
With  weeping  eyes,  and  loud  out-cries, 

yet  knows  not  how  to  kill. 


18 


MICHAEL   WIGGLESWORTH 


19 


Some  hide  themselves  in  Caves  and  Delves, 

in  places  underground  :  9° 

Some  rashly  leap  into  the  Deep, 

to  scape  by  being  drown'd : 
Some  to  the  Rocks  (O  senseless  blocks  1) 

and  woody  Mountains  run, 
That  there  they  might  this  fearful  sight, 

and  dreaded  Presence  shun. 

In  vain  do  they  to  Mountains  say, 

fall  on  us  and  us  hide 
From  Judges  ire,  more  hot  than  fire, 

for  who  may  it  abide?  I0° 

No  hiding  place  can  from  his  Face 

sinners  at  all  conceal, 
Whose  flaming  Eye  hid  thingb  doth  'spy 

and  darkest  things  reveal. 

The  Judge  draws  nigh,  exalted  high, 

upon  a  lofty  Throne, 
Amidst  the  throng  of  Angels  strong, 

lo,  Israel's  Holy  One ! 
The  excellence  of  whose  presence 

and  awful  Majesty,  II0 

Amazeth  Nature,  and  every  Creature, 

doth  more  than  terrify. 

The  Mountains  smoak,  the  Hills  are  shook, 

the  Earth  is  rent  and  torn, 
As  if  she  should  be  clear  dissolv'd, 

or  from  the  Center  born. 
The  Sea  doth  roar,  forsakes  the  shore, 

and  shrinks  away  for   fear; 
The  wild  beasts  flee  into  the  Sea, 

so  soon  as  he  draws  near.  I2° 

Whose    Glory    bright,    whose    wondrous 
might, 

whose  power  Imperial, 
So  far  surpass  whatever  was 

in  Realms  Terrestrial ; 
That  tongues  of  men  (nor  angels  pen) 

cannot  the  same  express, 
And  therefore  I  must  pass  it  by, 

lest  speaking  should  transgress. 

Before  his  Throne  a  Trump  is  blown, 

Proclaiming  the  day  of  Doom :  '3<> 

Forthwith  he  cries,  Ye  dead  arise, 

and  unto  Judgment  come. 
No  sooner  said,  but  'tis  obey'd; 

Sepulchres  opened  are : 
Dead  bodies  all  rise  at  his  call, 

and  's  mighty  power  declare. 

Both  Sea  and  Land,  at  his  Command, 
their  Dead  at  once  surrender : 

The  Fire  and  Air  constrained  are 

also  their  dead  to  tender.  140 


The  mighty  word  of  this  great  Lord 
links  Body  and  Soul  together 

Both  of  the  Just,  and  the  unjust, 
to  part  no  more  for  ever. 

The  same  translates,  from  Mortal  states 

to  Immortality, 
All  that  survive,  and  be  alive, 

i'  th'  twinkling  of  an  eye : 
That  so  they  may  abide  for  ay 

to  endless  weal  or  woe;  '5° 

Both  the  Renate  and  Reprobate 

are  made  to  dy  no  moe. 

His  winged  Hosts  flie  through  all  Coasts, 

together  gethering 
Both  good  and  bad,  both  quick  and  dead, 

and  all  to  Judgment  bring. 
Out  of  their  holes  those  creeping  Moles, 

that  hid  themselves   for  fear, 
By  force  they  take,  and  quickly  make 

before  the  Judge  appear.  *&> 

Thus  every  one  before  the  Throne 

of  Christ  the  Judge  is  brought, 
Both  righteous  and  impious 

that  good  or  ill  hath  wrought. 
A  separation,  and  differing  station 

by  Christ  appointed  is 
(To  sinners  sad)   'twixt  good  and  bad, 

'twixt  Heirs  of  woe  and  bliss. 


SENTENCE    AND    TORMENT    OF 
THE  CONDEMNED 

Where  tender  love  mens  hearts  did  move 

unto  a  sympathy, 
And  bearing  part  of  others  smart 

in  their  anxiety; 
Now  such  compassion  is  out  of  fashion, 

and  wholly  laid  aside: 
No  Friends  so  near,  but  Saints  to  hear 

their  Sentence  can  abide. 

One  natural  Brother  beholds  another 

in  his  astonied  fit,  10 

Yet  sorrows  not  thereat  a  jot, 

nor  pities  him  a  whit. 
The  godly  wife  conceives  no  grief, 

nor  can  she  shed  a  tear 
For  the  sad  state  of  her  dear  Mate, 

when  she  his  doom  doth  hear. 

He  that  was  erst  a  Husband  pierc't 
with  sense  of  Wives  distress. 

Whose  tender  heart  did  bear  a  part 
of  all  her  grievances,  2° 


20 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Shall  mourn  no  more  as  heretofore 

because  of  her  ill  plight; 
Although  he  see  her  now  to  be 

a  damn'd  forsaken  wight. 

The  tender  Mother  will  own  no  "other 

of  all  her  numerous  brood, 
But  such  as  stand  at  Christ's  right  hand 

acquitted  through  his  Blood. 
The  pious  father  had  now  much  rather 

his  graceless  son  should  ly  30 

In  Hell  with  Devils,  for  all  his  evils, 

burning  eternally,, 

Then  God  most  high  should  injury, 

by  sparing  him  sustain; 
And  doth  rejoice  to  hear  Christ's  voice 

adjudging  him  to  pain. 
Who  having  all  both  great  and  small, 

convinc'd  and  silenced, 
Did  then  proceed  their  Doom  to  read, 

and  thus  it  uttered.  4° 

Ye  sinful  wights,  and  cursed  sprights, 

that  work  iniquity, 
Depart  together  from  me  for  ever 

to  endless  Misery; 
Your  portion  take  in  yonder  Lake, 

where  Fire  and  Brimstone  flameth : 
Suffer  the  smart,  which  your  desert 

as  it's  due  wages  claimeth. 

Oh    piercing    words     more     sharp     than 
swords ! 

what,  to  depart  from  thee,  5° 

Whose  face  before  for  evermore 

the  best  of  Pleasures  be ! 
What?  to  depart   (unto  our  smart) 

from  thee  Eternally : 
To  be   for  aye  banish'd  away, 

with  Devils  company ! 

What?  to  be  sent  to  Punishment, 

and  flames  of  Burning  Fire, 
To  be  surrounded,  and  eke  confounded 

with  Gods  Revengeful  ire !  6° 

What?  to  abide,  not  for  a  tide 

these  Torments,  but   for  Ever : 
To  be  released,  or  to  be  eased, 

not  after  years,  but  Never. 

Oh  fearful  Doom !  now  there's  no  room 

for  hope  of  help  at  all: 
Sentence  is  past  which  aye  shall  last, 

Christ  will  not  it  recall. 
There  might  you  hear  them  rent  and  tear 

the  Air  with  their  out-cries :  7° 

The  hideous  noise  of  their  sad  voice 

ascendeth  to  the  Skies. 


They  wring  their  hands,  their  caitiff-hands, 

and  gnash  their  teeth  for  terrour; 
They  cry,  they  roar  for  anguish  sore, 

and  gnaw  their  tongues  for  horrour. 
But  get  away  without  delay, 

Christ  pities  not  your  cry: 
Depart  to  Hell,  there  may  you  yell, 

and  roar  Eternally.  &> 

That  word,  Depart,  maugre  their  heart, 

drives  every  wicked  one, 
With  mighty  pow'r,  the  self-same  hour, 

far  from  the  Judge's  Throne. 
Away  they're  chast'd  by  the  strong  blast 

of  his  Death-threatning  mouth : 
They  flee  full  fast,  as  if  in  haste, 

although  they  be  full  loath. 

As  chaff  that's  dry,  and  dust  doth  fly 

before  the  Northern  wind :  9° 

Right  so  are  they  chased  away, 

and  can  no  Refuge  find. 
They  hasten  to  the  Pit  of  Woe, 

guarded  by  Angels  stout; 
Who  to  fulfil  Christ's  holy  will, 

attend  this  wicked  Rout. 

Whom  having  brought  as  they  are  taught, 

unto  the  brink  of  Hell, 
(That  dismal  place  far  from  Christ'  face, 

where  Death  and  Darkness  dwell :       10° 
Where  God's  fierce  Ire  kindleth  the  fire, 

and  vengeance  feeds  the  flame 
With  piles  of  Wood  and  Brimstone  Flood. 

that  none  can  quench  the  same.) 

With  iron  bands  they  bind  their  hands, 

and  cursed  feet  together, 
And  cast  them  all  both  great  and  small, 

into  the  Lake  for  ever, 
Where  day  and  night,  without  respite, 

they  wail,  and  cry,  and  howl  IJ° 

For  tort'ring  pain  which,  they  sustain 

in  body  and  in  Soul. 

For   day   and  night,   in  their   despight, 

their  torments  smoak  ascendeth. 
Their  pain  and  grief  have  no  relief, 

their  anguish  never  endeth. 
There  must  they  ly,  and  never  dy, 

though  dying  every  day : 
There  must  they  dying  ever  ly, 

and  not  consume  away.  I2° 

Dy  fain  they  would,  if  dy  they  could, 

but  death  will  not  be  had. 
God's  direful  wrath  their  bodies  hath 

for  ev'r  Immortal  made. 


MICHAEL   WIGGLESWORTH 


21 


They  live  to  ly  in  misery, 

and  bear  eternal  wo; 
And  live  they  must  whilst  God  is  just, 

that  he  may  plague  them  so. 

But  who  can  tell  the  plagues  of  Hell, 

and  torments  exquisite?  l& 

Who  can  relate  their  dismal  state, 

and  terrours  infinite? 
Who  fare  the  best,  and  feel  the  least, 

yet  feel  that  punishment 
Whereby  to  nought  they  should  be  brought, 

if  God  did  not  prevent. 

The  least  degree  of  misery 

there  felt's  incomparable, 
The  lightest  pain  they  there  sustain 

more  than  intolerable.  '4° 

But  God's  great  pow'r  from  hour  to  hour 

upholds  them  in  the  fire, 
That  they  shall  not  consume  a  jot, 

nor  by  it's  force  expire. 


THE  SAINTS  ASCEND  TO  HEAVEN 

The  Saints  behold  with  courage  bold, 

and  thankful  wonderment, 
To  see  all  those  that  were  their  foes 

thus  sent  to  punishment : 
Then  do  they  sing  unto  their  King 

a  Song  of  endless  Praise : 
They  praise  his  Name,  and  do  proclaim 

that  just  are  all  his  ways. 

Thus  with  great  joy  and  melody 

to  Heav'n  they  all  ascend,  I0 

Him  there  to  praise  with  sweetest  layes, 

and  Hymns  that  never  end. 
Where  with  long  rest  they  shall  be  blest, 

and  nought  shall  them  annoy : 
Where  they  shall  see  as  seen  they  be, 

and  whom  they  love  enjoy. 

O  glorious  Place !  where  face  to  face 

Jehovah  may  be  seen, 
By  such  as  were  sinners  while  here 

and  no  dark  veil  between.  2° 

Where  the  Sun  shine  and  light  Divine, 

of  Gods  bright  countenance, 
Doth  rest  upon  them  every  one, 

with  sweetest  influence. 

O  blessed  state  of  the  Renate! 

O  wond'rous  Happiness, 
To   which   they're  brought   beyond   what 
thought 

can  reach,  or  words  express! 


Griefs  water-course,  and  sorrows  source, 
are  turn'd  to  joyful  streams.  30 

Their  old  distress  and  heaviness 
are  vanished  like  dreams. 

For  God  above  in  arms  of  love 

doth  dearly  them  embrace, 
And  fills  their  sprights  with  such  delights, 

and  pleasures  in  his  grace; 
As  shall  not  fail,  nor  yet  grow  stale 

through  frequency  of  use : 
Nor  do  they  fear  Gods  favour  there, 

to  forfeit  by  abuse.  4° 

For  there  the  Saints  are  perfect  Saints, 

and  holy  ones  indeed, 
From  all  the  sin  that  dwelt  within 

their  mortal  bodies  freed: 
Made  Kings  and  Priests  to  God  through 
Christs 

dear  loves  transcendency, 
There  to  remain  and  there  to  reign 

with  him  Eternally. 

1662. 

THE  VANITY  OF  HUMAN  WISHES 

,1  walk'd  and  did  a  little  Mole-hill  view 
Full  peopled  with  a  most  industrious  crew 
Of  busie  Ants,  where  each  one  labour'd 

more 

Than  if  he  were  to  bring  home  Indian  Ore; 
Here  wrought  the  Pioneers,  there  march'd 

the  Bands, 
Here  Colonies  went   forth  to  plant  new 

Lands : 
These    hasted    out,    and    those    supplies 

brought  in, 

As  if  they  had  some  sudden  Seige  fore 
seen  : 

Until  there  came  an  angry  spade,  and  cast 

Country  and  People  to  a  Pit  at  last.        I0 

Again,  I  viewed  a  Kingdom  in  a  Hive, 

Where   every  one   did   work,   and   so   all 

thrive; 
Some   go,   some   come,   some   war,    some 

watch  and  ward 
Some    make    the    works,    and    some    the 

works  do  guard. 
These   frame   their  curious  waxen   cells, 

and  those 

Do  into  them  their  Nectar  drops  dispose : 
Until    the    greedy    Gardner    brought    his 

smoke. 
And,  for  their  work,  did  all  the  workmen 

choke. 
So  here,  frail  Mortals  may  fit  Emblems 

see 
Of  their  great  toil  and  greater  vanity.     20 


22 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


They  weary  out'  their  brains,  their  strength, 

their  time, 
While  some  to  Arts,  and  some  to  Honours 

climb : 

They  search  earth's  bowels,  cross  the  rag 
ing  seas, 
Mortgage  their  Souls,  and  forfeit  all  their 

ease, 
Grudge  night  her  sleep,  and  lengthen  out 

the  day, 
To  fat  those  bags,  and  cram  those  chests 

with  clay, 
They   rack  and   charm   each  creature  to 

explore 

Some  latent  Quintessence,  not  known  be 
fore  : 
Torture  and  squeeze  out  all  its  juice  and 

blood,  29 

To   try    if   they   can    now    find    out    that 

GOOD 

Which  Solomon  despair'd  of,  but  at  last 
On  the  same  shore  of  Vanity  are  cast; 
The  spade  stops  their  career  of  Pride  and 

Lust, 
And  calls  them  from  their  Clay  into  their 

Dust. 

Leave  off  your  Circles,  Archimede,  away, 
The  King  of  Terrour  calls,  and  will  not 

stay: 
Miser,   kiss   all  your  Bags,   and  then   ly 

down; 
Scholar,  your  Books;   Monarch,  yield  up 

your  Crown : 
Give  way,  Wealth,  Honour,  Arts,  Thrones, 

back,  make  room, 
That  these  pale  souls  may  come  into  their 

doom.  40 

No[w]   shew  vain  men  the  fruit  of  all 

that  pain 
Which  in  the  end  nothing  but  Loss  did 

gain: 
Compute  your  lives,  and  all  your  hours 

up  cast, 

So  here's  the  total  sum  of  all  at  last. 
I  rose  up  early,  sat  up  late,  to  know, 
As  much   as  man,  as  tongues,  as  books 

could  show ; 

I  toil'd  to  search  all  Science  and  all  Art, 
But  died  ignorant  of  mine  own  Heart. 
I  got  great  Honour,  and  my  Fame   did 

stream, 
As    far    as    doth    the    Mornings    shining 

Beam ;  5° 

My  Name  into  a  page  of  Titles  swell'd, 
My  head   a   Crown,   my  hand  a   Scepter 

held : 

Ador'd  without,  but  shameful  lusts  within  ; 
With    anxious    thoughts,    with    saddest 

cares  and  cost 


I  gain'd  these  Lordships,  and  this  Soul  I 

lost, 

My  greedy  Heir  now  hovers  o're  my  pelf, 
I  purchase  Land  for  him,  Hell  for  myself. 
Go  on  you  noble  Brains,  and  fill  your 

sight 

As  full  of  learning  as  the  Sun's  of  light; 
Expand  your  Souls  to  Truth  as  wide  as 

Day,  6° 

Know  all  that  Men,  know  all  that  Angels 

say: 
Write  shops  of  Volumns,  and  let  every 

Book 

Be  fill'd  with  lustre  as  was  Moses  look  : 
Yet  know,  all  this  is  but  a  better  kind 
Of  sublime  vanity,  and  more  refin'd : 
Except  a  saving  knowledge  crown  the  rest 
Devils  know  more,  and  yet  shall  ne'r  be 

blest. 

Go  on,  ambitious  worms,  yet,  yet  aspire, 
Lay  a  sure  scene  how  you  may  yet  rise 

higher : 
March   forward,   Macedonian   Morn,  add 

on  7° 

Gaza,  to  Tyre,  Indies  to  Babylon ; 
Make  stirrups  of  the  peoples  backs  and 

bones, 
Climb    up    by    them    to    Diadems    and 

Thrones : 
Thy  crowns  are  all  but  grass,  thine  was 

the  toil, 
Thy  captains  come,  and  they  divide  the 

spoil. 
Except  one  heav'nly  Crown  crown  all  the 

rest 

Devils  are  Poutentates,  and  yet  not  blest. 
Go  on,  base  dunghil-souls,  heap  gold  as 

mire, 

Sweep  silver  as  the  dust,  emulate  Tyre, 
Fill    every.  Ware-house,    purchase    every 

Field,  & 

Add  house  to  house,  Pelion  on  Ossa  build 
Get  Mida's  vote  to  transubstantiate 
Whate're  you  please  all  into  golden  plate; 
Build  wider  barns,  sing  requiem  to  your 

heart, 
Feel  your  wealths  pleasures  only,  not  their 

smart. 

Except  his  Riches  who  for  us  was  poor, 
Do  sweeten  those  which  Mortals  so  adore  ; 
Except  sublimer  wealth  crown  all  the 

rest, 

Devils  have  nobler  Treasures,  yet  not  blest. 
Cease  then  from  vain  delights,  and  let 

your  mind  9° 

That  solid  and  enduring  GOOD  to  find, 
Which  sweetens  life  and  death,  which  will 

encrease 
On  an  immortal  Soul,  immortal  peace; 


MICHAEL   WIGGLESWORTH 


23 


Which    will    replenish    and   advance   you 

higher 

Then  e're  your  own  Ambition  could  as 
pire. 
Fear  your  great  Maker  with  a  child-like 

aw, 

Believe  his  Grace,  love  and  obey  his  Law. 
This  is  the  total  work  of  man,  and  this, 
Will  crown  you  here  with  Peace,  and  there 

with  Bliss. 
Be  kind  unto  your  selves,  believe  and 

try :  «» 

If  not,  go  on,  fill  up  your  lusts  and  die. 
Sing  peace  unto  your  selves;  't  will  once 

be  known 
Whose  word  shall  stand  your  judg's  or 

your  own. 
Crown  thee  with  Rose-buds,  satiate  thine 

eyes 


Glut  every  sense  with  her  own  vanities : 
Melt  into  pleasures,  until  that  which  Lust 
Did  not  before  co[n]sume,  rot  into  dust: 
The  Thrones  are  set,  the  Books  will  strait 

be  read, 
Hell   will   her   souls,  and  gravs  give  up 

their  dead; 
Then  there  will  be  (and  the  time  is  not 

far)  »° 

Fire  on  the  Bench,  and  Stubble  at  the  Bar. 

O  sinners  ruminate  these  thoughts  agen 

You  have  been  Beasts  enough,  at  last  be 

Men 
Christ  yet  entreats,  but  if  you  will  not 

turn 
Where  grace  will  not  convert,  there  fire 

will  burn. 

1673. 


R.    LEWIS 

(DATES    UNKNOWN) 


A  JOURNEY  FROM  PATAPSCO  IN 

MARYLAND  TO  ANNAPOLIS, 

APRIL  4,  1730 

At  length  the  wintry  Horrors  disappear, 
And  April  views  with  Smiles  the  infant 

Year; 
The  grateful  Earth   from   frosty  Chains 

unbound, 

Pours  out  its  vernal  Treasures  all  around, 
Her  Face  bedeckt  with  Grass,  with  Buds 

the  Trees  are  crown'd. 
In  this  soft  Season,  'ere  the  Dawn  of  Day, 
I   mount  my  Horse,  and  lonely  take  my 

Way, 
From  woody  Hills  that  shade  Patapsco's 

Head 
(In  whose  deep  Vales  he  makes  his  stony 

Bed, 
From   whence   he   rushes   with   resistless 

Force,  I0 

Tho'  huge  rough  Rocks  retard  his  rapid 

Course,) 
Down     to     Annapolis,    on     that     smooth 

Stream 
Which  took  from  fair  Anne-Arundel  its 

Name. 
And  now  the  Star1  that  ushers  in  the 

Day, 

"Begins  to  pale  her  ineffectual  Ray  ["]. 
The    Moon    with    blunted    Horns,     now 

shines  less  bright, 
Her    fading   Face    eclips'd    with   growing 

Light; 
The    fleecy    Clouds    with    streaky    Lustre 

glow, 
And  day  quits  Heav'n  to  view  the  Earth 

below. 
O'er  yon  tall  Pines  the  Sun  shews  half 

his  Face,  x 

And  fires  their  floating  Foliage  with  his 

Rays: 
Now  sheds  aslant  on  earth  his  lightsome 

Beams, 
That    trembling    shine    in    many-colour'd 

Streams. 

Slow-rising  from  the  Marsh,  the  Mist  re 
cedes, 
The    Trees,    emerging,    rear    their    dewy 

Heads ; 
Their  dewy  Heads  the  Sun  with  Pleasure 

views, 
1  Venus. 


And   brightens    into    Pearls   the   pendent 

Dews. 
The    Beasts   uprising,   quit    their   leafy 

Beds, 
And    to    the    cheerful    Sun    erect    their 

Heads; 

All  joyful  rise,  except  the  filthy  Swine,  3° 
On  obscene  Litter  stretch'd  they  snore 

supine : 
In  vain  the  Day  awakes,  Sleep  seals  their 

Eyes, 
Till    Hunger  breaks   the   Band   and   bids 

them  rise. 
Meanwhile    the   Sun    with    more    exalted 

Ray, 
From    cloudless    Skies    distributes    riper 

Day; 

Thro'  sylvan  Scenes  my  Journey  I  pursue, 
Ten  thousand  Beauties  rising  to  my  View ; 
Which  kindle  in  my  Breast  poetic  Flame, 
And  bid  me  my  Creator's  Praise  proclaim ; 
Tho'  my  low  Verse  ill-suits  the  noble 

Theme.  4° 

Here  various  Flourets  grace  the  teem 
ing  Plains, 
Adorn' d  by  Nature's  Hand  with  beauteous 

Stains. 

First  born  of  Spring,  here  the  Pacone  ap 
pears, 

Whose  golden  Root  a  silver  Blossom  rears. 
In  spreading  Tufts,  see  there  the  Crow 
foot  blue, 
On    whose    green    Leaves    still    shines    a 

globous  Dew ; 
Behold  the  Cinque-foil,  with  its   dazling 

Dye 
Of   flaming   Yellow,   wounds   the   tender 

Eye. 
But  there  enclos'd  the  grassy   Wheat  is 

seen, 
To  heal  the  aching  Sight  with  cheerful 

Green.  so 

Safe  in  yon  Cottage  dwells  the  Monarch 

Swain, 
His  Subject  Flocks,  close-grazing  hide  the 

Plain ; 
For  him  they  live;  and  die  t'  uphold  his 

Reign. 
Viands    unbought    his    well-till' d    Lands 

afford, 

And  smiling  Plenty  waits  upon  his  Board ; 
Health  shines  with  sprightly  Beams 

around  his  Head, 


24 


R.    LEWIS 


25 


And  Sleep,  with  downy  Wings,  o'ershades 

his  bed, 

His  Sons  robust  his  daily  Labours  share, 
Patient     of     Toil,    Companions     of     his 

Care. 
And   all   their   Toils   with   sweet   Success 

are  crown'd.  6° 

In  graceful  Banks  there  Trees  adorn  the 

Ground, 
The  Peach,  the  Plum,  the  Apple,  here  are 

found 

Delicious  Frjuits ! — Which  from  their  Ker 
nels  rise, 

So  fruitful  is  the  Soil — so  mild  the  Skies. 
The  lowly  Quince  yon  sloping  Hill  o'er 
shades, 
Here     lofty     Cherry-Trees     erect     their 

Heads ; 

High  in  the  Air  each  spiry  Summit  waves, 
Whose    Blooms    thick-springing  yield   no 

Space  for  Leaves ; 

Evolving  Odours  fill  the  ambient  Air,      69 
The  Birds  delighted  to  the  Groves  repair : 
On  ev'ry  Tree  behold  a  tuneful  Throng, 
The  vocal  Vallies  echo  to  their  Song. 
But  what  is  He,1  who  perch'd  above  the 

rest, 
Pours  out  such  various  Musick  from  his 

Breast ! 
His    Breast,    whose    Plumes    a    cheerful 

White  display. 
His  quiv'ring  Wings  are  dress'd  in  sober 

Grey. 

Sure   all   the  Muses,   this   their   Bird   in 
spire  ! 

And  he,  alone,  is  equal  to  the  Choir 
Of  warbling  Songsters  who  around  him 

play, 

While,  Echo  like,  He  answers  ev'ry  Lay.  °° 
The    chirping    Lark    now    sings    with 

sprightly  Note 
Responsive  to  her  Strain  He  shapes  his 

Throat, 
Now  the  poor  widow'd   Turtle  wails  her 

Mate, 
While  in  soft  Sounds  He  cooes  to  mourn 

his  Fate. 

Oh  sweet  Musician,  thou  dost  far  excel 
The  soothing  Song  of  pleasing  Philomel! 
Sweet  is  her  Song,  but  in  few  Notes  con- 

fin'd; 
But   thine,   thou   Mimic   of   the    feath'ry 

Kind, 
Runs  thro'  all  Notes ! — Thou  only  know'st 

them  All, 

At  once  the  Copy — and  th'  Original.        9° 
My    Ear   thus    charm'd,    my    Eye   with 

Pleasure  sees 
1  The  Mock-Bird. 


Hov'ring  about  the  Flow'rs  th'  industrious 
Bees. 

Like  them  in  Size,  the  Humming  Birds  I 
view, 

Like  them,  He  sucks  his  Food,  the  Honey 
Dew, 

With  nimble  Tongue,  and  Beak  of  jetty 
Hue. 

He    takes    with    rapid    Whirl    his    noisy 
Flight, 

His  gemmy  Plumage  strikes  the  Gazer's 
Sight; 

And  as  he  moves  his  ever-flutt'ring  Wings, 

Ten   thousand  Colours  he  around  him 
flings.  99 

Now  I  behold  the  Em'rald's  vivid  Green, 

Now  scarlet,  now  a  purple  Die  is  seen ; 

In    brightest    Blue,    his    Breast   He   now 
arrays, 

Then    strait    his    Plumes    emit    a    golden 
Blaze. 

Thus  whirring  round  he  flies,  and  vary 
ing  still 

He   mocks   the   Poet's  and   the   Painter's 
Skill ; 

Who    may    forever    strive    with    fruitless 
Pains, 

To  catch  and  fix  those  beauteous  change 
ful  Stains; 

While  Scarlet  now,  and  now  the  Purple 
shines, 

And  Gold  to  Blue  its  transient  Gloss  re 
signs. 

Each  quits,  and  quickly  each  resumes  its 
Place,  »° 

And  ever-varying  Dies  each  other  chase. 

Smallest  of  Birds,  what  Beauties  shine  in 
thee! 

A  living  Rainbow  on  thy  Breast  I  see. 

Oh  had  that  Bard,2  in  whose  heart-pleas 
ing  Lines, 

The  Phoenix  in  a  Blaze  of  Glory  shines. 

Beheld  those  Wonders  which  are  shewn 
in  Thee, 

That  Bird  had  lost  his  Immortality! 

Thou    in    His    verse    hadst    stretch'd    thy 
flutt'ring  Wing 

Above  all   other    Birds, — their  beauteous 

King. 

But  now  th'  enclos'd  Plantation  I  for 
sake,  120 

And  onwards  thro'  the  Woods  my  Jour 
ney  take; 

The  level  Road,  the  longsome  Way  be 
guiles, 

A  blooming  Wilderness  around  me  smiles ; 

Here  hardy  Oak,  there  fragrant  Hick'ry 
grows 

-  Claudian. 


26 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Their   bursting    Buds    the   tender   Leaves 

disclose; 

The  tender  Leaves  in  downy  Robes  ap 
pear. 

Trembling,  they  seem  to  move  with  cau 
tious  Fear, 

Yet  new  to  Life,  and  Strangers  to  the  Air. 
Here  stately  Pines  unite  their  whisp'ring 

Heads,  '3° 

And  with  a  solemn  Gloom  embrown  the 

Glades. 

See  there  a  green  Savana  opens  wide, 
Thro'  which  smooth   Streams  in  wanton 

Mazes  glide; 

Thick-branching  Shrubs  o'erhang  the  sil 
ver  Streams, 
Which  scarcely  deign  t'  admit  the  solar 

Beams. 
While  with  Delight  on  this  soft  Scene 

I  gaze, 
The    Cattle   upward   look,    and   cease   to 

graze, 

But  into  Covert  run  thro'  various  Ways. 
And  now  the  Clouds  in  black  Assemblage 

rise, 
And    dreary    Darkness    overspreads    the 

Skies,  r4° 

Thro'  which  the  Sun  strives  to  transmit 

his  Beams, 
"But  sheds  his  sickly  Light  in  straggling 

Streams. 
Hush'd  is  the  Musick  of  the  wood-land 

Choir, 
Fore-knowing   of   the    Storm,   the    Birds 

retire 
For    Shelter,    and    forsake    the    shrubby 

Plains, 
And   a   dumb   Horror,   thro'   the    Forest 

reigns ; 
In   that   lone    House    which    opens    wide 

its  Door, 

Safe  may  I  tarry  till  the  Storm  is  o'er. 
Hark  how  the  Thunder  rolls  with  solemn 

Sound ! 
And    see   the    forceful    Lightning   dart   a 

Wound  jso 

On  yon  tall   Oak!— Behold   its   Top   laid 

bare! 

Its  Body  rent,  and  scatter'd  thro'  the  Air 
The  Splinters  fly ! — Now — now  the  Winds 

arise, 
From  different  Quarters  of  the  low'ring 

Skies ; 
Forth  issuing  fierce,  the  West  and  South 

engage, 
The  waving  Forest   bends   beneath   their 

Rage: 
But  where  the  winding  Valley  checks  their 

Course, 


They    roar    and    ravage    with    redoubled 
Force ; 

With   circling  sweep  in   dreadful   Whirl 
winds  move 

And  from  its  Roots  tear  up  the  gloomy 
Grove,  i6° 

Down  rushing  fall  the  Trees,  and  beat  the 
Ground 

In    Fragments    flic    the    shatter'd    Limbs 
around ; 

Tremble  the  Underwoods,  the  Vales  re 
sound. 

Follows,   with   patt'ring   Noise   the   icy 
Hail, 

And  Rain,  fast  falling,  floods  the  lowly 
Vale. 

Again  the  Thunders  roll,  the  Lightnings 

fly, 

And    as    they    first    disturb'd,    now    clear 

the  Sky; 

For  lo !  the  Gust  decreases  by  Degrees, 
The    dying    Winds    but    sob    amidst    the 

Trees  ; 
With   pleasing   Softness    falls   the    silver 

Rain,  170 

Thro'  which  at  first  faint  gleaming  o'er 

the  Plain, 
The  Orb  of  Light  scarce  darts  a  wat'ry 

Ray 
To  gild  the  Drops  that  fall   from  ev'ry 

Spray ; 

But  soon  the  dusky  Vapours  are  dispell'd, 
And   thro'   the    Mist   that   late   his    Face 

conceal'd, 
Bursts   the   broad   Sun,  triumphant   in   a 

Blaze 
Too  keen  for  Sight — Yon  Cloud  refracts 

his  Rays ; 
The  mingling  Beams  compose  th'  etherial 

Bow, 
How  sweet,  how  soft,  its  melting  Colours 

glow !  179 

Gaily  they  shine,  by  heav'nly  Pencils  laid, 
Yet  vanish  swift — How  soon  does  Beauty 

fade! 

The  Storm  is  past,  my  Journey  I  renew, 
And  a  new  Scene  of  Pleasure  greets  my 

View : 
Wash'd  by  the  copious  Rain  the  gummy 

Pine, 
Does    cheerful,    with    unsully'd    Verdure 

shine ! 
The  Dogwood  Flow'rs   assume   a   snowy 

white, 

The  Maple  blushing  gratifies  the  Sight : 
No    verdant    leaves    the    lovely    Red-Bud 

grace, 
Carnation     Blossoms    now    supply    their 

Place.  '89 


R.    LEWIS 


27 


The  Sassafras  unfolds  its  fragrant  Bloom, 

The  Vine  affords  an  exquisite  Perfume. 

These  grateful  Scents  wide-wafting  thro' 
the  Air 

The   smelling   Sense  with   balmy   Odours 
cheer. 

And  now  the  Birds,  sweet  singing,  stretch 
their  Throats, 

And    in    one    Choir    unite    their    Various 
Notes, 

Nor  yet  unpleasing  is  the  Turtle's  Voice, 

Tho'  he  complains  while  other  Birds  re 
joice. 

These  vernal  Joys,  all  restless  Thoughts 
controul, 

And  gently  soothing  calm  the  troubled  Soul. 
While  such  Delights  my  Senses  enter 
tain,  20° 

I    scarce    perceive   that   I    have   left   the 
Plain; 

'Till  now  the  Summit  of  a  Mount  I  gain: 

Low    at    whose    sandy    Base    the    River 
glides, 

Slow-rolling  near  their  Height  his  languid 
Tides; 

Shade  above  Shade,  the  Trees  in  rising 
Ranks, 

Cloath    with    eternal    Green    his    steepy 
Banks : 

The  Flood,  well  pleas'd,  reflects  their  ver 
dant  Gleam 

From   the   smooth   Mirror   of  his   limpid 

Stream. 

But  see  the  Hawk,  who  with  acute  Sur 
vey, 

Tow'ring  in  Air  predestinates  his  Prey  2I° 

Amid  the  Floods ! — Down  dropping  from 
on  high, 

He  strikes  the  Fish,  and  bears  him  thro' 
the  Sky. 

The    Stream    disturb'd   no   longer    shews 
the  Scene 

That  lately  stain'd  its  silver  Waves  with 
green ; 

In  .spreading    Circles    roll    the    troubled 
Floods, 

And  to  the  Shores  bear  off  the  pictur'd 

Woods. 

Now    looking   round    I    view    the    out- 
stretch'd  Land, 

O'er  which  the  Sight  exerts  a  wide'  Com 
mand  ;  2l8 

The  fertile  Vallies,  and  the  naked  Hills, 

The  Cattle  feeding  near  the  chrystal  Rills ; 

The  Lawns  wide-op'ning  to  the  sunny  Ray, 

And  mazy  Thickets  that  exclude  the  Day. 

Awhile  the  Eye  is  pleas'd  these  Scenes  to 
trace, 

Then  hurrying  o'er  the  intermediate  space, 


Far-distant  Mountains  drest  in  Blue  ap 
pear, 

And  all  their  Woods  are  lost  in  empty  Air. 
The  Sun  near  setting  now  arrays  his 
Head 

In    milder    Beams,    and    lengthens    ev'ry 
Shade. 

The  rising  Clouds  usurping  on  the  Day 

A  bright  variety  of  Dies  display;  23° 

About  the  wide  Horizon  swift  they  fly, 

"And  chase  a  Change  of  Colours  round 
the  Sky. 

And    now    I    view   but   half   the   flaming 
Sphere, 

Now  one  faint  Glimmer  shoots  along  the 
Air, 

And  all  his  golden  Glories  disappear. 
Onwards  the  Ei/ning  moves  in   Habit 
grey, 

And   for  her   Sister  Night  prepares   the 
way. 

The  plumy  People  seek  their  secret  Nests, 

To  Rest  repair  the  ruminating  Beasts ; 

Now    deep'ning    Shades   confess   th'    Ap 
proach  of  Night,  240 

Imperfect  Images  elude  the  Sight: 

From  earthly  Objects  I  remove  mine  Eye. 

And   view   with   Look   erect  the   vaulted 
Sky, 

Where  dimly  shining  now  the  Stars  ap 
pear, 

At    first    thin-scatt'ring    thro'    the    misty 
Air; 

Till  Night  confirm'd,  her  jetty  Throne  as 
cends, 

On  her  the  Moon  in  clouded  State  attends, 

But  soon  unveil'd  her  lovely  Face  is  seen, 

And  Stars  unnumber'd  wait  around  their 
Queen ; 

Rang'd   by   their  Maker's  Hand   in   just 
Array, 

They    march    majestic    thro'    th'    etherial 
Way.  250 

Are  these  bright  Luminaries   hung  on 
high 

Only  to  please  with  twinkling  Rays  our 
Eye? 

Or  may  we  rather  count  each  Star  a  Sun, 

Round   which  full  peopled   Worlds  their 
•     Courses  run  ? 

Orb  above  Orb  harmoniously  they  steer 

Their  various  Voyages  thro'  Seas  of  Air. 
Snatch   me  some  Angel  to  those  high 
Abodes, 

The  Seats  perhaps  of  Saints  and  Demi 
gods! 

Where  such  as  bravely  scorn'd  the  galling 
Yoke  259 


28 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Of  vulgar  Error,  and  her  Fetters  broke; 
Where  Patriots,  who  to  fix  the  publick 

Good, 

In  Fields  of  Battle  sacrific'd  their  Blood; 
Where  pious  Priests,  who  Charity  pro- 

claim'd, 
And   Poets  whom  a  virtuous  Muse  en- 

flam'd ; 
Philosophers   who    strove    to    mend    our 

Hearts, 
And   such   as   polish'd   Life   with   useful 

Arts, 
Obtain  a   Place;   when  by  the  Hand  of 

Death 
Touch'd,  they  retire  from  this  poor  Speck 

of  Earth; 

Their  Spirits  freed  from  bodily  Alloy,  269 
Perceive  a  Fore-tast  of  that  endless  Joy, 
Which  from  Eternity  hath  been  prepar'd, 
To  crown  their  Labours  with  a  vast  Re 
ward. 
While  to  these  Orbs  my  wand'ring 

Thoughts  aspire, 

A  falling  Meteor  shoots  his  lambent  Fire ; 
Thrown  from  the  heav'nly  Space  he  seeks 

the  Earth, 
From  whence  he  first  deriv'd  his  humble 

Birth. 
The   Mind   advis'd   by  this   instructive 

Sight, 

Descending  sudden  from  th'  aerial  Height, 
Obliges  me  to  view  a  different  Scene,  279 
Of  more  importance  to  myself,  tho'  mean. 
These  distant  Objects  I  no  more  pursue, 
But  turning  inward  my  reflective  View, 
My  working  Fancy  helps  me  to  survey 
In  the  just  Picture  of  this  April  Day, 
My  Life  o'er  past, — a  Course   of  thirty 

Years, 
Blest  with  few  joys,  perplex'd  with  num'- 

rous  Cares. 

In  the  dim  Twilight  of  our  Infancy, 
Scarce  can  the  Eye  surrounding  Objects 

see. 
Then     thoughtless     Childhood    leads    us 

pleas'd  and  gay,  289 

In  life's  fair  morning  thro'  a  flow'ry  Way: 
The  Youth  in  Schools  inquisitive  of  Good, 
Science  pursues  thro'  Learning's  mazy 

Wood; 
Whole  lofty  Trees,  he,  to  his  Grief  perr 

ceives, 
Are  often  bare  of  Fruit,  and  only  fill'd 

with  Leaves: 

Thro'  lonely  Wilds  his  tedious  Journey  lies, 
At  last  a  brighter  Prospect  cheers  his 

Eyes, 

Now  the  gay  Fields  of  Poetry  he  views, 
And  joyous  listens  to  the  tuneful  Muse; 


Now  History  affords  him  vast  Delight, 
And  opens  lovely  Landscapes  to  his  Sight : 
But  ah !  too  soon  this  Scene  of  Pleasure 

flies ;  301 

And  o'er  his  Head  tempestuous  Troubles 

rise. 
He  hears  the  Thunders  roll,  he  feels  the 

Rains, 

Before  a  friendly  shelter  he  obtains ; 
And  thence  beholds  with  Grief  the  furious 

Storm 

The  noontide  Beauties  of  his  Life  deform : 
He    views    the    painted   Bow   in    distant 

Skies ; 

Hence,  in  his  heart  some  Gleams  of  Com 
fort  rise; 
He  hopes  the  Gust  has  almost  spent  its 

Force, 

And  that  he  safely  may  pursue  his  Course. 
Thus  far  my  Life  does  with  the  Day 

agree,  3" 

Oh !  may  its  coming  Stage  from  Storms 

be  free, 
While    passing   thro*    the   World's    most 

private  Way, 

With  Pleasure  I  my  Maker's  Works  sur 
vey; 
Within  my  Heart  let  Peace  a  Dwelling 

find, 

Let  my  Good-will  extend  to  all  Mankind: 
Freed    from    Necessity,    and    blest    with 

Health; 
Give    me    Content,    let    others    toil    for 

Wealth. 

In  busy  Scenes  of  Life  let  me  exert 
A    careful    Hand,    and    wear    an    honest 

Heart;  320 

And  suffer  me  my  leisure  Hours  to  spend, 
With    chosen    Books,    or    a    well-natur'd 

Friend, 

Thus  journeying  on,  as  I  advance  in  Age 
May  I   look  back  with   Pleasure  on   my 

Stage ; 
And    as    the    setting   Sun   withdrew    his 

Light 
To    rise    on    other    Worlds    serene    and 

bright, 

Cheerful  may  I  resign  my  vital  Breath, 
Nor  anxious  tremble  at  th'  Approach  of 

Death; 
Which   shall    (I   hope)    but   strip   me   of 

my  Clay, 

And  to  a  better  World  my  Soul  convey.  33" 
Thus    musing,    I    my    silent    Moments 

spend, 

Till  to  the  River's  Margin  I  descend, 
From  whence  I  may  discern  my  Journey's 

End:    - 


R.    LEWIS 


29 


Annapolis  adorns  its  further  Shore, 
To  which  the  Boat  attends  to  bear  me  o'er. 
And  now  the  moving  Boat  the  Flood 

divides, 
While  the  Stars  "tremble  on  the  floating 

Tides,  ["]. 
Pleas'd  with  the  Sight,  again  I  raise  mine 

Eye 

To  the  bright  Glories  of  the  azure  Sky; 
And  while  these  Works  of  God's  creative 

Hand,  340 

The  Moon  and  Stars,  that  move  at  his 

Command 
Obedient   thro'   their  circling   Course  on 

high, 
Employ  my  Sight, — struck  with  amaze  I 

cry, 
Almighty  Lord!  whom  Heav'n  and  Earth 

proclaim 

The  Author  of  their  universal  Frame. 
Wilt  thou  vouchsafe  to  view  the  Son  of 

Man, 

The  Creature,  who  but  Yesterday  began, 
Thro'  animated  Clay  to  draw  his  Breath, 
Tomorrow  doom'd  a  Prey  to  ruthless 

Death ! 
Tremendous    God!    may    I    not    justly 

fear,  350 

That  I,  unworthy  Object  of  thy  Care, 
Into  this  World  from  thy  bright  Presence 

tost, 

Am  in  th'  Immensity  of  Nature  lost! 
And  that  my  Notions  of  the  World  above, 
Are  but  Creations  of  my  own  Self-Love! 
To  feed  my  coward  Heart,  afraid  to  die, 
With  fancied  Feasts  of  Immortality! 
These    Thoughts,    which    thy    amazing 

Works  suggest, 
Oh    glorious    Father,    rack    my    troubled 

Breast. 
Yet   Gracious  God,  reflecting  that   my 

Frame  360 

From  Thee  deriv'd  in  animating  Flame, 


And  that  what  e'er  I  am,  however  mean, 
By  thy  Command  I  enter'd  on  this  Scene 
Of  Life — thy  wretched  Creature  of  a  Day, 
Condemn'd  to  travel  thro'  a  tiresome  Way ; 
Upon  whose  Banks  (perhaps  to  cheer  my 

Toil!) 
I    see    thin    Verdures    rise,    and    Daisies 

smile : 

Poor  Comforts  these,  my  Pains  t'  allevi 
ate! 
While  on  my  Head  tempestuous  Troubles 

beat. 
And   must    I,    when   I    quit   this    Earthly 

Scene,  370 

Sink    total    into    Death,   and    never    rise 

again  ? 
No  sure, — These  Thoughts  which  in  my 

Bosom  roll, 

Must  issue  from  a  never-dying  Soul; 
These  active  Thoughts,  that  penetrate  the 

Sky, 

Excursive  into  dark  Futurity; 
Which  hope  eternal  Happiness  to  gain, 
Could  never  be  bestow'd  on  Man  in  vain. 
To  Thee,  O  Father,  fill'd  with  fervent 

Zeal,  378 

And  sunk  in  humble  Silence  I  appeal ; 
Take  me,  my  great  Creator,  to  Thy  Care, 
And  gracious  listen  to  my  ardent  Prayer ! 
Supreme  of  Beings,  omnipresent  Pow'r, 
My  great  Preserver  from  my  natal  Hour, 
Fountain  of  Wisdom,  boundless  Deity, 
Omniscient  God,  my  wants  are  known 

to  Thee, 

With  Mercy  look  on  mine  Infirmity! 
Whatever  State  thou  shalt  for  me  ordain. 
Whether  my  Lot  in  Life  be  Joy  or  Pain; 
Patient  let  me  sustain  thy  wise  Decree, 
And  learn  to  know  myself,  and  honour 

Thee.  390 

1730. 


THE  ALMANACKS  OF  NATHANIEL  AMES 

(1726-1775) 


(The  text  is  taken  from  "The  Essays,  Humor, 

and  Poems  of  Nathaniel  Ames,  Father  and  Son 

.  .  .  ."  from    their  Almanacks,    2726-1775,   ed.   by 

Sam  Briggs,  1891.) 

FROM  THE  ALMANACK  FOR  1733 

Time   works    a   Change   on   all    material 

Things 
Each    Year    new    Cause    of    Admiration 

brings, 
Perhaps    you'll    wonder    e'er    this    Year 

goes  out, 
Because    an    Egypt    Plague    'twil    "bring 

about ; 
And    would    you    know    which    of    those 

Plagues  'twill  be, 
Wait  but  a  while,  and  you  shall  really  see. 

JANUARY 

What     feeble    Accents     faulter    on     my 

Tongue  ? 

When  I  but  think  how  ancient  Poets  Sung ; 
Who  iavish'd  Art,  to  magnify  the  Fame 
Of  silly  gods  which  their  own  hands  did 

Frame  I0 

My   Muse   inspir'd   with   Nobler  Themes 

defies 
Such  Old,  forsaken,  Threadbare,  Grecian 

Lies. 

The  Winter's  milder  than  last  year, 
Your  Hay  will  last,  what  need  you 
fear? 

FEBRUARY 

Attempt'  ye  Singers  but  in  humble  Lays, 
With    Fear    and    Trembling    Sound   your 

Maker's  Praise 

Enable  me  to  Celebrate  a  right, 
Creation,  and  the  Wonders  of  His  Might. 
O !    Think  how  Loud  the  vast  Empyren 

Rung !  '9 

When  all  the  bright  Angelic  Nature  Sung. 

MARCH 

To  see  how  Thousands  of  New  Worlds 

were  made, 
And   how  the  Basis  of  this  World  was 

laid, 

How  Chaos  yielded  to  the  powerful  Word, 
And  moving  Spirit  of  the  Mighty  God, 


Who     Silenc'd     Discord,     and     establis'd 

Peace ; 
The  Elements  Eternal  jangle  cease. 

Art  thou  back-bited? 
Rejoice,  if  guiltless, 
If  guilty,  amend. 

APRIL 

Like   things   to   like   cohear,    all   Atome's 

Bright  30 

Or  Luminous,  combin'd  in  one  great  Light 
Which  Rules  the  Day,  and  keeps  in  Exile 

Night. 
With  an  Almighty  Arm  He  now  stretch'd 

forth 
Upon    the    Empty    Place    the    Spacious 

North 
The   Earth   self-ballanc'd  on   her   Center 

hung, 
Into  the  Mighty  Seas  the  Waters  run. 

MAY 

And  left  the  smooth  and  level  Surface  dry, 
Some  part  of  which  aspir'd  to  Mountains 

high, 
Whose  Concave  Heads  do  serve  to  feed 

the  Springs, 
And    for    a    Womb    to    precious    hidden 

things :  4° 

Some  Portion  into  humble  Vales  subside, 
And    Campaign    Plains     (where    Bloody 

Fights  are  tri'd) 

JUNE 

He  Cloath'd  the  Fertile  Surface  o're  with 

Vines 
With    Shady    Palms,    Great    Oakes,    and 

Stately  Pines 
And    various     useful     Woods,     Balsamic 

Shrubs, 
Grac'd  with   sweet   scented   Flowers   and 

wholsome  Herbs, 

Effluvia  that  with  each  Flower  dwells 
Affects  the  sense  with  Oderiferous  Smells. 

JULY 

The    Eye    delighted    with    a    Wondrous 

Scene,  49 

Of  Colors,  and  among  the  rest  the  Green 


30 


THE   ALMANACKS    OF    NATHANIEL   AMES 


31 


That's   painted    on   the   Grass,    for   niter 

Blew, 
And  Yellow  Sulphur,  casts  that  Pleasant 

Hue, 
The   fertile  Vales   with   Crystal   Streams 

supply'd, 
Which  Cool  the  Air,  and  quench  the  Thirst 

beside. 

Love  is  a  frantick  Frenzy, 
That  so  infects  the  minds  of  men 
that  under  this  taste  of  Nectar 
they  are  poisoned  with  the  Water  of 
Styx. 

AUGUST 

Of  Man  and  Beast:  whose  pearly  Drops 

supply, 

The  wing'd  Musicians  that  inhabit  nigh,  6° 
The  spacious  Seas  in  Equilibrio  Stand, 
Or  in  a  due  proportion  to  the  Land, 
For  lo  they  serve  for  many  uses  more 
Than  to  Convey  the  Ships  from  Shoar  to 

Shoar 

SEPTEMBER 

And  from  the  Dark  and  Gloomy  Vaults 

below 
The  Surface  of  the  Earth,  great  Riches 

flow. 
The    Subterraneous    Streams   concrete  to 

Mines 

Which  serve  in  deep  Medicinal  designs. 
His  Voice  in  Air  with  Harmony  inspires 
From  the  sweet  warbling  of  the  winged 

Choirs.  7° 

OCTOBER 

The  Scaley  Tribe  amidst  the  Liquid  Seas 
Nor  Stormes,  nor  driftings  fear,  they  Sail 

with  ease 

O're  all  His  Works  that  Sublunary  be, 
He  cast  a  Saphire  Glittering  Canopy, 
Thunder  and  Lightning,  Rain  and  painted 

Bow 
The  spangling  Stars,  nay  glaring  Comets 

too 
Adore  the  Ample  Theater  below. 

O  23  =£=  The  Jarring  Lovers  are  Reconcil'd. 

NOVEMBER 

He  made  (having  His  six  Days  Wonders 

done) 
The  Sum  of  all  His  Works  compriz'd  in 

One,  80 

The  noble  Creature,  Man,  High  Priest  and 

King 
Over  this  World,  and  every  Living  thing, 


And  brought  these  glorious  Scenes  before 

His  eyes, 
Which  fil'd  his   Son,  with   joy  and  with 

surprise. 

DECEMBER 

But  heedless  Man!    He  from  the  Hight 

of  all 
Through  Satan's  Wiles  Received  a  fatal 

fall: 
Vast  Throngs  of  Wondering  Angels  Hast 

to  see, 

The  dire  Event  of  this  Catastrophe. 
Wonder  Augmented  still!   for  thro'  free 

GTS.CC 
He's    Raised   Sublime  above   his    former 

Place.  90 

FROM  THE  ALMANACK  FOR  1738 
FOREWORDS  FOR  1738 

Had  Adam  stood  in  Innocence  till  Now, 
And  his  blest  Sons  had  deign'd  to  hold 

the  Plough 
No  Labour  .had   fatigu'd,  nor  Time  had 

spoil'd 

His  Youth:    but  Spring  had  ever  bloom 
ing  smil'd, 
No  Lust  for  Pelf,  nor  Heart  distressing 

Pain 

Had  seiz'd  the  Miser,  nor  the  rural  Swain : 
Nor  Vice  as  now  with  Vertue  ne'er  had 

vi'd 

And  Heaven's  Omnipotence  is  self  defy'd. 
Nor  Lawyers,  Priests  nor  Doctors  n'er 

had  been 
If  Man  had  stood  against  th'  Assaults  of 

Sin.  J<> 

But  oh,  He  fell !  and  so  accurs'd  we  be 
The  World  is  now  oblig'd  to  use  all  Three. 


When  once  our  Friends  do  quit  the  living 
Shore 

We  hear  from  them  no  more. 
Do  any  curious  Minds  desire  to  know 

Where  'tis  they  go, 

Or  how  they  fare 
Let  them  be  pleas'd  to  die 

Only  to  trie, 
Or  else  remain  in  Ignorance  as  they  were. 

20 

Thus  whether  they  fare  ill  or  well 

Since  not  allow'd  to  tell. 
Who'd  voluntary  enter  Charon's  Boat. 
So  Masonry1  and  Death  are  both  the  same 

Tho'  of  a  different  Name. 

1  The  spread  of  the  Masonic  orders  was  a 
subject ,  of  frequent  comment  in  the  almanacs 
of  the  period. 


32 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


If  Good  there  is  in  their  Society 

'Tis  free  for  those  that  try; 
But   like   the   Grave   let   not   the   Living 
know't. 


FROM  THE  ALMANACK  FOR  1743 

Great  Nature's  watchful  Eye,  the  Sun 
At  Gods  Command  ascends  the  Skies, 
Wide  o'er  the  World  with  vast  Survey, 
He  bid  the  wond'rous  planet  rise, 
Around  his  Orb  in  measur'd  dance 
The  circling  Hours  and  Months  appear. 
The  swift-wing'd  Minutes  lightly  move, 
And  mark  the  Periods  of  the  rolling  Year. 

JANUARY 

Uncomfortable  Rain 

A  snowy  Inundation  hides  the  Plain :      I0 
Bent  with  the  weight  the  nodding  Woods 

are  seen, 
And  one  bright  Waste  hides  all  the  Works 

of  Men: 

The  circling  Seas  alone  absorbing  all; 
Drink  the  dissolving  Fleeces  as  they  fall. 


FEBRUARY 

The  lovely  Queen  of  silent  Shades, 

The  Moon  in  trembling  streams  of  Light 
Wheels  her  pale  Chariot  slowly  on 

O'er  the  soft  Bosom  of  the  Night: 
Millions  of  bright  refulgent  Worlds, 
Heavens   glitt'ring  Lamps  are   seen   to 
rise :  ^ 

They  as  her  Virgin  Train  appear, 
And    she   the    fair    Vicegerent    of    the 
Skies. 

MARCH 


Are  we  depriv'd  of  Will; 


Must  we  not  wish  for  fear  of  wishing  111? 
Receive  my  Counsel  and  securely  move, 
Entrust  thy  Fortune  to  the  Powers  above ; 
Leave  them  to  manage  for  thee,  and  to 

grant 
What   their  unerring  Wisdom   sees   thee 

want. 

APRIL 

Curst  is  the  Man,  and  void  of  Law  and 

Right, 

Unworthy  Property,  unworthy  Light,      3° 
Unfit  for  publick  Rule,  or  private  Care 
That  Wretch,  that  does  unjustly  move  a 

War 
Whose  Lust  is  Murder,  and  whose  horrid 

Joy 


To  tear  his  Country,  and  his   Kind  de 
stroy. 

MAY 

Now  Winters  rage  abates,  now  chearful 

Hours 
Awake  the  Spring,  and  Spring  awakes  the 

Flowers. 

The  opening  Buds  salute  the  welcome  Day, 
And  Earth  relenting,  feels  the  genial  Ray. 
The  Blossoms  blow,  the  Birds  on  Bushes 

sing ; 
And    Nature    has    accomplish'd    all    the 

Spring.  4° 

JUNE 

Now  from  on  high  Sol  darts  his  Fires; 

The     glowing     Breast     to     transport 

Warms ; 
Life  bounds  afresh  with  soft  desires, 

And  rosy  Beauty  sweetly  charms : 
His  flaming  Arrows  pierce  the  Flood, 

And  to  the  bottom  bake  the  Mud. 

JULY 

The  early  Fields  are  now  in  plight, 
To  yield  the  Harvester  Delight : 
The  ripened  Grain  on  rising  Fields, 
A  most  delightful  Prospect  yields ;          5° 
In  even  Ranks  the  waving  Heads  appear, 
Bend  with  the  fruitful  Load  and  crown 
the  lusty  Year. 

AUGUST 

God !    The  small  Ants  do  thy  Protection 

share, 
By   thee   advis'd  to   save   their   Wintry 

Store ;  4 

Their   little    Commonwealth    employs   thy 

Care, 

Too  wise  to  want,  too  frugal  to  be  poor; 
Well  may  they  shame  the  puzzled  Schemes 

of  Man, 
Since  from  .thy  Thought  divine,  they  drew 

the  wond'rous  Plan. 

SEPTEMBER 

Here  I  enjoy  my  private  Thoughts;  nor 

care 
What  rot  the  Sheep  for  southern  Winds 

prepare :  6° 

Survey  the  neighbouring  Fields,  and  not 

repine 

When  I  behold  a  larger  Crop  than  mine 
To  see  a  Beggars  Brat  in  Riches  flow, 
Adds  not  a  Wrinkle  to  my  even  Brow. 


THE  ALMANACKS  OF  NATHANIEL  AMES 


33 


OCTOBER 

The  Sun  now  shoots  his  milder  Ray, 
And  downward  drives  the  falling  Day; 
Cool  Evening  now  its  Beauty  rears 
And  blushes  in  its  dewy  Tears. 
The  wand'ring  Flocks  no  longer  Rove, 
But  seek  the  Covert  of  the  Grove.          7<> 

NOVEMBER 

Beauty    and     Strength,     and     Wit,     and 

Wealth,  and  Power, 
Have  their  short  flourishing  Hour; 
And  love  to  see  themselves,  and  smile, 
And  joy  in  their  Preeminence  awhile; 

E'en  so  in  the  same  Land, 
Poor  Weed,  Rich  Corn,  gay  Flowers  to 
gether  stand : 

Alas !  Death  mows  down  all  with  an  im 
partial  hand. 

DECEMBER 

But  when  the  angry  Surge  begins  to  rage, 
And  thro'  the  boundless  waste  the  Tem 
pests  roar, 

O  Gracious  God,  do  thou  their  Wrath  as- 
swage ;  8° 

And  bid  the  frightning  Whirlwinds 
storm  no  more. 

Let  gentle  Pity  flow  within  thy  Breast, 

Oh !  Chear  his  melting  soul,  and  give  the 
wearied  Sailor  rest. 


FROM  THE  ALMANACK  FOR  1751 

Perceiv'st  thou  not  the  Process  of  the 
Year, 

How  the  four  Seasons  in  four  Forms  ap 
pear : 

Spring  first,  like  Infancy,  shoots  out  her 
Head, 

With  milky  Juice  requiring  to  be  fed ; 

Proceeding  onward  whence  the  Year  be 
gan, 

The  Summer  grows  adult,  and  ripens  into 
Man : 

Autumn  succeeds  a  sober  tepid  Age, 

Not  froze  with  Fear,  nor  boiling  into 
Rage: 

Last  Winter  sweeps  along  with  tardy 
Pace, 

Sour  is  his  Front,  and  furrow'd  is  his 
Face.  I0 

Courteous  Reader, 

The     Verses     at    the     Head     of     each 
Monthly  Page  were  written  at  my  Desire, 


and  presented  to  me  by  a  young  Gentle 
man,  then  at  the  Age  of  twelve  Years. — 

JANUARY 

If  fraught  with  Snow  the  gath'ring  Clouds 

impend, 

Hov'ring  in  Air  the  fleecy  Flakes  descend 
Smooth  as  th'  unruffled  Surface  of  the  Sea : 
But  if  the  furious  Winds  with  Hail  agree, 
The  furious  Winds  the  batter'd  Case 
ments  crack, 

Level  the  hoary  Grove,  the  tot'ring  Build 
ings  rack. 

FEBRUARY 

Now  hoary  Winter  shivers  o'er  the  Plains, 
And  binds  the  frozen  Floods  in  adaman 
tine  Chains; 

Th'  advancing  Sun  by  his  prolific  Ray 
Warms  the  cold  Air,  and  drives  the  damps 
away ;  2° 

A  gen'ral  Thaw  ensues,  the  Waters  rore, 
Break    their    cold    Bands,    and    lash    the 
sounding  Shore. 

MARCH 

The  trembling  Sailor  views  with  anxious 
Eyes 

The  gloomy  Storm  slow-sailing  up  the 
Skies, 

Hoarse  Whirlwinds  thunder  o'er  the  dis 
tant  Deep, 

And  the  white  foaming  Waves  majestick 
sweep, 

Up  to  the  Skies  the  Shat'red  Ship  is  tost, 

Then  down  the  bottomless  Abyss  is  lost. 

APRIL 

In  Clouds  array'd  now  Heav'n  indulgent 

low'rs, 
The   fat'ned   Fields  confess   the   frequent 

Show'rs,  30 

'Till  at  the  Close  of  the  declining  Day, 
The  setting  Sun  directs  his  level  Ray, 
While  flying  Iris  draws  the  painted  Bow, 
And   in  the  dropping  Cloud  the  blended 

Colours  glow. 

MAY 

The  fragrant  Fields  are  cloth'd  in  rich 
Array, 

The  Groves  rejoice,  and  all  the  World  is 
gay, 

While  tuneful  Birds  their  various  An 
thems  sing, 

And  with  their  Notes  the  vocal  Forests 
ring; 


34 


AMERICAN   POETRY 


The  painted  Blossoms  charm  th'  admiring 

Eyes, 
And  send  their  grateful  Odours  to  the 

skies.  40 

JUNE 

The  munn'ring  Thunder  at  a  Distance 

rolls, 
And    vivid    Lightnings    burn    about    the 

Poles, 
O'er  the  high  Arch  the  flaming  Torrents 

play, 
And  turn  the  Darkness  to  the  Blaze  of 

Day. 

Heav'n's  everlasting  Pillars  groan  aloud, 
And  the  hoarse  Thunder  rattles  thro*  the 

Cloud. 

JULY 

The   Flocks,    retiring    from   the   burning 

Heat, 

Seek  the  cool  Covert  of  a  green  Retreat, 
The    silver    Stream    invites    the    thirsty 

Swain, 
While    sultry    Syrius    fires    the    glowing 

Plain;  so 

The  parent  Earth  cracks,  the  Oxen  low 

for  Food, 
And  Ptwebus  rages  o'er  the  sapless  Wood. 

AUGUST 

Bear  me  to  some  cool  Arbour's  pleasing 

Shade, 

By  curling  Vines  and  lofty  Poplars  made, 
Or,  in  the  Covert  of  some  lonely  Grove, 
Fan'd  by  refreshing  Zephyr's  may  I  rove, 
Where  some  still  Stream  it's  silver  Cur 
rent  pours 

Thro'  mossy  Banks  adorn'd  with  various 
Flow'rs. 

SEPTEMBER 

While   Ceres  pours  the  Joys  of  Plenty 

round, 

The  bearded  Harvest   whitens    o'er   the 

Ground,  *° 


The  tumid  Grape  bears  down  the  slender 

Vine, 
And  ev'ry  thick'ning  Ouster  swells  with 

Wine, 
With  various  Fruits  the  loaded  Orchards 

blush, 
And  the  gay  Berry  blazes  on  the  Bush. 


OCTOBER 

Sulphureous  Flames  th'  unwary  Bees  as 
sail, 

And  spite  of  all  their  little  Arts  prevail; 

Fam'd  Architects  all  perish  in  the  Doom, 

Who  rear'd  by  Rules  exact  the  curious 
Comb; 

Statesmen  and  Gen'rals  undistinguish'd 
He, 

And  Monarchs  and  their  Slaves  promiscu 
ous  die.  7° 

NOVEMBER 

The  silver  Current  murmurM  thro*  the 

Grove, 

Sacred  to  Flora  and  the  Queen  of  Love; 
But  am'rous  Hymen  Seiz'd  the  blooming 

Maid, 
The  Flow'rs  all  dropt,  the  Verdure  all  de- 

cay'd. 

The  silver  Current  stiffen'd  as  it  roll'd, 
And    all    the    Forest    shivered    with    the 

Cold. 


DECEMBER 

Distant  Apollo  with  his  slanting  Ray 
Makes  a  faint  Effort  to  produce  the  Day, 
To  the  short  Days  the  long  long  Nights 

succeed ; 
While  twinkling  Stars  the  chrystal  Vault 

o'erspread ;  ** 

And  the  fair  Moon  rules  o'er  the  dusky 

Night, 
The  hoary  Vale  reflects  the  silver  Light. 


FRANCIS   HOPKINSON 

(1737-1791) 


(The    text    it    taken    from    "The    Miscellaneous 

Essays  and  Occasional  Writings  of  Francis 

Hofkinson,  Esq.,  Vol.  HI,  T192.) 

ODE  ON  MUSIC 

Hark!  hark!  the  sweet  vibrating  lyre 
Sets  my  attentive  soul  on  fire; 
Thro'  all  my  frame  with  pleasures  thrill 
Whilst  the  loud  treble  warbles  shrill, 
And  the  more  slow  and  solemn  bass 
Add->  charm  to  charm  and  grace  to  grace. 

Sometimes  in  sweetly  languid  strains 
The  guilty  trembling  string  complains: 
How  it  delights  my  ravished  ear 
When  the  expiring  notes  I  hear  I0 

Vanish  distant  and  decay! — 
They  steal  my  yielding  soul  away. 

Neatly  trip  the  merry  dance, 
And  lightly  touch  and  swiftly  glance; 
Let  boundless  transport  laugh  aloud 
Sounds  madly  ramble  mix  and  crowd, 
Till  all  in  one  loud  rapture  rise, 
Spread  thro'  the  air  and  reach  the  skies. 

But  when  you  touch  the  solemn  air, 
Oh!  swell  each  note  distinct  and  clear;  » 
In  ev'ry  strain  let  sorrow  sigh, 
Languish  soft  and  sweetly  die. 

So  shall  th'  admir'd  celestial  art, 
Raise  and  transport  my  ravish' d  heart; 
Exalt  my  soul,  and  give  my  mind 
Ideas  of  sublimer  kind. 
So  great  the  bliss  it  seems  to  prove 
There  must  be  music  too  above. 
That  from  the  trumpets  silver  sound 
Of  wing'd  arch-angels  plac'd  around       3» 
Thy  burning  throne — Oh !  king  of  Heaven ! 
Most  perfect  harmony  is  giv'n:_ 
Whilst  happy  saints  in  concert  join 
To  make  the  music  more  divine, 
And  with  immortal  voices  sing 
HOSANNAHS  to  their  glorious  Kixa 

SONG 


Beauty  and  merit  now  are  join'd, 
An  angel's  form,  an  angel's  mind 

Are  sweetly  met  in  thee; 
Thy  soul,  which  all  the  virtues  grace. 
Shines  forth  with  lustre  in  thy  face, 

From  affectation  free. 


Who  in  thy  form,  too  lovely  maid! 
Can  read  thy  temper  there  display'd; 

Can  look  and  calmly  see? 
The  face  that  with  such  beauty  charms,  I0 
The  breast  which  so  much  virtue  warms, 

Is  sure  too  much  for  me! 

ADVICE  TO  AMANDA 


Amanda,  since  thy  lovely  frame, 

Of  ev'ry  charm  possest, 
Hath  power  to  raise  the  purest  flame 

And  warm  the  coldest  breast: 

ii 

Oh!  think  that  heav'n  could  ne'er  design, 

Thou  too  reserved  maid, 
That  ever  beauties,  such  as  thine. 

Like  unknown  flow'rs  should  fade. 

in 

When  next  yon  see  your  faithful  swain, 
Your  Strephon  at  your  feet;  ro 

When  next  you  hear  him  sigh  his  pain 
And  tend'rest  vows  repeat, 

IV 

Then  think  'tis  fit  a  love  so  true 

Should  meet  a  kind  regard; 
And  think  'tis  given  alone  to  you 

His  virtue  to  reward. 


If  constancy,  with  merit  join'd, 

Hath  any  charms  for  thee, 
Let  Strephon  thy  acceptance  find, 

For  such  a  swain  is  he. 

VI 

No  longer  then,  too  cruel  fair, 

Defer  the  happy  day; 
But  with  thy  love  reward  his  care, 

His  tenderness  repay. 

vn 

So  shall  th'  indulgent  eye  of  Heav'n 
Thy  worthy  choice  approve. 

When  such  victorious  charms  are  giv"n 
A  prize  to  faithful  love. 


36 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


A  MORNING  HYMN 


Arise !  and  see  the  glorious  sun 

Mount  in  the  eastern  sky : 
See  with  what  majesty  he  comes, 

What  splendor  strik[e]s  the  eye! 

II 

Life,  light,  and  heat  he  spreads  abroad 
In  ever  bounteous  streams ; 

This  day  shall  joyful  myriads  own 
The  influence  of  his  beams. 

in 

How  fresh  the  healthful  morning  air! 

What  fragrance  breaths  around ! 
New  lustre  paints  each  op'ning  flow'r 

New  verdure  cloaths  the  ground. 


No  ruffling  storms  of  wind  or  rain 
Disturb  the  calm  serene : 

But  gentle  nature  far  abroad 
Displays  her  softest  scene. 


Thro'  chequer'd  groves  and  o'er  the  plains 

Refreshing  breezes  pass, 
And  play  with  ev'ry  wanton  leaf, 

And  wave  the  slender  grass.  2° 


See  yonder  silver  gliding  stream; 

The  sun's  reflected  ray, 
Doth  in  its  wat'ry  bosom  sport, 

And  on  its  surface  play. 

VII 

The  trees  that  shade  its  flow'ry  banks, 

Are  nourish'd  by  the  flood; 
Whilst     from    their    branches     songsters 
sweet, 

Re-echo  thro'  the  wood. 


They  with  their  little  warbling  throats, 
Salute  the  rising  day;  3° 

And  in  untaught,  but  pleasing  strains 
Their  grateful  homage  pay. 

IX 

Oh !  let  us  then  with  souls  sincere 

Adore  that  pow'r  Divine! 
Who  makes  that  orb  move  thus  complete, 

Who  makes  his  rays  to  shine. 


Who  causes  ev'ry  rising  day 

In  beauty  to  return; 
And  Bids  the  sun's  meridian  height 

With  brighter  glories  burn.  40 


XI 


Who  morning,  noon,  and  evening,  too, 

Has  with  his  blessing  blest; 
And  kindly  gives  the  night's  still  shades 

For  wearied  man  to  rest. 


VERSES 

Inscribed  to  the  officers  of  the  35th  regi 
ment   on   their  embarkation  for   the 
expedition  against  Louisbourg1 

Now  warmer  suns,  once  more  bid  nature 

smile, 
The    new-born    spring,    peeps    from    the 

teaming  soil : 
From    ice    the    streams,    the    fields    from 

snow  are  free, 

And  blossoms  swell  on  every  pregnant  tree  : 
The    softened    season    melts    in    sudden 

show'rs, 

And  April  all  her  flow'ry  treasures  pours ; 
Well  might  I  sing  the  early  warbling  lay 
Of  rural  songsters  at  the  dawn  of  day; 
The  riv'let  winding  thro'  the  long  drawn 

vale, 
The    new    cloth'd    mountain,    the    green 

tufted  dale;  "> 

Or    shepherd's    pipe,    that    in    melodious 

strains, 
Welcomes  the  spring  to  valleys,  hills  and 

plains. 
But  these  I  leave,  and  for  the  aspiring 

muse, 

A  nobler  theme,  a  loftier  subject  choose. 
This  is  the  season  whose  warm  rays  in 
spire, 

Heroic  bosoms  with  a  martial  fire : 
To  war's  alarms  all  softer  pleasures  yield, 
And  ev'ry  Briton  burns  to  take  the  field. 
The    drums    loud    beat,    the    fire's    shrill 

soaring  lay. 

1  Louisbourg  had  an  interesting  history  in  the 
border  contests  between  the  French  and  English 
in  the  first%  half  of  the  18th  century.  This 
strong  fortress  on  Cape  Breton  Island  was  cap 
tured  from  the  French  by  New  England  troops 
in  1745  and  surrendered  to  France  by  the 
treaty  of  Aix-la:Chapelle  in  1748.  The  expedi 
tion  mentioned  in  the  two  poems  of  Hopkinson 
left  in  the  spring  of  1758  under  Lord  Amherst. 
The  siege  lasted  from  June  8  to  July  26.  The 
town  was  demolished,  and  the  fortress  badly 
breached. 


FRANCIS    HOPKINSON 


37 


The  trumpet's  clangor,  the  dread  cannon's 
play ;  *> 

All,  all  conspire  to  bid  the  heroes  go 
And  thunder  vengeance  on  the  daring  foe. 
Ye   who   have   roll'd   the   winter   months 

away, 

In  scenes  of  pleasure  and  in  pastimes  gay ; 
At  home  endow'd  with  ev'ry  art  to  please, 
Of  free  politeness  and  becoming  ease; 
Abroad,  the  noble  champions  of  our  cause, 
Protectors  of  our  liberties  and  laws. 

Long  have  you  known  the  gently  thrill 
ing  fires 

Which  beauty  kindles  and  which  love  in 
spires;  3° 
Long  have  enjoy'd  the  graces  of  the  fair, 
To  please  and  to  be  pleas'd  was  all  your 

care: 
Far   other   transports   now   your   bosoms 

warm, 

Far  other  glories  your  ambition  charm. — 
Go,  seek  for  conquest  where  loud  tumults 

reign, 
Where    death    runs    liquid    o'er    the    im- 

purpled  plain; 
Where    victor's    shouts,    and    vanquish'd 

warriors'  cries 

In  clouds  of  smoke  promiscuously  arise, 
And    undistinguish'd    reach    the    vaulted 

skies ; 

Where  desolation  stalks  the  tragic  field,  40 
Where     Britons     conquer,     and     where 
Frenchmen  yield. 

See  on  the  surface  of  that  rolling  tide 
Fast  moor'd  the  proud  expecting  navies 

ride : 
They  loose  their  streamers  from  each  top 

mast  height, 
And  spread  their  wings,  impatient  for  the 

fight; 

Eager  thro'  seas,  to  waft  you  hence  away, 
Where  laurels  strew  the  field,  and  hon 
ours  crown  the  day. 

Oh !    may    indulgent    heav'n    assistance 
to  lend ! 

Oh  !  may  success  Britannia's  arms  attend  : 

Let  ev'ry  sword  a  keen  destruction  wear ; 

Each  well  aim'd  spear  a  pointed  vengeance 
bear ;  si 

And  may  each  heroe,  that  we  send  from 
home, 

Back  to  our  wishing  arms  a  glorious  con 
queror  come. 

1758. 


On  the  late  successful  expedition  against 
LOUISBOURG 

At  length  'tis  done,  the  glorious  conflict's 

done, 
And    British    valour    hath    the    conquest 

won  : 
Success    our    arms,    our    heroes,    honour 

crowns, 
And     Louisbourg    an    English     monarch 

owns! 
Swift,  to  the  scene  where  late  the  valiant 

fought, 
Waft    me,    ye    muses,    on    the    wings    of 

thought — 
That  awful  scene,  where  the  dread  god 

of  war 
O'er  fields  of  death  roll'd  his  triumphant 

car : 
There  yet,  with   fancy's  eye,  methinks   I 

view 
The   pressing   throng,   the    fierce   assault 

renew :  10 

With  dauntless  front  advance,  and  boldly 

brave 
The  cannon's  thunder,  and  th'  expecting 

grave. 

On  yonder  cliff,  high  hanging  o'er  the 
deep, 

Where  trembling  joy  climbs  the  dark 
some  steep; 

Britannia  lonely  sitting,  from  afar 

Waits  the  event,  and  overlooks  the  war; 

Thence,  roll  her  eager  wand'ring  eyes 
about, 

In  all  the  dread  anxiety  of  doubt; 

Sees  her  fierce  sons,  her  foes  with  ven 
geance  smite, 

Grasp  deathless  honours,  and  maintain 
the  fight.  20 

Whilst  thus  her  breast  alternate  passions 
sway, 

And  hope  and  fear  wear  the  slow  hours 
away. 

See !  from  the  realms  of  everlasting  light, 

A  radiant  form  wings  her  aerial  flight. 

The  palm  she  carries,  and  the  crown  she 
wears, 

Plainly  denotes  'tis  Victory  appears : 

Her  crimson  vestment  loosely  flows  be 
hind, 

The  clouds  her  chariot,  and  her  wings 
the  wind : 

Trumpets  shrill  sounding  all  around  her 
play. 

And  laurell'd  honours  gild  her  azure 
way —  3<> 


38 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Now  she  alights — the  trumpets   cease  to 

sound, 
Her    presence    spreads    expecting    silence 

round : — 
And   thus   she   speaks;   whilst   from   her 

heav'nly  face 
Effulgent  glories  brighten  all  the  place — 

"Britannia,  hail !  thine  is  at  length  the 

day, 

And  lasting  triumphs  shall  thy  cares  re 
pay; 
Thy   godlike   sons,   by    this,  their  names 

shall  raise, 
And   tongues   remote   shall   joy   to    swell 

their  praise. 

I  to  the  list'ning  world  will  soon  proclaim 
Of  Wolfe's  brave  deeds,  the  never-dying 

fame,  4° 

And   swell  with  glory  Amhersfs   patriot 

name. 

Such  are  the  heroes  that  shall  ever  bring 
Wealth  to  their  country,  honour  to  their 

king: 

Opposing  foes,  in  vain  attempts  to  quell 
The  native  fires  that  in  such  bosoms  dwell. 
To  thee,  with  joy,  this  laurel  I  resign, 
Smile,  smile,  Britannia!  victory  is  thine. 
Long  may  it  flourish  on  thy  sacred  brow ! 
Long   may   thy    toes    a   forc'd   subjection 

know ! 
See,  see  their  pow'r,  their  boasted  pow'r 

decline !  so 

Rejoice  Britannia!  victory  is  thine." 

Give  your  loose  canvas  to  the  breezes 

free, 
Ye   floating   thund'rers,   bulwarks   of  the 

sea: 

Go,  bear  the  joyful  tidings  to  your  king, 
And,  in  the  voice  of  war,  declare  'tis 

victory  you  bring: 
Let  the  wild  croud  that  catch  the  breath 

of  fame, 

In  mad  huzzas  their  ruder  joy  proclaim : 
Let  their  loud  thanks  to  heav'n  in  flames 

ascend, 
While  mingling  shouts  the  azure  concave 

rend. 
But    let    the    few,    whom    reason    makes 

more  wise,  6° 

With  glowing  gratitude  uplift  their  eyes: 
Oh !  tet  their  breasts  dilate  with  sober  joy. 
Let  pious  praise  their  hearts  and  tongues 

employ ; 

To  bless  our  God  with  me  let  all  unite, 
He  guides  the  conq'ring  sword,  he  gov 
erns  in  the  fight. 

1758. 


TO  CELIA 
On  her  wedding  day 

Whilst  Heav'n  with  kind  propitious  ray, 

Smiles,  Celia,  on  thy  nuptial  day, 

And  ev'ry  sympathising  breast 

With  transport  glows  to  see  thee  blest; 

Whilst  present  joys  the  hours  beguile, 

And  future  prospects  seem  to  smile. 

Shall  not  my  muse  her  tribute  bring 

And  gladly  touch  the  trembling  string? 

I  know  'tis  usual  at  such  times 

To  pay  respect  in  pompous  rhymes ;       I0 

To  bid  the  whole  celestial  race 

With  brightest  glories   fill  the  place, 

And  from  their  mansions  hasten  down 

The  nuptial  rites  with  bliss  to  crown,: 

As  if  each  goddess  might  be  said 

To  be  the  poet's  waiting  maid : 

But  I  who  have  no  power  at  all, 

Such  high  divinities  to  call, 

Must  lay  those  stratagems  aside 

And  with  plain  fable  treat  the  bride.      2° 

As  Cupid  thro'  the  azure  way 
Did  late  with  wand'ring  pinion  stray, 
The  little  urchin  chanc'd  to  spy; 
His  master  Hymen  passing  by ; 
Surpris'd  with  conscious  guilt  and  shame, 
Knowing  his  conduct  much  to  blame, 
With  nimble  haste  he  strove  to  shroud 
His  presence  in  a  fleecy  cloud. 
But  Hymen  saw,  nor  could  he  fail 
To  see  a  wing — oh  !  piteous  tale !  3° 

Peep  from  behind  the  misty  veil. 
Th'  observing  god  with  eager  joy, 
Rush'd  on  and  seiz'd  th'  affrighted  boy. — 
"Well,  master  Cupid,  are  you  caught 
At  last,  he  cry'd,  I  almost  thought 
You,  far  from  hence,  had  taken  flight, 
And  quite  forsook  the  realms  of  light; 
For  whereso'er  I  choose  to  stray, 
I  seldom  meet  you  in  my  way. — 
Wherefore  so  shy  ?  since  well  you  know    4° 
It  is  not  very  long  ago 
Since  Jove  in  council  did  decree, 
Yourself  -and  services  to  me; 
That  it  might  ever  be  your  care, 
To  warm  those   breasts   whom   I   would 

pair 

With  mutual  love,  and  bless  my  bonds, 
By  mingling  hearts  with  joining  hands. 
Instead  of  which,  you  rambling  go, 
And  sad  confusions  make  below: 
Whilst  my  softest  bondage  often  falls,   so 
Where  custom  points  or  int'rest  calls. 
But  Jove  himself  shall  quickly  hear, 
How  much  his  dictates  you  revere; 
Yet  e'er  we  part,  'tis  my  desire, 


FRANCIS    HOPKINSON 


39 


You  kindle  love's  celestial  fire 
In  the  fair  Celia's  peaceful  breast, 
And  make  her  am'rous  Strephon  blest." 
With  piteous  tone,  and  tear-full  eye, 
Thus  did  the  little  god  reply: 
"This,  Hymen,  this  I  must  deny,  6° 

Do — any  other  service  choose, 
There's  nought  but  this  I  can  refuse; 
I  have  my  word  and  honour  giv'n, 
And  firmly  sworn  by  earth  and  Heav'n, 
That  love  shall  Celia  ne'er  molest, 
No  dart  of  mine  e'er  wound  her  breast." 
Hymen,  first  made  an  angry  pause, 
Then  spake — "Thou  traitor  to  my  cause! 
[s't  thus  with  mortals  you  conspire, 
To  break  my  torch  and  quench  my  fire ;  7° 
I  oft  have  wonder'd  why  that  maid 
My  soft  encircling  bands  delay'd; 
The  wonder  ceases  now ;  I  find 
That  you  and  Celia  have  combin'd, 
My  pow'r  celestial  to  dispise 
And  rob  me  of  my  fairest  prize. 
But  Celia  soon  in  wedlock's  chain 
Shall  shine  the  fairest  of  my  train: 
Virtue  her  days  with  peace  shall  crown, 
And  I  will  show'r  my  blessings  down;   &> 
Her  happy  state  shall  others  move, 
To  seek  the  joys  of  weded  love." 
Much  would  the  weeping  boy  have  said ; 
But  Hymen  urg'd,  and  love  obey'd : 
A  shaft  he  chose  from  out  the  rest, 
And  sunk  it  deep  in  Celia's  breast. 
Soft  thro'  her  frame  the  poison  crept; 
And  Hymen  laugh'd  and  Cupid  wept. 
Then  upwards,   far  from  human  fight, 
They  wing'd  their  way  in  speedy  flight,  90 
Wrapt  in  a  glorious  blaze  of  light. 

THE  WASP 

Wrapt  in  Aurelian  filth  and  slime, 
An  infant  wasp  neglected  lay; 

Till  having  doz'd  the  destin'd  time, 
He  woke,  and  struggl'd  into  day. 

Proud  of  his  venom  bag  and  sting, 
And  big  with  self-approved  worth : 

Mankind,  he  said,  and  stretch'd  his  wing, 
Should  tremble  when  I  sally  forth. 

In  copious  streams  my  spleen  shall  flow, 
And  satire  all  her  purses  drain ;          I0 

A  critic  born,  the  world  shall  know 
I  carry  not  a  sting  in  vain. 

This  said,  from  native  cell  of  clay, 

Elate  he  rose  in  airy  flight ; 
Thence  to  the  city  chang'd  his  way, 

And  on  a  steeple  chanc'd  to  light. 


Ye  gods,  he  cry'd,  what  horrid  pile 
Presumes  to  rear  its  head  so  high — 

This  clumsy  cornice — see  how  vile : 
Can  this  delight  a  critic's  eye?  «> 

With  pois'nous  sting  he  strove  to  wound 
The  substance  firm :  but  strove  in  vain ; 

Surpris'd  he  sees  it  stands  its  ground, 
Nor  starts  thro'  fear,  nor  writhes  with 
pain. 

Away  th'  enraged  insect  flew; 

But  soon  with  aggravated  pow'r, 
Against  the  walls  his  body  threw, 

And  hop'd  to  shake  the  lofty  tow'r. 

Firm  fix'd  it  stands ;  as  stand  it  must, 
Nor  heeds  the  wasp's  unpitied  fall :    3<> 

The  humbled  critic  rolls  in  dust, 

So   stunn'd,   so   bruis'd,   he   scarce  can 
crawl. 

POLITICAL  BALLADS 

DATE  OBOLUM  BELLESARio1 

Written  in  the  year  1777 

As  I  travell'd  o'er  the  plain, 

About  the  close  of  day, 
I  chanc'd  to  wander  in  a  lane, 

A  lane  of  mire  and  clay. 

'Twas  there  a  dirty  drab  I  saw, 

All  seated  on  the  ground, 
With  oaken  staff  and  hat  of  straw, 

And  tatters  hanging  round. 

At  my  approach  she  heav'd  a  sigh, 

And  due  obeisance  paid,  10 

First  wip'd  a  tear  from  either  eye, 
Then  her  petition  made. 

"A  wretch  forlorn,  kind  sir,  you  see, 
That  begs  from  door  to  door; 

Oh !  stop  and  give  for  charity, 
A  penny  to  the  poor! 

"Tho'  now  in  tatters  I  appear, 
Yet  know  the  time  hath  been, 

When  I  partook  the  world's  good  cheer, 
And  better  days  have  seen."  » 

Proceed,  said  I,  whilst  I  attend 

The  story  of  thy  woe; 
Proceed,  and  charity  shall  lend 

Some  help  before  I  go. 

1  Written    after    the    defeat    of    Burgoyne    in 
October,    1777. 


40 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


"If  blooming  honours  men  delight. 

If  charms  in  wealth  they*  see, 
My  fame  once  soar'd  a  glorious  height, 

And  who  more  rich  than  me. 

"Of  sons  and  daughters  I  can  boast 
A  long  illustrious  line;  3° 

Of  servants  could  command  a  host, 
For  large  domains  were  mine. 

"But  George  my  youngest  faithless  boy, 
Hath  all  my  powers  o'erthrown; 

And  in  the  very  beds  of  joy 
The  seeds  of  sorrow  sown. 

"He  thirsting  for  supreme  command, 

Contemn' d  my  wise  decrees, 
And  with  a  sacrilegious  hand, 

My  dearest  rights  did  seize.  4° 

"A  magic  wand  I  once  possest, 

A  cap  aloft  it  bore; 
Of  all  my  treasures  this  the  best, 

And  none  I  value  more. 

"Ruthless  he  broke  the  sacred  rod, 

The  cap  he  tumbled  down ; 
Destroying  thus,  what  with  their  blood 

His  ancestors  had  won. 

"An  orphan  child  fell  to  my  care, 
Fair  as  the  morn  was  she,  so 

To  large  possessions  she  was  heir, 
And  friendly  still  to  me. 

"But  George,  my  son,  beheld  the  maid, 

With  fierce  lascivious  eye; 
To  ravish  her  a  plan  he  laid, 

And  she  was  forc'd  to  fly. 

"She's  young  and  will  no  more  depend 

On  cruel  George  or  me; 
No  longer  now  my  boasted  friend, 

Nor  of  my   family.  6° 

"Bad  measures  often  end  in  worse, 

His   fell   intent  to  gain; 
He  sent  in  rage  a  mighty  force, 

To  bring  her  back  again. 

"But  to  defend  the  injur'd  maid, 
Her   faithful  household  came, 

In  battle  strong  they  stood  array'd, 
And  gain'd  immortal  fame. 


"  'Mongst  these  a  god-like  hero  rose 
Wise,  generous  and  brave, 

He  check'd  the  frenzy  of  her  foes, 
His  arm  was  strong  to  save. 


70 


"So  near  perfection,  that  he  stood 

Upon  the  bound'ry  line, 
Of   infinite   from  finite  good, 

Of  human  from  divine. 

"Defeated  thus  in  all  his  schemes, 

My  foolish,  wick'd  son, 
Awak'd  from  his  delusive  dreams, 

And  found  himself  undone.  * 

"Mean  time  I  suffer'd,  in  disgrace, 

No  comfort  could  I  find, 
I  saw  distress  come  on  a  pace, 

With  ruin  close  behind. 

"At  length  distracted  quite  with  grief, 

I  left  my  native  home, 
Depending  now  on  chance  relief, 

Abroad  for  bread  I  roam. 

"A  shield  and  lance  once  grac'd  thesi 
hands, 

Perhaps  you've  heard  my  fame,  9 
For  I  was  known  in  distant  lands, 

Britannia  is  my  name. 

"Britannia  now  in  rags  you  see; 

I  beg  from  door  to  door — 
Oh !  give,  kind  sire  for  charity, 

A  penny  to  the  poor." 

1777 

THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  KEGS 
(January  5,  1778) 

Gallants  attend  and  hear  a  friend, 
Trill  forth  harmonious  ditty, 

Strange  things  I'll  tell  which  late  befel 
In  Philadelphia  city. 

'Twas  early  day,  as  poets  say, 
Just  when  the   sun   was  rising, 

A  soldier  stood  on  a  log  of  wood, 
And  saw  a  thing  surprising. 

As  in  amaze  he  stood  to  gaze, 

The  truth  can't  be  denied,  sir,  * 

He  spied  a  score  of  kegs  or  more 
Come  floating  down  the  tide,  sir. 

A  sailor  too  in  jerkin  blue, 

This   strange  appearance  viewing, 

First  damn'd  his  eyes,  in  great  surprise, 
Then  said  some  mischief's   brewing. 

These  kegs,  I'm  told,  the  rebels  bold, 
Pack'd  up  like  pickling  herring ; 

And  they're  come  down  t'  attack  the  town 
In  this  new  way  of  ferrying.  :  -  * 


FRANCIS    HOPKINSON 


41 


The  soldier  flew,  the  sailor  too, 
And  scar'd  almost  to  death,  sir, 

Wore  out  their  shoes,  to  spread  the  news, 
And  ran  till  out  of  breath,  sir. 

Now  up  and  down  throughout  the  town, 
Most  frantic  scenes  were  acted; 

And  some  ran  here,  and  others  there, 
Like  men  almost  distracted. 

Some  fire  cry'd,  which  some  denied, 
But  said  the  earth  had  quaked;  3» 

And  girls  and  boys,  with  hideous  noise, 
.Ran  thro'  the  streets  half  naked. 

Sir  William  he,  snug  as  a  flee, 
Lay   all   this  time  a  snoring, 

Nor  dream'd  of  harm  as  he  lay  warm, 
In  bed  with  Mrs.  L— g. 

Now  in  a  fright,  he  starts  upright, 

Awak'd  by  such  a  clatter; 
He  rubs  both  eyes,  and  boldly  cries, 

For  God's  sake,  what's  the  matter?     4» 

At  his  bed-side  he  then  espy'd, 
Sir  Erskine  at  command,   sir, 

Upon  one  foot,  he  had  one  boot, 
And  th'  other  in  his  hand,  sir. 

"Arise,  arise,"  Sir  Erskine  cries, 
"The   rebels — more's  the  pity, 

Without  a  boat  are  all  afloat, 
And  rang'd  before  the  city. 

"The  motly  crew,  in  vessels  new, 
With  Satan  for  their  guide,  sir.  5° 

Pack'd  up  in  bags,  or  wooden  kegs, 
Come  driving  down  the  tide,  sir. 

"Therefore  prepare  for  bloody  war, 
These  kegs  must  all  be  routed, 

Or  surely  we  despised  shall  be, 
And   British  courage   doubted." 

The  royal  band,  now  ready  stand 
All  rang'd  in  dread  array,  sir, 

With  stomach  stout  to  see  it  out, 
And  make  a  bloody  day,  sir.  6° 

The  cannons  roar  from  shore  to  shore, 
The  small  arms  make  a  rattle; 

Since  wars  began  I'm  sure  no  man 
E'er  saw  so  strange  a  battle. 

The  rebel  dales,  the  rebel  vales, 
With  rebel  trees  surrounded ; 

The  distant  wood,  the  hills  and  floods, 
With  rebel  echoes  sounded. 


The  fish  below  swam  to  and  fro, 
Attack'd  from  ev'ry  quarter;  7° 

Why  sure,  thought  they,  the  devil's  to  pay, 
'Mongst  folks  above  the  water. 

The  kegs,  'tis  said,  tho'  strongly  made, 
Of  rebel  staves  and  hoops,  sir, 

Could  not  oppose  their  powerful  foes, 
The  conqu'ring  British  troops,  sir. 

From  morn  to  night  these  men  of  might 

Display'd  amazing  courage; 
And  when  the  sun  was  fairly  down, 

Retir'd  to  sup  their  porrage.  8° 

An  hundred  men  with  each  a  pen, 
Or  more  upon  my  word,  sir. 

It  is  most  true  would  be  too  few, 
Their  valor  to  record,  sir. 

Such  feats  did  they  perform  that  day, 
Against  these  wick'd  kegs,  sir, 

That  years  to  come,  if  they  get  home, 
They'll  make  their  boasts  and  brags,  sir. 

Pennsylvania  Packet,  Mar.  4,  1778. 

This  ballad  was  occasioned  by  a  real  incident. 
Certain  machines,  in  the  form  of  kegs,  charg'd 
with  gun  powder,  were  sent  down  the  river  to 
annoy  the  British  shipping  then  at  Philadelphia. 
The  danger  of  these  machines  being  discovered, 
the  British  manned  the  wharfs  and  shipping, 
and  discharged  their  small  arms  and  cannons 
at  everything  they  saw  floating  in  the  river  dur 
ing  the  ebb  tide.  (Note  in  1792  edition.) 


THE  BIRDS,  THE  BEASTS,  AND  THE  BAT 
A  fable 

A  War  broke  out  in  former  days, 
If  all  is  true  that  ^)sop  says, 
Between  the  birds  that  haunt  the  grove, 
And  beasts  that  wild  in  forests  rove : 
Of  fowl  that  swim  in  waters  clear, 
Of  birds  that  mount  aloft  in  air; 
From  ev'ry  tribe  vast  numbers  came, 
To  fight  for  freedom,  as  for  fame: 
The  beasts  from  dens  and  caverns  deep, 
From  valleys  low  and  mountains  steep;  I0 
In  motly  ranks  determin'd  stood, 
And  dreadful  hpwlings  shook  the  wood. 
The  bat,  half  bird,  half  beast  was  there, 
Nor  would  for  this  or  that  declare; 
Waiting  till  conquest  should  decide. 
Which  was  the  strongest,  safest  side : 
Depending  on  this  doubtful  form, 
To  screen  him  from  th'  impending  storm. 

With  sharpen'd  beaks  and  talons  long, 
With  horny  spurs  and  pinions  strong,    *> 


42 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


The  birds  in  fierce  assault,  'tis  said, 
Amongst  the  foe  such  havoc  made, 
That  panic  struck,  the  beasts  retreat 
Amaz'd,  and  victory  seem'd  complete. 
Th'  observant  bat,  with  squeaking  tone, 
Cries,  "Bravo,  birds  the  day's  our  own; 
For  now  I'm  proud  to  claim  a  place 
Amongst  your  bold  aspiring  race; 
With  leathern  wings  I  skim  the  air, 
And  am  a  bird  tho'  clad  in  hair."  3° 

But  now  the  beasts  ashamed  of  flight, 
With  rallied  force  renew  the  fight, 
With  threatening  teeth,  uplifted  paws, 
Projecting  horns  and  spreading  claws, 
Enrag'd  advance — push  on  the  fray, 
And  claim  the  honours  at  the  day. 

The  bat  still  hov'ring  to  and  fro, 
Observ'd  how  things  were  like  to  go, 
Concludes  those  best  who  best  can  fight, 
And  thinks  the  strongest  party  right;     40 
"Push  on,  quoth  he,  our's  is  the  day 
We'll  chase  these  rebel  birds  away, 
And  reign  supreme — for  who  but  we 
Of  earth  and  air  the  Lords  should  be; 
That  I'm  a  beast  I  can  make  out, 
By  reasons  strong  beyond  a  doubt, 
With  teeth  and  fur  'twould  be  absurd, 
To  call  a  thing  like  me  a  bird : 
Each  son  and  daughter  of  my  house; 
Is  stil'd  at  least  a  flying  mouse."  so 

Always  uncertain  is  the  fate, 
Of  war  and  enterprises  great: 
The  beasts  exulting  push'd  too  far 
Their  late  advantage  in  the  war; 
Sure  of  success,  insult  the  foe, 
Despise  their  strength  and  careless  grow; 
The  birds  not  vanquish'd,  but  dismay'd, 
Collect  their  force,  new  pow'rs  display'd; 
Their  chief,  the  eagle,  leads  them  on, 
And  with  fierce  rage  the  war's  begun.    6° 
Now  in  their  turn  the  beasts  must  yield, 
The  bloody  laurels  of  the  field; 
Routed  they  fly,  disperse,  divide, 
And  in  their  native  caverns  hide. 

Once  more  the  bat  with  courtly  voice, 
"Hail,  noble  birds!  much  I  rejoice 


In  your  success,  and  come  to  claim 
My  share  of  conquest  and  of  fame." 
The  birds  the  faithless  wretch  despise; 
Hence,  traitor,  hence  the  eagle  cries ;     7° 
No  more,  as  you  just  vengeance  fear, 
Amongst  our  honour'd  ranks  appear. 
The  bat,  disown'd  in  some  old  shed, 
Now  seeks  to  hide  his  exil'd  head; 
Nor  dares  his  leathern  wings  display, 
From  rising  morn  to  setting  day : 
But  when  the  gloomy  shades  of  night, 
Screens  his  vile  form  from  every  sight, 
Despis'd,  unnotic'd,  flits  about; 
Then  to  his  dreary  cell  returns,  8° 

And  his  just  fate  in  silence  mourns. 

1778(?). 


MY  GENEROUS  HEART  DISDAINS 

1 

My  generous  heart  disdains 
The  slave  of  love  to  be; 
I  scorn  his  servile^  chains, 
And  boast  my  liberty. 
This  whining 
And  pining 

And  wasting  with  care, 
Are  not  to  my  taste,  be  she  ever  so  fair. 


Shall  a  girl's  capricious   frown 
Sink  my  noble  spirits  down? 
Shall  a  face  of  white  and  red 
Make  me  droop  my  silly  head? 
Shall  I  set  me  down  and  sigh 
For  an  eyebrow  or  an  eye? 
For  a  braided  lock  of  hair, 
Curse  my  fortune  and  dispair? 
My  generous  heart  disdains,  etc. 


Still  uncertain  is  tomorrow, 
Not  quite  certain  is  to-day — 
Shall  I  waste  my  time  in  sorrow? 
Shall  I  languish  life  away? 
All  because  a  cruel  maid 
Hath  not  love  with  love  repaid? 
My  generous  heart  disdains,  etc. 


(The    text    and   notes   are   from   "The  Poetical 
Works  of  John  Trumbull"  in  two  volumes,  1820.) 

THE   PROGRESS   OF   DULNESSi 
PART  III 

OR   THE   ADVENTURES    OF 

Miss  HARRIET  SIMPER 

"Come  hither,  HARRIET,  pretty  Miss, 
Come  hither;  give  your  aunt  a  kiss. 
What,  blushing?  fye,  hold  up  your  head, 
Full  six  years  old  and  yet  afraid ! 
With  such  a  form,  an  air,  a  grace, 
You're  not  ashamed  to  show  your  face! 
Look  like  a  lady — bold — my  child! 
Why  ma'am,  your  HARRIET  will  be  spoil'd. 
What  pity  'tis,  a  girl  so  sprightly 
Should  hang  her  head  so  unpoJitely?      I0 
And  sure  there's  nothing  worth  a  rush  in 
That  odd,  unnatural  trick  of  blushing; 
It  marks  one  ungenteelly  bred, 
And  shows  there's  mischief  in  her  head. 
I've    heard    Dick    Hairbrain    prove    from 

Paul, 

Eve  never  blush'd  before  the  fall. 
'Tis  said  indeed,  in  latter  days, 
It  gain'd  pur  grandmothers  some  praise; 
Perhaps  it  suited  well  enough 
With  hoop  and  farthingale  and  ruff;     2° 
But  this  politer  generation 
Holds  ruffs  and  blushes  out  of  fashion. 

"And  what  can  mean  that  gown  so  odd? 
You  ought  to  dress  her  in  the  mode, 
To  teach  her  how  to  make  a  figure; 
Or  she'll  be  awkward  when  she's  bigger, 
And  look  as  queer  as  Joan  of  Nokes, 
And  never  rig  like  other  folks; 
Her  clothes  will  trail,  all  fashion  lost, 
As  if  she  hung  them  on  a  post,  30 

And  sit  as  awkwardly  as  Eve's 
First  pea-green  petticoat  of  leaves. 

"And  what  can  mean  your  simple  whim 

here 

To  keep  her  poring  on  her  primer? 
'Tis  quite  enough  for  giris  to  know, 
If  she  can  read  a  billet-doux, 
Or  write  a  line  you'd  understand 
Without  a  cypher  of  the  hand. 

J  Part  I  of  the  Progress  of  Dulness  is  en 
titled  "On  the  Adventures  of  Tom  Brainless"; 
Part  II,  "On  the  Life  and  Character  <of  Dick 
Hairbrain."  Both  of  these  characters  appear  in 
Part  III.  These  appeared,  Part  I,  Aug.,  1772; 
Part  II,  Jan.,  1773;  Part  III,  July,  1773. 


Why  need  she  learn  to  write,  or  spell? 
A  pothook  scrawl  is  just  as  well;  40 

Might  rank  her  with  the  better  sort, 
For  'tis  the  reigning  mode  at  court. 
And  why  should  girls  be  learn'd  or  wise  ? 
Books  only  serve  to  spoil  their  eyes. 
The  studious  eye  but  faintly  twinkles, 
And  reading  paves  the  way  to  wrinkles. 
In  vain  may  learning  fill  the  head  full ; 
'Tis  beauty  that's  the  one  thing  needful; 
Beauty,  our  sex's  sole  pretence, 
The  best  receipt  for  female  sense,          so 
The  charm  that  turns  all  words  to  witty, 
And '.makes  the  silliest  speeches  pretty. 
Ev'n  folly  borrows  killing  graces 
From  ruby  lips  and  roseate  faces. 
Give  airs  and  beauty  to  your  daughter, 
And  sense  and  wit  will  follow  after." 

Thus  round  the  infant  Miss  in  state 
The  council  of  the  ladies  meet, 
And  gay  in  modern  style  and  fashion 
Prescribe  their  rules  of  education.          6° 
The  mother  once  herself  a  toast,  - 
Prays  for  her  child  the  self-same  post; 
The  father  hates  the  toil  and  pother, 
And  leaves  his  daughters  to  their  mother ; 
From  whom  her  faults,  that  never  vary, 
May  come  by  right  hereditary, 
Follies  be  multiplied  with  quickness, 
And  whims  keep  up  the  family  likeness. 

Ye  parents,  shall  those  forms  so  fair, 
The  graces  might  be  proud  to  wear,        7° 
The  charms  those  speaking  eyes  display, 
Where  passion  sits  in  ev'ry  ray, 
Th'  expressive  glance,  the  air  refined, 
That  sweet  vivacity  of  mind, 
Be  doom'd  for  life  to  folly's  sway, 
By  trifles  lur'd,  to  fops  a  prey? 
Say,  can  ye  think  that  forms  so  fine 
Were  made  for  nothing  but  to  shine, 
With  lips  of  rose  and  cheeks  of  cherry. 
Outgo  the  works  of  statuary, 
And  gain  the  prize  of  show,  as  victors, 
O'er  busts  and  effigies  and  pictures? 
Can  female  sense  no  trophies  raise, 
Are  dress  and  beauty  all  their  praise, 
And  does  no  lover  hope  to  find 
An  angel  in  his  charmer's. mind? 
First  from  the  dust  our  sex  began, 
But  woman  was  refined  from  man ; 
Received  again,  with  softer  air, 
The  great  Creator's  forming  care.  90 

And  shall  it  no  attention  claim 
Their  beauteous  infant  souls  to  frame? 


43 


44 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Shall  half  your  precepts  tend  the  while 

Fair  nature's  lovely  work  to  spoil, 

The  native  innocence  deface, 

The  glowing  blush,  the  modest  grace, 

On  follies  fix  their  young  desire, 

To  trifles  bid  their  souls  aspire, 

Fill    their    gay    heads    with    whims    of 

fashion, 

And  slight  all  other  cultivation,  I0° 

Let  every  useless,  barren  weed 
Of  foolish  fancy  run  to  seed, 
And  make  their  minds  the  receptacle 
Of  every  thing  that's  false  and  fickle; 
Where  gay  caprice  with  wanton  air, 
And  vanity  keep  constant  fair, 
Where  ribbons,  laces,  patches,  puffs, 
Caps,  jewels,  ruffles,  tippets,  muffs, 
With  gaudy  whims  of  vain  parade, 
Croud  each  apartment  of  the  head;       1I0 
Where  stands,  display'd  with  costly  pains, 
The  toyshop  of  coquettish  brains, 
And  high-crown'd  caps  hang  out  the  sign, 
And  beaux  as  customers  throng  in; 
Whence  sense  is  banish'd  in  disgrace, 
Where  wisdom  dares  not  show  her  face ; 
Where  the  light  head  and  vacant  brain 
Spoil  all  ideas  they  contain, 
As  th'  air-pump  kills  in  half  a  minute 
Each  living  thing  you  put  within  it?     I2° 

It  must  be  so;  by  ancient  rule 
The  fair  are  nursed  in  folly's  school, 
And  all  their  education  done 
Is  none  at  all,  or  worse  than  none; 
Whence  still  proceed  in  maid  or  wife, 
The  follies  and  the  ills,  of  life. 
Learning  is  call'd  our  mental  diet, 
That  serves  the  hungry  mind  to  quiet, 
That  gives  the  genius  fresh  supplies, 
Till  souls  grow  up  to  common  size :       *3o 
But  here,  despising  sense  refined, 
Gay  trifles  feed  the  youthful  mind. 
Chameleons  thus,  whose  colours  airy 
As  often  as  coquettes  can  vary, 
Despise  all  dishes  rich  and  rare, 
And  diet  wholly  on  the  air; 
Think  fogs  blest  eating,  nothing  finer, 
And  can  on  whirlwinds  make  a  dinner; 
And  thronging  all  to  feast  together, 
Fare  daintily  in  blust'ring  weather.        r4° 

Here  to  the  fair  alone  remain 
Long  years  of  action  spent  in  vain; 
Perhaps  she  learns   (what  can  she  less?) 
The  arts  of  dancing  and  of  dress. 
But  dress  and  dancing  are  to  women, 
Their  education's 'mint  and  cummin; 
These  lighter  graces  should  be  taught, 
And  weightier  matters  not  forgot. 
For  there,  where  only  these  are  shown, 
The  soul  will  fix  on  these  alone.  'SO 


Then  most  the  fineries  of  dress, 

Her  thoughts,  her  wish  and  time  possess ; 

She  values  only  to  be  gay, 

And  works  to  rig  herself  for  play ; 

Weaves    scores  .of    caps    with    diff'rent 

spires, 

And  all  varieties  of  wires ; 
Gay  ruffles  varying  just  as  flow'd 
The  tides  and  ebbings  of  the  mode; 
Bright  flow'rs,  and  topknots  waving  high, 
That  float,  like  streamers  in  the  sky;    l6° 
Work'd  catgut  handkerchiefs,  whose  flaws 
Display  the  neck,  as  well  as  gauze ; 
Or  network  aprons  somewhat  thinnish, 
That  cost  but  six  weeks  time  to  finish, 
And  yet  so  neat,  as  you  must  own 
You  could  not  buy  for  half  a  crown. 
Perhaps  in  youth   (for  country  fashion 
Prescribed  that  mode  of  education,) 
•She    wastes    long    months    in    still    more 


And  useless  labours  of  embrpid'ry;       J7° 
With  toil  weaves  up  for  chairs  together, 
Six  buttons,  quite  as  good  as  leather ; 
A  set  of  curtains  tapestry-work, 
The  figures  frowning  like  the  Turk; 
A  tentstitch  picture,  work  of  folly, 
With    portraits    wrought    of    Dick    and 

Dolly ; 

A  coat  of  arms,  that  mark'd  her  house, 
Three  owls  rampant,  the  crest  a  goose ; 
Or  shows  in  waxwork  goodman  Adam, 
And  serpent  gay,  gallanting  madam,      l8° 
A  woful  mimickry  of  Eden, 
With  fruit,  that  needs  not  be  forbidden ; 
All  useless  works,  that  fill  for  beauties 
Of  time  and  sense  their  vast  vacuities; 
Of  sense,  which  reading  might  bestow, 
And  time,  whose  worth  they  never  know. 

Now  to  some  pop'lous  city  sent, 
She  comes  back  prouder  than  she  went; 
Few  months  in  vain  parade  she  spares, 
Nor  learns,  but  apes,  politer  airs;          '9° 
So  formal  acts,  with  such  a  set  air, 
That  country  manners  far  were  better. 
This  springs  from  want  of  just  discerning, 
As  pedantry  from  want  of  learning; 
And  proves  this  maxim  true  to  sight, 
The  half-genteel  are  least  polite. 

Yet  still  that  active  spark,  the  mind 
Employment  constantly  will  find, 
And  when  on  trifles  most  'tis  bent, 
Is  always  found  most  diligent ;  2°° 

For  weighty  works  men  show  most  sloth  in, 
But  labour  hard  at  doing  nothing, 
A  trade,  that  needs  no  deep  concern, 
Or  long  apprenticeship  to  learn, 
To  which  mankind  at  first  apply 
As  naturally  as  to  cry, 


JOHN    TRUMBULL 


45 


Till  at  the  last  their  latest  groan 
Proclaims  their  idleness  is  done. 
Good  sense,  like  fruits,  is  rais'd  by  toil ; 
But  follies  sprout  in  ev'ry  soil,  ZI° 

Nor  culture,  pains,  nor  planting  need, 
As  moss  and  mushrooms  have  no  seed. 

Thus  HARRIET,  rising  on  the  stage, 
Learns  all  the  arts,  that  please  the  age, 
And  studies  well,  as  fits  her  station, 
The  trade  and  politics  of  fashion : 
A  judge  of  modes  in  silks  and  satins, 
From  tassels  down  to  clogs  and  pattens ; 
A  genius,  that  can  calculate 
When  modes  of  dress  are  out  of  date,  22° 
Cast  the  nativity  with  ease 
Of  gowns,  and  sacks  and  negligees, 
And  tell,  exact  to  half  a  minute, 
What's  out  of  fashion  and  what's  in  it; 
And  scanning  all  with  curious  eye, 
Minutest  faults  in  dresses  spy; 
(So  in  nice  points  of  sight,  a  flea 
Sees  atoms  better  far  than  we;) 
A  patriot  too,  she  greatly  labours, 
To    spread    her    arts    among    her    neigh 
bours,  230 
Holds  correspondences  to  learn 
What  facts  the  female  world  concern, 
To  gain  authentic  state-reports 
Of  varied  modes  in  distant  courts, 
The  present  state  and  swift  decays 
Of  tuckers,  handkerchiefs  and  stays, 
The  colour'd  silk  that  beauty  wraps, 
And  all  the  rise  and  fall  of  caps. 
Then  shines,  a  pattern  to  the  fair, 
Of  mien,  address  and  modish  air,          24° 
Of  every  new,  affected  grace, 
That  plays  the  eye,  or  decks  the  face 
The  artful  smile,  that  beauty  warms, 
And  all  th'  hypocrisy  of  charms. 

On  sunday,  see  the  haughty  maid 
In  all  the  glare  of  dress  array'd, 
Deck'd  in  her  most  fantastic  gown, 
Because  a  stranger's  come  to  town. 
Heedless  at  church  she  spends  the  day, 
For  homelier  folks  may  serve  to  pray,  25° 
And  for  devotion  those  may  go, 
Who  can  have  nothing  else  to  do. 
Beauties  at  church  must  spend  their  care 

in 

Far  other  work,  than  pious  hearing; 
They've  beaux  to  conquer,  bells  to  rival ; 
To  make  them  serious  were  uncivil. 
For,  like  the  preacher,  they  each  Sunday 
Must  do  their  whole  week  s  work  in  one 

day. 

As  though  they  meant  to  take  by  blows 
Th'  opposing  galleries  of  beaux.1  26° 

1  Young    people    of    different    sexes    used    then 
to  sit  in  the  opposite  galleries. 


To  church  the  female  squadron  move, 
All  arm'd  with  weapons  used  in  love. 
Like  colour'd  ensigns  gay  and  fair, 
High  caps  rise  floating  in  the  air; 
Bright  silk  its  varied  radiance  flings, 
And  streamers  wave  in  kissing-strings; 
Each  bears  th'  artill'ry  of  her  charms, 
Like  training  bands  at  viewing  arms. 

So  once,  in  fear  of  Indian  beating, 
Our  grandsires  bore  their  guns  to  meet 
ing,  270 
Each  man  equipp'd  on  Sunday  morn, 
With  psalm-book,  shot  and  powder-horn ; 
And  look'd  in  form,  as  all  must  grant, 
Like  th'  ancient,  true  church  militant; 
Or  fierce,  like  modern  deep  divines, 
Who  fight  with  quills,  like  porcupines. 

Or  let  us  turn  the  style  and  see 
Our  belles  assembled  o'er  their  tea; 
Where  folly  sweetens  ev'ry  theme, 
And  scandal  serves  for  sugar'd  cream.  28° 

"And  did  you  hear  the  news?  (they  cry) 
The  court  wear  caps  full  three  feet  high, 
Built  gay  with  wire,  and  at  the  end  on't, 
Red  tassels  streaming  like  a  pendant. 
Well  sure,  it  must  be  vastly  pretty; 
'Tis  all  the  fashion  in  the  city. 
And  were  you  at  the  ball  last  night? 
Well,  Chloe  look'd  like  any  fright; 
Her  day  is  over  for  a  toast; 
She'd  now  do  best  to  act  a  ghost.          290 
You  saw  our  Fanny;  envy  must  own 
She  figures,  since  she  came  from  Boston. 
Good  company  improves  one's  air — 
I  think  the  troops  were  station'd  there. 
Poor  Coelia  ventured  to  the  place ; 
The  small-pox  quite  has  spoil'd  her  face, 
A  sad  affair,  we  all  confest: 
But  providence  knows  what  is  best. 
Poor  Dolly  too,  that  writ  the  letter 
Of  love  to  Dick ;  but  Dick  knew  better;  3°° 
A  secret  that;  you'll  not  disclose  it; 
There's  not  a  person  living  knows  it. 
Sylvia  shone  out,  no  peacock  finer ; 
I  wonder  what  the  fops  see  in  her. 
Perhaps  'tis  true  what  Harry  maintains, 
She  mends  on  intimate  acquaintance." 

Hail  British  lands !  to  whom  belongs 
Unbounded  privilege  of  tongues, 
Blest  gift  of  freedom,  prized  as  rare 
By  all,  but  dearest  to  the  fair;  3'° 

From  grandmother  of  loud  renown, 
Thro'  long  succession  handed  down, 
Thence  with  affection  kind  and  hearty, 
Bequeath'd  unlessen'd  to  poster'ty ! 
And  all  ye  powers  of  slander,  hail, 
Who  teach  to  censure  and  to  rail! 
By  you,  kind  aids  to  prying  eyes, 
Minutest  faults  the  fair  one  spies, 


46 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


And  specks  in  rival  toasts  can  mind, 

Which  no  one  else  could  ever  find;        320 

By  shrewdest  hints  and  doubtful  guesses, 

Tears  reputations  all  in  pieces ; 

Points  out  what  smiles  to  sin  advance, 

Finds  assignations  in  a  glance; 

And  shews  how  rival  toasts  (you'll  think) 

Break  all  commandments  with  a  wink. 

So  priests1  drive  poets  to  the  lurch 
By  fulminations  of  the  church, 
Mark  in  our  title-page  our  crimes, 
Find  heresies  in  double  rhymes,  330 

Charge  tropes  with  damnable  opinion, 
And  prove  a  metaphor,  Arminian, 
Peep  for  our  doctrines,  as  at  windows, 
And  pick  out  creeds  of  inuendoes. 

And  now  the  conversation  sporting 
From  scandal  turns  to  trying  fortune. 
Their  future  luck  the  fair  foresee 
In  dreams,  in  cards,  but  most  in  tea. 
Each  finds  of  love  some  future  trophy 
In  settlings  left  of  tea,  or  coffee;  34° 

There  fate  displays  its  book,  she  believes, 
And  lovers  swim  in  form  of  tea-leaves ; 
Where  oblong  stalks  she  takes  for  beaux, 
And  squares  of  leaves  for  billet-doux; 
Gay  balls  in  parboil'd  fragments  rise, 
And  specks  for  kisses  greet  her  eyes. 

So  Roman  augurs  wont  to  pry 
In  victim's  hearts  for  prophecy, 
Sought  from  the  future  world  advices, 
By  lights  and  lungs  of  sacrifices,  3S« 

And  read  with  eyes  more  sharp  than  wiz 
ards' 

The  book  of  fate  in  pigeon's  gizzards; 
Could  tell  what  chief  would  be  survivor, 
From  aspects  of  an  ox's  liver, 
And  cast  what  luck  would  fall  in  fights, 
By  trine  and  quartile  of  its  lights. 

Yet  that  we  fairly  may  proceed, 
We  own  that  ladies  sometimes  read, 
And  grieve,  that  reading  is  cqnfin'd 
To  books  that  poison  all  the  mind ;        360 
Novels  and  plays,  (where  shines  display'd 
A  world  that  nature  never  made,) 
Which  swell  their  hopes  with  airy  fancies, 
And  amorous  follies  of  romances ; 
Inspire  with  dreams  the  witless  maiden 
On  flowery  vales  and  fields  Arcadian, 
And  constant  hearts  no  chance  can  sever, 
And  mortal  loves,  that  last  for  ever. 

For  while  she  reads  romance,  the  fair 
one 

1  On  the  appearance  of  the  first  part  of  this 
poem,  some  of  the  clergy,  who  supposed  them 
selves  the  objects  of  the  satire,  raised  a  clamor 
against  the  author,  as  the  calumniator  of  the 
sacred  order,  and  undertook,  from  certain  pas 
sages  in  it,  to  prove  that  he  was  an  infidel,  or 
what  they  viewed  as  equally  heretical,  an  Ar 
minian.  (Author's  note,  182Q  Edition.) 


Fails  not  to  think  herself  the  heroine;  37° 
For  every  glance,  or  smile,  or  grace, 
She  finds  resemblance  in  her  face, 
Expects  the  world  to  fall  before  her, 
And  every  fop  she  meets  adore  her. 
Thus  HARRIET  reads,  and  reading  really 
Believes  herself  a  young  Pamela, 
The  high-wrought  whim,  the  tender  strain 
Elate  her  mind  and  turn  her  brain : 
Before  her  glass,  with  smiling  grace, 
She  views  the  wonders  of  her  face;      3&> 
There  stands  in  admiration  moveless, 
And  hopes  a  Grandison,  or  Lovelace.2 

Then  shines  she   forth,  and  round  her 

hovers 

The  powder'd  swarm  of  bowing  lovers; 
By  flames  of  love  attracted  thither, 
Fops,  scholars,   dunces,  cits,  together. 
No  lamp  exposed  in  nightly  skies, 
E'er  gather'd  such  a  swarm  of  flies; 
Or  flame  in  tube  electric  draws 
Such  thronging  multitudes  of  straws.    390 
(For  I  shall  still  take  similes 
From  fire  electric  when  I  please.3) 

With  vast  confusion  swells  the  sound, 
When  all  the  coxcombs  flutter  round. 
What  undulation  wide  of  bows ! 
What  gentle  oaths  and  am'rous  vows ! 
What  double  entendres  all  so  smart! 
What  sighs  hot-piping  from  the  heart ! 
What  jealous  leers !  what  angry  brawls 
To  gain  the  lady's  hand  at  balls !  400 

What  billet-doux,  brimful  of  flame! 
Acrostics  lined  with  HARRIET'S  name ! 
What  compliments,  o'er-strain'd  with  tell 
ing 

Sad  lies  of  Venus  and  of  Helen! 
What    wits    half-crack'd    with    common 
places 

On  angels,  goddesses  and  graces! 
On  fires  of  love  what  witty  puns ! 
What  similes  of  stars  and  suns ! 
What  cringing,  dancing,  ogling,  sighing, 
What  languishing  for  love,  and  dying !  4'° 

For  lovers  of  all  things  that  breathe 
Are  most  exposed  to  sudden  death, 
And  many  a  swain  much  famed  in  rhymes 
Hath  died  some  hundred  thousand  times : 
Yet    though    love    oft    their    breath    may 

stifle, 

'Tis  sung  it  hurts  them  but  a  trifle; 
The  swain  revives  by  equal  wonder, 
As  snakes  will  join  when  cut  asunder, 

2  Richardson's    novels    were    then    in    high    re 
quest.     Young  misses  were  enraptured   with   the 
love-scenes,  and  beaux  admired   the  character   of 
Lovelace. 

3  Certain    small    critics    had    triumphed    on    dis 
covering  that  the  writer  had  several  times  drawn 
his    similes    from    the    phsenomena    of    electricity. 
(Author's  notes,  1820  Edition.) 


47 


And  often  murder'd  still  survives ; 

No  cat  hath  half  so  many  lives.  420 

While    round    the    fair,    the    coxcombs 

throng, 

With  oaths,  cards,  billet-doux,  and  song, 
She  spread  her  charms  and  wish'd  to  gain 
The  heart  of  every  simple  swain; 
To  all  with  gay,  alluring  air, 
She  hid  in  smiles  the  fatal  snare, 
For  sure  that  snare  must  fatal  prove, 
Wrhere  falsehood  wears  the  form  of  love; 
Full  oft  with  pleasing  transport  hung, 
On  accents  of  each  flattering  tongue,    43<> 
And  found  a  pleasure  most  sincere 
From  each  erect,  attentive  ear ; 
For  pride  was  her's,  that  oft  with  ease 
Despised  the  man  she  wish'd  to  please. 
She  loved  the  chace,  but  scorn'd  the  prey, 
And  fish'd  for  hearts  to  throw  away; 
Joy'd  at  the  tale  of  piercing  darts, 
And  tort'ring  flames  and  pining  hearts, 
And  pleased  perused  the  billet-doux, 
That  said,  "I  die  for  love  of  you ;"      44<> 
Found  conquest  in  each  gallant's  sighs 
And  blest  the  murders  of  her  eyes. 

So  doctors  live  but  by  the  dead, 
And  pray  for  plagues,  as  daily  bread ; 
Thank  providence  for  colds  and  fevers, 
And  hold  consumptions  special  favors ; 
And  think  diseases  kindly  made, 
As  blest  materials  of  their  trade. 

'Twould  weary  all  the  pow'rs  of  verse 
Their  amorous  speeches  to  rehearse,     45° 
Their  compliments,  whose  vain  parade 
Turns  Venus  to  a  kitchen-maid; 
With  high  pretence  of  love  and  honor, 
They  vent  their  folly  all  uoon  her, 
(Ev'n  as  the  scripture  precept  saith, 
More  shall  be  given  to  him  that  hath;) 
Tell  her  how  wond'rous  fair  they   deem 

her, 

How  handsome  all  the  world  esteem  her; 
And  while  they  flatter  and  adore, 
She  contradicts  to  call  for  more.          460 

"And  did  they  say  I  was  so  handsome? 
My  looks — I'm  sure  no  one  can  fancy  'em. 
'Tis  true  we're  all  as  we  were  framed, 
And  none  have  right  to  be  ashamed; 
But  as  for  beauty — all  can  tell 
I  never  fancied  I  look'd  well ; 
I  were  a  fright,  had  I  a  grain  less 
You're  only  joking,  Mr.  Brainless." 

Yet  beauty  still  maintain'd  her  sway, 
And  bade  the  proudest  hearts  obey ;      470 
Ev'n  sense  her  glances  could  beguile, 
And  vanquished  wisdom  with  a  smile; 
While  merit  bow'd  and  found  no  arms, 
To  oppose  the  conquests  of  her  charms, 
Caught  all  those  bashful  fears,  that  place 


The  mask  of  folly  on  the  face, 
That  awe,  that  robs  our  airs  of  ease, 
And  blunders,  when  it  hopes  to  please; 
For  men  of  sense  will  always  prove 
The  most  forlorn  of  fools  in  love.         4&> 
The  fair  esteem'd,  admired,  'tis  true, 
And  praised — 'tis  all  coquettes  can  do. 
And  when  deserving  lovers  came, 
Believed  her  smiles  and  own'd  their  flame, 
Her  bosom  thrill'd,  with  joy  affected 
T'  increase  the  list,  she  had  rejected; 
While  pleased  to  see  her  arts  prevail, 
To  each  she  told  the  self-same  tale. 
She  wish'd  in  truth  they  ne'er  had  seen  her, 
And  feign'd  what  grief  it  oft  had  giv'n 
her,  490 

And  sad,  of  tender-hearted  make, 
Grieved  they  were  ruined  for  her  sake. 
'Twas  true,  she  own'd  on  recollection, 
She'd  shown  them  proofs  of  kind  affec 
tion: 

But  they  mistook  her  whole  intent, 
For  friendship  was  the  thing  she  meant. 
She    wonder' d    how    their    hearts    could 

move  'em 

So  strangely  as  to  think  she'd  love  'em ; 
She  thought  her  purity  above 
The  low  and  sensual  flames  of  love;     soo 
And  yet  they  made  such  sad  ado, 
She  wish'd  she  could  have  loved  them  too. 
She  pitied  them,  and  as  a  friend 
She  prized  them  more  than  all  mankind, 
And  begg'd  them  not  their  hearts  to  vex, 
Or  hang  themselves,  or  break  their  necks, 
Told  them  'twould  make  her  life  uneasy, 
If  they  should  run  forlorn,  or  crazy; 
Objects  of  love  she  could  not  deem  'em ; 
But  did  most  marv'lously  esteem  'em.    5'° 

For  'tis  esteem,  coquettes  dispense 
Tpw'rd  learning,  genius,  worth  and  sense, 
Sincere  affection,  truth  refined, 
And  all  the  merit  of  the  mind. 

But  love's  the  passion  they  experience 
For  gold,  and  dress,  and  gay  appearance. 

For  ah !  what  magic  charms  and  graces 
Are  found  in  golden  suits  of  laces ! 
What  going  forth  of  hearts  and  souls 
Tow'rd  glare  of  gilded  button-holes!    52° 
What  lady's  heart  can  stand  its  ground 
'Gainst  hats  with  glittering  edging  bound? 
While  vests  and  shoes  and  hose  conspire, 
And  gloves  and  ruffles  fan  the  fire, 
And  broadcloths,  cut  by  tailor's  arts, 
Spread  fatal  nets  for  female  hearts. 

And  oh,  what  charms  more  potent  shine, 
Drawn  from  the  dark  Peruvian  mine ! 
What  spells  and  talismans  of  Venus 
Are      found     in     dollars,     crowns     and 
guineas !  53<> 


48 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


In  purse  of  gold,  a  single  stiver 
Beats  all  the  darts  in  Cupid's  quiver, 
What  heart  so  constant,  but  must  veer, 
When  drawn  by  thousand  pounds  a  year! 
How  many  fair  ones  ev'ry  day 
To  houses  fine  have  fall'n  a  prey, 
Been  forced  on  stores  of  goods  to  fix, 
Or  carried  off  in  coach  and  six ! 
For  Ccelia,  merit  found  no  dart; 
Five  thousand  sterling  broke  her  heart,  540 
So  witches,  hunters  say,  confound  'em, 
For  silver  bullets  only  wound  'em. 

But  now  the  time  was  come,  our  fair 
Should  all  the  plagues  of  passion  share, 
And  after  ev'ry  heart  she'd  won, 
By  sad  disaster  lose  her  own. 
So  true  the  ancient  proverb  sayeth, 
'Edge-tools  are  dang'rous  things  to  play 

with ;' 

The  fisher,  ev'ry  gudgeon  hooking,        549 
May  chance  himself  to  catch  a  ducking; 
The  child  that  plays  with  fire,  in  pain 
Will  burn  its  fingers  now  and  then; 
I  And  from  the  dutchess  to  the  laundress, 
Coquettes  are  seldom  salamanders. 

For  lo !  Dick  Hairbrain  heaves  in  sight, 
From  foreign  climes  returning  bright; 
He  danced,  he  sung  to  admiration, 
He  swore  to  gen'ral  acceptation, 
In  airs  and  dress  so  great  his  merit, 
He  shone — no  lady's  eyes  could  bear  it.  $60 
Poor  HARRIET  saw ;  her  heart  was  stouter ; 
She  gather'd  all  her  smiles  about  her; 
Hoped  by  her  eyes  to  gain  the  laurels, 
And  charm  him  down,  as  snakes  do  squir 
rels. 

So  prized  his  love  and  wish'd  to  win  it, 
That  all  her  hopes  were  center'd  in  it; 
And  took  such  pains  his  heart  to  move, 
Herself  fell  desp'rately  in  love ; 
Though  great  her  skill  in  am'rous  tricks, 
She  could  not  hope  to  equal  Dick's ;      57° 
Her  fate  she  ventured  on  his  trial, 
And  lost  her  birthright  of  denial. 

And  here  her  brightest  hopes  miscarry; 
For  Dick  was  too  gallant  to  marry. 
He  own'd   she'd   charms    for   those    who 

need  'em, 

But  he,  be  sure,  was  all  for  freedom; 
So,  left  in  hopeless  flames  to  burn, 
>Gay  Dick  esteem'd  her  in  her  turn.       s 
In  love,  a  lady  once  given  over 
Is  never  fated  to  recover,  580 

Doom'd  to  indulge  her  troubled  fancies, 
And  feed  her  passion  by  romances; 
And  always  amorous,  always  changing, 
From  coxcomb  still  to  coxcomb  ranging, 
Finds  in  her  heart  a  void,  which  still 
Succeeding  beaux  can  never  fill : 


As  shadows  vary  o'er  a  glass, 

Each  holds  in  turn  the  vacant  place; 

She  doats  upon  her  earliest  pain, 

And  following  thousands  loves  in  vain.  SQO 

Poor  HARRIET  now  hath  had  her  day; 
No  more  the  beaux  confess  her  sway; 
New  beauties  push  her  from  the  stage; 
She  trembles  at  th'  approach  of  age, 
And  starts  to  view  the  alter'd  face, 
That  wrinkles  at  her  in  her  glass : 
So  Satan,  in  the  monk's  tradition, 
Fear'd,  when  he  met  his  apparition. 
At  length  her  name  each  coxcomb  can 
cels  599 
From  standing  lists  of  toasts  and  angels ; 
And  slighted  where  she  shone  before, 
A  grace  and  goddess  now  no  more, 
Despised  by  all,  and  doom'd  to  meet 
Her  lovers  at  her  rival's  feet, 
She  flies  assemblies,  shuns  the  ball, 
And  cries  out,  vanity,  on  all; 
Affects  to  scorn  the  tinsel-shows 
Of  glittering  belles  and  gaudy  beaux; 
Nor  longer  hopes  to  hide  by  dress 
The  tracks  of  age  upon  her  face.          6l° 
Now  careless  grown  of  airs  polite, 
Her  noonday  nightcap  meets  the  sight; 
Her  hair  uncomb'd  collects  together, 
With  ornaments  of  many  a  feather; 
Her  stays  for  easiness  thrown  by, 
Her  rumpled  handkerchief  awry, 
A  careless  figure  half  undress'd, 
(The  reader's  wits  may  guess  the  rest;) 
All  points  of  dress  and  neatness  carried, 
As    though    she'd    been    a    twelvemonth 
married ;  62° 
She  spends  her  breath,  as  years  prevail, 
At  this  sad  wicked  world  to  rail, 
To  slander  all  her  sex  impromptu, 
And  wonder  what  the  times  will  come  to. 
Tom  Brainless,  at  the  close  o-  last  year, 
Had  been  six  years  a  rev'rend  Pastor, 
And  now  resolved,  to  smooth  his  life, 
To  seek  the  blessing  of  a  wife. 
His  brethren  saw  his  amorous  temper, 
And  recommended  fair  Miss  Simper,    63° 
Who  fond,  they  heard,  of  sacred  truth, 
Had  left  her  levities  of  youth, 
Grown  fit  for  ministerial  union, 
And  grave,  as  Christian's  wife  in   Bun- 

yan. 

On  this  he  rigg'd  him  in  his  best, 
And  got  his  old  grey  wig  new  dress'd, 
Fix'd  on  his  suit  of  sable  stuffs, 
And  brush'd  the  powder  from  the  cuffs, 
With  black  silk  stockings,  yet  in  being,    - 
The  same  he  took  his  first  degree  in ;    64° 
Procured  a  horse  of  breed  from  Europe, 
And  learn'd  to  mount  him  by  the  stirrup, 


JOHN    TRUMBULL 


49 


And  set  forth  fierce  to  court  the  maid; 
His  white-hair'd  Deacon  went  for  aid; 
And  on  the  right,  in  solemn  mode, 
The  Reverend  Mr.  Brainless  rode. 
Thus  grave,  the  courtly  pair  advance, 
Like  knight  and  squire  in  famed  romance. 
The  priest  then  bow'd  in  sober  gesture, 
And  all  in  scripture  terms  address'd  her; 
He'd  found,  for  reasons  amply  known,  65' 
It  was  not  good  to  be  alone, 
And  thought  his  duty  led  to  trying 
The  great  command  of  multiplying; 
So  with  submission,  by  her  leave, 
He'd  come  to  look  him  out  an  Eve, 
And  hoped,  in  pilgrimage  of  life, 
To  find  an  helpmate  in  a  wife, 
A  wife  discreet  and  fair  withal. 
To  make  amends  for  Adam's  fall.          &° 

In  short,  the  bargain  finish'd  soon, 
A  reverend  Doctor  made  them  one. 

And  now  the  joyful  people  rouze  all 
To  celebrate  their  priest's  espousal; 
And  first,  by  kind  agreement  set, 
In  case  their  priest  a  wife  could  get, 
The  parish  vote  him  five  pounds  clear, 
T'  increase  his  salary  every  year. 
Then  swift  the  tag-rag  gentry  come 
To  welcome  Madam  Brainless  home;    67° 
Wish  their  good  Parson  joy';  with  pride 
In  order  round  salute  the  bride; 
At  home,  at  visits  and  at  meetings, 
To  Madam  all  allow  precedence; 
Greet  her  at  church  with  rev'rence  due, 
And  next  the  pulpit  fix  her  pew. 

July,  1773. 

LINES 

ADDRESSED  TO 

MESSRS.  DWIGHT  AND  BARLOW 

On    the   projected   publication    of    their 
Poems  in  London  1 

December,  1775 

Pleased  with  the  vision  of  a  deathless 
name, 

You  seek  perhaps  a  flowery  road  to  fame ; 

Where  distant  far  from  ocean's  stormy 
roar, 

Wind  the  pure  vales  and  smiles  the  tran 
quil  shore, 

Where  hills  sublime  in  vernal  sweetness 
rise, 

1  Dwight's  Conquest  of  Canaan,  and  Barlow's 
Vision  of  Columbus,  afterwards  enlarged  and 
entitled,  The  Columbiad.  This  designed  publi 
cation  was  prevented  by  the  Revolutionary  war. 
(This  and  the  other  notes  to  the  poem  were 
supplied  by  the  author  in  the  edition  of  1820.) 


And  opening  prospects  charm   the  wan- 
d'ring  eyes, 

While  the  gay  dawn,  propitious  on  your 
way, 

Crimsons  the  east  and  lights  the  orient 

day. 

Yet  vain  the  hope,  that  waits  the  prom 
ised  bays, 

Though  conscious  merit  claim  the  debt  of 
praise;  10 

Still  sneering  Folly  wars  with  every  art, 

Still  ambush'd  Envy  aims  the  secret  dart, 

Through    hosts    of    foes    the    course    of 
glory  lies, 

Toil  wins  the  field  and  hazard  gains  the 

prize. 

For    dangers   wajt,    and    fears    of    un 
known  name, 

The  long,  the  dreary  pilgrimage  of  fame; 

Each   bard   invades,   each   judging   dunce 
reviews, 

And  every  critic  wars  with  every  Muse. 
As  horror  gloom'd  along  the  dark  ning 
path, 

When   famed  Ulysses2  trod  the  vales  of 
death ;  20 

Terrific  voices  rose,  and  all  around 

Dire  forms  sprang  flaming  from  the  rock 
ing  ground; 

Fierce  Cerberus  lour'd,  and  yawning  o'er 
his  way, 

Hell  flash'd  the  terrors  of  infernal  day; 

The    scornful    fiends    opposed    his    bold 
career, 

And  sung  in  shrieks  the  prelude  of  his 
fear. 

Thus   at   each   trembling   step,   the   Poet 
hears 

Dread  groans  and  hisses  murmur  in  his 
ears; 

In  every  breeze  a  shaft  malignant  flies, 

Cerberean  forms  in  every  rival  rise ;       3° 

There  yawning  wide  before  his  path  ex 
tends 

Th'  infernal  gulph,  where  Critics  are  the 
fiends; 

From    gloomy    Styx    pale    conflagrations 
gleam, 

And     dread     oblivion     rolls     in     Lethe's 

stream. 

And   see,   where   yon   proud   Isle 3  her 
shores  extends 

2  Homer's  Odyssey,  Book  II. 

3  Great    Britain. — See    the    British    Reviewers, 
for  the  fulfilment  of  this  prediction. 

The  English  scribblers  began  their  abuse,  by 
asserting  that  all  the  Americans  were  cowards. 
Subsequent  events  have  taught  them  a  reverent 
silence  on  that  topic.  They  now  labour,  with 
equal  wit  and  eloquence,  to  prove  our  univer- 


50 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


The  cloud  of  Critics  on  your  Muse  de 
scends  ! 

From  every  side,  with  deadly  force,  shall 
steer 

The  fierce  Review,  the  censuring  Gazet 
teer, 

Like  Magazines,  that  pointless  jests  supply, 

And   quick   Gazettes,    that   coin   the    cur 
rent  lie.  4° 

Each    coffee-house    shall    catch   the    loud 
alarms, 

The     Temple     swarm,     and     Grub-street 
wake  to  arms. 

As    vultures,    sailing    through    the    dark- 
en'd  air, 

Whet  their  keen  talons,  and  their  beaks 
prepare, 

O'er  warring  armies  wait  th'  approaching 
fray, 

And  state  their  wishes  on  the  future  prey; 

Each  cens'rer  thus  the  tempting  lure  pur 
sues, 

And  hangs  o'er  battles  of  your  Epic  muse, 

The  pamper'd  critic  feeds  on  slaughter'd 
names, 

And  each  new  bard  a  welcome  feast  pro 
claims,  5° 
Such  men  to  charm,  could  Homer's  muse 
avail, 

Who  read  to  cavil,  and  who  write  to  rail ; 

When  ardent  genius  pours  the  bold  sub 
lime, 

Carp  at  the  style,  or  nibble  at  the  rhyme; 

Misstate  your  thoughts,  misconstrue  your 
design, 

And  cite,  as  samples,  every  feebler  line? 

To  praise  your  muse   be  your  admirer's 
care; 

Her   faults   alone  the  critics   make  their 
share. 

Where  you  succeed,  beyond  their  sphere 
you've  flown, 

But  where  you  fail,  the  realm  is  all  their 
own.  6° 

By  right  they  claim  whatever  faults  are 
found, 

For  nonsense  trespasses  on  critic  ground; 

By  right  they  claim  the  blunders  of  your 
lays, 

As  lords  of  manors  seize  on  waifs  and 

strays. 

Yet  heed  not  these,  but  join  the  sons 
of  song, 

sal  ignorance  and  stupidity.  The  present  writers 
in  the  Quarterly  Review  have  made  it  the  vehicle 
of  insult  and  slander  upon  our  genius  and 
manners.  Whether  they  will  be  more  successful 
with  the  pen,  than  with  the  sword,  in  prostrat 
ing  America  at  their  feet,  Time,  the  ancient 
arbiter,  will  determine  in  due  season. 


And   scorn   the   censures   of   the    envious 

throng ; 
Prove  to  the  world,  in  these  new-dawning 

skies, 

What  genius  kindles  and  what  arts  arise ; 
What    fav'ring   Muses   lent   their    willing 

aid, 
As    gay    through    Pindus'    flowery    paths 

you  stray'd ;  7° 

While  in  your  strains  the  purest  morals 

flow'd, 
Rules   to   the   great,   and   lessons   to   the 

good. 
All  Virtue's  friends  are  yours.     Disclose 

the  lays ; 
Your  country's  heroes  claim  the  debt  of 

praise ; 

Fame  shall  assent,  and  future  years  ad 
mire 
Barlow's     strong     flight,     and     Dwight's 

Homeric  fire. 

1785. 


M'FINGAL 

CANTO   III 

THE  .LIBERTY  POLE  1 

Now  warm  with  ministerial  ire, 
Fierce  sallied  forth  our  loyal  'Squire, 
And  on  his  striding  steps  attends 
His  desperate  clan  of  Tory  friends. 
W'hen  sudden  met  his  wrathful  eye 
A  pole  ascending  through  the  sky, 
Which  numerous  throngs  of  whiggish  race 
Were  raising  in  the  market-place. 
Not  higher  school-boy's  kites  aspire, 
Or  royal  mast,  or  country  spire ;  I0 

Like  spears  at  Brobdignagian  tilting, 
Or  Satan's  walking-staff  in  Milton. 
And  on  its  top,  the  flag  unfurl'd 
Waved  triumph  o'er  the  gazing  world, 
Inscribed  with  inconsistent  types 
Of  Liberty  and  thirteen  stripes.2 
Beneath,  the  crowd  without  delay 
The  dedication-rites  essay, 
And  gladly  pay,  in  antient   fashion, 
The  ceremonies   of  libation ;  2° 

1  The  first  two  cantos,  originally  published  as 
one  in  1776,  tell  of  the  debate  between  Honorius, 
the  Whig,  and  M'Fingal,  the  Loyalist.  The 
fourth,  published  with  the  third  in  1782,  con 
cluded  the  story  with  the  forced  flight  of 
'M'Fingal. 

1  The  American  flag.  It  would  doubtless  be 
wrong  to  imagine  that  the  stripes  bear  any 
allusion  to  the  slave  trade.  (This  and  the  other 
notes  to  the  poem  were  supplied  by  the  author 
in  the  edition  of  1820.) 


JOHN    TRUMBULL 


51 


While  briskly  to  each  patriot  lip 
Walks  eager  round  the  inspiring  flip:1 
Delicious  draught !  whose  powers  inherit 
The  quintessence  of  public  spirit; 
Which  whoso  tastes,  perceives  his  mind 
To  nobler  politics  refined ; 
Or  roused  to  martial  controversy. 
As  from  transforming  cups  of  Circe; 
Or  warm'd  with  Homer's  nectar'd  liquor, 
That  fill'd  the  veins  of  gods  with  ichor,  so 
At  hand   for  new  supplies  in  store, 
The  tavern  opes  its  friendly  door, 
Whence  to  and  fro  the  waiters  run, 
Like  bucket-men  at  fires  in  town. 
Then  with  three  shouts  that  tore  the  sky, 
'Tis  consecrate  to  Liberty. 
To  guard  it  from  th'  attacks  of  Tories, 
A  grand  Committee  cull'd  of  four  is; 
Who  foremost  on  the  patriot  spot, 
Had  brought  the  flip,  and  paid  the  shot.  4» 

By  this,  M'Fingal  with  his  train 
Advanced  upon  th'  adjacent  plain, 
And  full  with  loyalty  possest, 
Pour'd  forth  the  zeal,  that  fired  his  breast. 

"What  mad-brain'd  rebel  gave  commis 
sion, 

To  raise  this  May-pole  of  sedition? 
Like  Babel,  rear'd  by  bawling  throngs, 
With  like  confusion  too  of  tongues, 
To  point  at  heaven  and  summon  down 
The  thunders  of  the  British  crown?        5° 
Say,  will  this  paltry  "^ole  secure 
Your  -forfeit  heads  from  Gage's  power? 
Attack'd  by  heroes  brave  and  crafty, 
Is  this  to  stand  your  ark  of  safety; 
Or  driven  by  Scottish  laird  and  laddie, 
Think  ye  to  rest  beneath  its  shadow? 
When  bombs,  like  fiery  serpents,  fly, 
And  balls  rush  hissing  through  the  sky, 
Will  this  vile  Pole,  devote  to  freedom, 
Save  like  the  Jewish  pole  in  Edom ;        &> 
Or  like  the  brazen  snake  of  Moses, 
Cure  your  crackt  skulls  and  batter'd  noses? 

"Ye  dupes  to  every  factious  rogue 
And  tavern-prating  demagogue, 
Whose  tongue  but  rings,  with  sound  more 

full, 

On  th'  empty  drumhead  of  his  scull; 
Behold  you  not  what  noisy  fools 
Use  you,  worse  simpletons,  for  tools? 
For  Liberty,  in  your  own  by-sense, 
Is  but  for  crimes  a  patent  license,  TO 

To  break  of  law  th'  Egyptian  yoke, 
And  throw  the  world  in  common  stock ; 
Reduce  all  grievances  and  ills 
To  Magna  Charta  of  your  wills; 

1  Flip,  a  liquor  composed  of  beer;  rum,  and 
sugar;  the  common  treat  at  that  time  in  the 
country  towns  of  New  England. 


Establish  cheats  and  frauds  and  nonsense, 
Framed  to  the  model  of  your  conscience; 
Cry  justice  down,  as  out  of  fashion, 
And  fix  its  scale  of  depreciation;2 
Defy  all  creditors  to  trouble  ye, 
And  keep  new  years  of  Jewish  jubilee;  8° 
Drive  judges  out,3  like  Aaron's  calves, 
By  jurisdiction  of  white  staves, 
And  make  the  bar  and  bench  and  steeple 
Submit  t'  our  Sovereign  Lord,  The  People ; 
By  plunder  rise  to  power  and  glory, 
And  brand  all  property,  as  Tory; 
Expose  all  wares  to  lawful  seizures 
By  mobbers  or  monopolizers; 
Break  heads  and  windows  and  the  peace, 
For  your  own  interest  and  increase ;      9° 
Dispute  and  pray  and  fight  and  groan 
For  public  good,  and  mean  your  own; 
Prevent  the  law  by  fierce  attacks 
From  quitting  scores  upon  your  backs; 
Lay  your  old  dread,  the  gallows,  low, 
And  seize  the  stocks,  your  ancient  foe, 
And  turn  them  to  convenient  engines 
To  wreak  your  patriotic  vengeance; 
While  all,  your  rights  who  understand, 
Confess  them  in  their  owner's  hand;      I0° 
And  when  by  clamours  and  confusions, 
Your  freedom's  grown  a  public  nuisance, 
Cry  "Liberty,"  with  powerful  yearning, 
As  he  does  "Fire !"  whose  house  is  burning ; 
Though  he  already  has  much  more 
Than  he  can  find  occasion  for. 
While  every  clown,  that  tills  the  plains, 
Though  bankrupt  in  estate  and  brains, 
By  this  new  light  transform'd  to  traitor, 
Forsakes  his  plough  to  turn  dictator,     1I0 
Starts  an  haranguing  chief  of  Whigs, 
And  drags  you  by  the  ears,  like  pigs. 
All  bluster,  arm'd  with  factious  licence, 
New-born  at  once  to  politicians. 
Each  leather-apron'd  dunce,  grown  wise, 
Presents  his  forward  face  t'  advise, 
And  tatter'd  legislators  meet, 
From  every  workshop  through  the  street. 
His  goose  the  tailor  finds  new  use  in, 
To  patch  and  turn  the  Constitution ;       12° 
The   blacksmith   comes   with    sledge   and 

grate 

To  iron-bind  the  wheels  of  state; 
The  quack  forbears  his  patients'  souse, 
To  purge  the  Council  and  the  House; 

*  Alluding  to  the  depreciation  of  the  Conti 
nental  paper  money.  Congress  finally  ascertained 
the  course  of  its  declension  at  different  periods, 
by  what  was  called,  A  Scale  of  Depreciation. 

3  On  the  commencement  of  the  war,  the  courts 
of  justice  were  every  where  shut  up.  In  some 
instances,  the  judges  were  forced  to  retire,  by 
the  people,  who  assembled  in  multitudes,  armed 
with  white  staves. 


52 


AMERICAN   POETRY 


The  tinker  quits  his  moulds  and  doxies, 
To  cast  assembly-men  and  proxies. 
From  dunghills  deep  of  blackest  hue, 
Your  dirt-bred  patriots  spring  to  view, 
To  wealth  and  power  and  honors  rise, 
Like    new-wing'd    maggots    changed    to 
flies,  '3° 

And  fluttering  round  in  high  parade, 
Strut  in  the  robe,  or  gay  cockade. 
See  Arnold  quits,  for  ways  more  certain, 
His  bankrupt-perj'ries  for  his  fortune, 
Brews  rum  no  longer  in  his  store, 
Jockey  and  skipper  now  no  more, 
Forsakes  his  warehouses  and  docks, 
And  writs  of  slander  for  the  pox;1 
And  cleansed  by  patriotism  from  shame, 
Grows  General  of  the  foremost  name.    :4° 
For  in  this  ferment  of  the  stream 
The  dregs  have  work'd  up  to  the  brim, 
And  by  the  rule  of  topsy-turvies, 
The  sum  stands  foaming  on  the  surface. 
You've  caused  your  pyramid  t"  ascend, 
And  set  it  on  the  little  end. 
Like  Hudibras,  your  empire's  made, 
Whose  crupper  had  o'ertopp'd  his  head. 
You've  push'd  and  turn'd  the  whole  world 

up- 
Side  down,  and  got  yourself  at  top,      *s° 
While  all  the  great  ones  of  your  state 
Are  crush'd  beneath  the  popular  weight; 
Nor  can  you  boast,  this  present  hour, 
The  shadow  of  the  form  of  power. 
For  what's  your  Congress2  or  its  end? 
A  power,  t'  advise  and  recommend; 
To  call  forth  troops,  adjust  your  quotas — 
And  yet  no  soul  is  bound  to  notice; 
To  pawn  your  faith  to  th'  utmost  limit, 
But  cannot  bind  you  to  redeem  it;         l6° 
And  when  in  want  no  more  in  them  lies, 
Than  begging   from  your   States-Assem 
blies, 

Can  utter  oracles  of  dread, 
Like  friar  Bacon's  brazen  head, 
But  when  a  faction  dares  dispute  'em, 
Has  ne'er  an  arm  to  execute  'em : 

1  Arnold's    perjuries    at    the   time    of    his   pre 
tended   bankruptcy,   which   was   the   first   rjse   of 
his   fortune;    and    his   curious   lawsuit   against   a 
brother  skipper,  who  had  charged  him  with  hay 
ing   caught   the   above-mentioned   disease,   by   his 
connection    with    a    certain    African    princess^  in 
the  West  Indies,  were  among  the  early  promises 
of   his  future  greatness,  and-  honors. 

2  The  author  here,  in  a  true  strain  of  patriotic 
censure,  pointed  out  the  principal  defects  in  the 
first    federal   constitution    of   the   United    States; 
all  which  have  been   since   removed   in  the   new 
Constitution,    established   in   the   year    1789.      So 
that  the  prophecy  below,  You'll  ne'er  have  sense 
enough   to   mend   it,   must   be   ranked   among   the 
other   sage  blunders  of   his   second-sighted   hero. 
Land.  Edit, 


As  tho'  you  chose  supreme  dictators, 
And  put  them  under  conservators. 
You've  but  pursued  the  self-same  way 
With  Shakespeare's  Trinc'lo3  in  the  play; 
"You  shall  be  Viceroys  here,  'tis  true,     w 
"But  we'll  be  Viceroys  over  you." 
What  wild  confusion  hence  must  ensue? 
Tho'  common  danger  yet  cements  you : 
So  some  wreck'd  vessel,  all  in  shatters, 
Is  held  up  by  surrounding  waters, 
But  stranded,  when  the  pressure  ceases, 
Falls  by  its  rottenness  to  pieces. 
And  fall  it  must !  if  wars  were  ended, 
You'll  ne'er  have  sense  enough  to  mend 
it:  180 

But  creeping  on,  by  low  intrigues, 
Like  vermin  of  a  thousand  legs,4 
'Twill  find  as  short  a  life  assign'd, 
As  all  things  else  of  reptile  kind. 
Your  Commonwealth's  a  common  harlot, 
The  property  of  every  varlet; 
Which  now  in  taste,  and  full  employ, 
All  sorts  admire,  as  all  enjoy: 
But  soon  a  batter'd  strumpet  grown, 
You'll  curse  and  drum  her  out  of  town.  '90 
Such  is  the  government  you  chose; 
For  this  you  bade  the  world  be  foes ; 
For  this,  so  mark'd   for  dissolution, 
You  scorn  the  British  Constitution, 
That  constitution  form'd  by  sages, 
The  wonder  of  all  modern  ages; 
Which  owns  no  failure  in  reality, 
Except  corruption  and  venality ; 
And  merely  proves  the  adage  just,          '99 
That  best  things  spoil'd  corrupt  to  worst : 
So  man  supreme  in  earthly  station, 
And  mighty  lord  of  this  creation, 
When  once  his  corse  is  dead  as  herring, 
Becomes  the  most  offensive  carrion, 
And  sooner  breeds  the  plague,  'tis  found, 
Than  all  beasts  rotting  on  the  ground. 
Yet  with  republics  to  dismay  us, 
You've  call'd  up  Anarchy  from  chaos, 
With  all  the  followers  of  her  school, 
LTproar  and  Rage  and  wild  Misrule :     2I° 
For  whom  this  rout  of  Whigs  distracted, 
And  ravings  dire  of  every  crack'd  head : 
These  new-cast  legislative  engines 
Of  County-meetings  and  Conventions; 
Committees  vile  of  correspondence, 
And  mobs,  whose  tricks  have  almost  un 
done  's : 

While  reason  fails  to  check  your  course, 
And  Loyalty's  kick'd  out  of  doors,      v 

3  This  political  plan  of  Trinculo  in  the  "Tem 
pest,"   may  be   found   in  the   old   folio   edition   of 
Shakespeare.      It    has    since    been    expunged    by 
some   of  his  wise  commentators. 

4  Millepedes. 


JOHN    TRUMBULL 


53 


And  Folly,  like  inviting  landlord,  2I9 

Hoists  on  your  poles  her  royal  standard  ; 
While  the  king's  friends,  in  doleful  dumps, 
Have  worn  their  courage  to  the  stumps, 
And  leaving  George  in  sad  disaster, 
Most  sinfully  deny  their  master. 
What  furies  raged  when  you,  in  sea, 
In  shape  of  Indians,  drown'd  the  tea;1 
When  your  gay  sparks,  fatigued  to  watch  it, 
Assumed  the  moggison  and  hatchet, 
With  wampum'd  blankets  hid  their  laces, 
And  like  their  sweethearts,  primed2  their 

faces :  23<> 

While  not  a  red-coat  dared  oppose, 
And  scarce  a  Tory  show'd  his  nose; 
While  Hutchinson,3   for  sure  retreat, 
Manoeuvred  to  his  country  seat, 
And  thence  affrighted,  in  the  suds, 
Stole  off  bareheaded  through  the  woods. 
"Have  you  not  roused  your  mobs  to  join, 
And  make  Mandamus-men  resign,          238 
Call'd  forth  each  duffil-drest  curmudgeon, 
With  dirty  trowsers  and  white  bludgeon, 
Forced  all  our  Councils  through  the  land, 
To  yield  their  necks  at  your  command ; 
While  paleness  marks  their  late  disgraces, 
Through  all  their  rueful  length  of  faces? 
"Have  you  not  caused  as  woeful  work 
In  our  good  city  of  New-York, 
When  all  the  rabble,  well  cockaded, 
In  triumph  through  the  streets  paraded, 
And   mobb'd   the   Tories,   scared   their 

spouses, 
And  ransack' d  all  the  custom-houses;4  25° 

1  The  cargo  of  tea  sent  to  Boston,  after  being 
guarded  for  twenty  nights,  by  voluntary  parties 
of  the  Whigs,  to  prevent  its  being  clandestinely 
brought  ashore,  was  thrown  into  the  sea,  by  a 
party  of  about  two  hundred  young  men,  dressed, 
armed  and  painted  like  Indians;  but  many  a 
ruffled  shirt  and  laced  vest  appeared  under  their 
blankets.  *  Primed,  i.e.,  painted. 

3  When    the    leading   Whigs    in    Boston    found 
it    impossible    to    procure    the    Tea    to    be    sent 
back,    they    secretly    resolved    on   its   destruction 
and    prepared     all    the    necessary    means.       To 
cover    the    design,    a   meeting    of    the    people    of 
the    whole    Country    was    convened    on    the    day 
appointed,    and    spent    their    time    in    grave   con 
sultation  on  the  question,   what   should  be  done 
to    prevent    its    being    landed    and    sold.       The 
arrival    of   the    Indians    put    an    end    to    the    de 
bate,   at  the   moment,   when   one  of  the  foremost 
of   the   whig-orators   was    declaiming   against    all 
violent    measures.      Hutchinson    was_    alarmed    at 
the  meeting,  and  retired  privately  in  the  morn 
ing,    to    his    country    seat    at    Milton.      Whether 
from    mistake    or    design,    information    was    sent 
to   him,   that   the  mob   was   coming  to  pull   down 
his    house.      He    escaped    in    the    utmost    haste 
across    the    fields.      The    story    of   the    day    was, 
that  the  alarm  was  given,  at  the  time,  when  he 
sate  half-shaved   under   the   hands   of   his   barber. 

4  The   custom-house   was   broken   open   at   New 
York,  and  all  public  monies  seized. 


Made  such  a  tumult,  bluster,  jarring, 
That  mid  the  clash  of  tempests  warring, 
Smith's5  weather-cock,  in  veers  forlorn, 
Could  hardly  tell  which  way  to  turn? 
Burn'd  effigies  of  higher  powers, 
Contrived  in  planetary  hours ; 
As  witches  with  clay-images 
Destroy  or  torture  whom  they  please : 
Till  fired  with  rage,  th'  ungrateful  club 
Spared  not  your  best  friend,  Beelzebub,  26° 
O'erlook'd  his  favors,  and  forgot 
The  reverence  due  l.is  cloven  foot, 
And  in  the  selfsame  furnace  frying, 
Stew'd    him,    and    North    and    Bute    and 

Try  on?6 

Did  you  not,  in  as  vile  and  shallow  way, 
Fright  our  poor  Philadelphian,  Galloway, 
Your  Congress,  when  the  loyal  ribald 
Belied,  berated  and  bescribbled? 
What  ropes7  and  halters  did  you  send, 
Terrific  emblems  of  his  end,    "  27° 

Till,  least  he'd  hang  in  more  than  effigy, 
Fled  in  a  fog  the  trembling  refugee? 
Now  rising  in  progression  fatal, 
Have  you  not  ventured  to  give  battle? 
When   Treason  chaced  our  heroes  trou 
bled, 

With  rusty  gun,8  and  leathern  doublet ; 
Turn'd    all    stone-walls    and    groves    and 

bushes, 

To  batteries  arm'd  with  blunderbusses; 
And    with    deep   wounds,    that    fate  por 
tend, 

Gaul'd  many  a  Briton's  latter  end;         280 
Drove  them  to  Boston,  as  in  jail, 
Confined  without  mainprize  or  bail. 

r  s  William  Smith,  an  eminent  Lawyer  in  New 
York.  He  at  first  opposed  the  claims  of  Britain, 
but  after  wavering  some  time,  at  last  joined 
our  enemy.  He  has  since  been  Chief  Justice 
in  Canada. 

6  Tryon  was  Governor  of  New  York  and  a 
British  General  during  the  war.  He  had  the 
glory  of  destroying  the  towns  of  Fairfield  and 
Norwalk.  Burnings  in  effigy  were  frequently 
the  amusements  of  the  mob  at  that  period,  and 
in  imitation  of  the  former  custom  of  the  Eng 
lish  in  burning  annually  the  Pope,  the  Devil, 
and  the  Pretender,  Beelzebub,  with  his  usual 
figure  and  accoutrements,  was  always  joined  in 
the  conflagration  with  the  other  obnoxious  char 
acters. 

T  Galloway  began  by  being  a  flaming  patriot; 
but  being  disgusted  at  his  own  want  of  influence, 
and  the  greater  popularity  of  others,  he  turned 
Tory,  wrote  against  the  measures  of  Congress, 
and  absconded.  Just  before  his  escape,  a  trunk 
was  put  on  board  a  vessel  in  the  Delaware, 
to  be  delivered  to  Joseph  Galloway,  Esquire. 
On  opening  it,  he  found  it  contained  only,  as 
Shakespeare  says,  "A  halter  gratis,  and  leave 
to  hang  himself." 

8  At  the  battle  of  Lexington. 


54 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Were  not  these  deeds  enough  betimes, 
To  heap  the  measure  of  your  crimes : 
But  in  this  loyal  town  and  dwelling, 
You  raise  these- ensigns  of  rebellion? 
'Tis  done !  fair  Mercy  shuts  her  door ; 
And  Vengeance  now  shall  sleep  no  more. 
Rise  then,  my  friends,  in  terror  rise, 
And  sweep  this  scandal  from  the  skies.  29° 
You'll    see    their    Dagon,    though    well 

jointed, 

Will  shrink  before  the  Lord's  anointed ; l 
And  like  old  Jericho's  proud  wall, 
Before  your  ram's  horns  prostrate  fall," 
This  said,  our  'Squire,  yet  undismay'd, 
Call'd  forth  the  Constable  to  aid, 
And  bade  him  read,  in  nearer  station, 
The  Riot-act  and  Proclamation. 
He  swift,  advancing  to  the  ring,  299 

Began,  "Our  Sovereign  Lord,  the  King" — 
When    thousand    clam'rous    tongues    he 

hears, 

And  clubs  and  stones  assail  his  ears. 
To  fly  was  vain;  to  fight  was  idle; 
By  foes  encompass'd  in  the  middle, 
His  hope,  in  stratagems,  he  found, 
And  fell  right  craftily  to  ground; 
Then  crept  to  seek  an  hiding  place, 
'Twas  all  he  could,  beneath  a  brace ; 
Where  soon  the  conqu'ring  crew  espied  him, 
And   where   he   lurk'd,   they   caught   and 

tied  him.  3i° 

At  once  with  resolution  fatal, 
Both  Whigs  and  Tories  rush'd  to  battle. 
Instead  of  weapons,  either  band 
Seized  on  such  arms  as  came  to  hand. 
And  as  famed  Ovid2  paints  th'  adventures 
Of  wrangling  Lapithse  and  Centaurs, 
Who  at  their  feast,  by  Bacchus  led, 
Threw  bottles  at  each  other's  head; 
And  these  arms  failing  in  their  scuffles, 
Attack'd  with  andirons,  tongs  and  shovels : 
So  clubs  and  billets,  staves  and  stones  32t 
Met  fierce,  encountering  every  sconce, 
And  cover'd  o'er  with  knobs  and  pains 
Each  void  receptacle  for  brains ; 
Their  clamours  rend  the  skies  around, 
The  hills  rebellow  to  the  sound; 
And  many  a  groan  increas'd  the  din 
From  batter'd  nose  and  broken  shin. 
M'FiNGAL,  rising  at  the  word, 
Drew  forth  his  old  militia-sword;          33° 
Thrice  cried   "King   George,"  as   erst  in 

distress, 
Knights  of  romance  invoked  a  mistress ; 

1  The  Tory  clergy  always  stiled  the  King,  the 
Lord's  Anointed.  The  language  of  Cromwell's 
and  Charles'  days  was  yet  frequent  in  New 
England. 

*  See  Ovid's  Metamorphoses,  book  12th. 


And  brandishing  the  blade  in  air, 
Struck  terror  through  th'  opposing  war. 
The  Whigs,  unsafe  within  the  wind 
Of  such  commotion,  shrunk  behind. 
With  whirling  steel  around  address'd, 
Fierce  through   their   thickest  throng  he 

press'd, 

(Who  roll'd  on  either  side  in  arch, 
Like  Red  Sea  waves  in  Israel's  march)  34° 
And  like  a  meteor  rushing  through, 
Struck  on  their  Pole  a  vengeful  blow. 
Around,  the  Whigs,  of  clubs  and  stones 
Discharged  whole  vollies,  in  platoons, 
That  o'er  in  whistling  fury  fly; 
But  not  a  foe  dares  venture  nigh. 
And  now  perhaps  with  glory  crown'd 
Our  'Squire  had  fell'd  the  pole  to  ground, 
Had  not  some  Pow'r,  a  whig  at  heart, 
Descended  down  and  took  their  part;3  35° 
(Whether  'twere  Pallas,  Mars  or  Iris, 
'Tis  scarce  worth  while  to  make  inquiries) 
Who  at  the  nick  of  time  alarming, 
Assumed  the  solemn  form  of  Chairman, 
Address'd  a  Whig,  in  every  scene 
The  stoutest  wrestler  on  the  green, 
And  pointed  where  the  spade  was  found, 
Late  used  to  set  their  pole  in  ground, 
And  urged,  with  equal  arms  and  might, 
To  dare  our  'Squire  to  single  fight.       360 
The  Whig  thus  arm'd,  untaught  to  yield, 
Advanced  tremendous  to  the  field : 
Nor  did  M'FINGAL  shun  the  foe, 
But  stood  to  brave  the  desp'rate  blow ; 
While  all  the  party  gazed,  suspended 
To  see  the  deadly  combat  ended ; 
And  Jove*  in  equal  balance  weigh'd 
The  sword  against  the  brandish'd  spade, 
He  weigh'd ;  but  lighter  than  a  dream, 
The  sword  flew  up,  and  kick'd  the  beam.  370 
Our  'Squire  on  tiptoe  rising  fair 
Lifts  high  a  noble  stroke  in  air, 
Which  hung  not,  but  like  dreadful  engines, 
Descended  on  his  foe  in  vengeance. 
But  ah !  in  danger,  with  dishonor 
The  sword  perfidious  fails  its  owner; 
That    sword,    which    oft    had    stood    its 

ground, 

By  huge  trainbands  encircled  round ; 
And  on  the  bench,  with  blade  right  loyal, 
Had  won  the  day  at  many  a  trial,5         380 

3  The  learned   reader   will   readily   observe   the 
allusions  in  this  scene,  to  the  single  combats   of 
Paris   and    Menelaus   in    Homer,   ^fineas   and   the 
Turnus    in    Virgil,    and    Michael    and    Satan    in 
Milton. 

4  Jupiter  ipse  duas  aequatp  examine  lances 
Sustinet    &    fata    imponit    diversa    duorum, 
Quem    damnet    labor,    &c. — ^Enid,   12. 

5  It   was   the   fashion   in    New   England    at   that 
time,   for  judges  to  wear   swords  on   the  bench. 


JOHN   TRUMBULL 


55 


Of  stones  and  clubs  had  braved  th'  alarms, 
Shrunk  from  these  new  Vulcanian  arms.1 
The  spade  so  temper'd  from  the  sledge, 
Nor  keen  nor  solid  harm'd  its  edge, 
Now  met  it,  from  his  arm  of  might, 
Descending  with  steep  force  to  smite ; 
The   blade   snapp'd   short — and   from   his 

hand, 

With  rust  embrown'd  the  glittering  sand. 
Swift  turn'd  M'FINGAL  at  the  view, 
And  call'd  to  aid  th'  attendant  crew,      390 
In  vain ;  the  Tories  all  had  run, 
When  scarce  the  fight  was  well  begun; 
Their  setting  wigs  he  saw  decreas'd 
Far  in  th'  horizon  tow'rd  the  west. 
Amazed  he  view'd  the  shameful  sight, 
And  saw  no  refuge,  but  in  flight : 
But  age  unwieldy  check'd  his  pace, 
Though  fear  had  wing'd  his  flying  race; 
For  not  a  trifling  prize  at  stake ; 
No  less  than  great  M'FINGAL'S  back.2    4<*> 
With  legs  and  arms  he  work'd  his  course, 
Like  rider  that  outgoes  his  horse, 
And  labor'd  hard  to  get  away,  as 
Old  Satan3  struggling  on  through  chaos; 
'Till  looking  back,  he  spied  in  rear 
The  spade-arm'd  chief  advanced  too  near: 
Then  stopp'd  and  seized  a  stone,  that  lay 
An  ancient  landmark  near  the  way ; 
Nor  shall  we  as  old  bards  have  done, 
Affirm  it  weigh'd  an  hundred  ton;4      41° 
But  such  a  stone,  as  at  a  shift 
A  modern  might  suffice  to  lift, 
Since  men,  to  credit  their  enigmas. 
Are  dwindled  down  to  dwarfs  and  pigmies, 
And  giants  exiled  with  their  cronies 
To  Brobdignags  and  Patagonias. 
But  while  our  Hero  turn'd  him  round. 
And  tugg'd  to  raise  it  from  the  ground, 
The  fatal  spade  discharged  a  blow 
Tremendous  on  his  rear  below :  420 

His  bent  knee  fail'd,5  and  void  of  strength 
Stretch'd  on  the  ground  his  manly  length. 
Like  ancient  oak  o'erturn'd,  he  lay, 
Or  tower  to  tempests  fall'n  a  prey, 

1  Postquam  arma  Dei  ad  Vulcania  ventum  est, 
Mortalis  mucro,  glacies  ceu  futilis,  ictu 
Dissiluit;    fulva   resplendent    fragmina   arena. 

—Virgil. 
— The  sword 

Was  given  him  temper'd  so,  that  neither  keen 
Nor    solid    might    resist    that    edge;    it    met 
The  sword  of  Satan  with  steep  force  to  smite 
Descending  and  in  half  cut  sheer. — Milton. 
1  nee  enim  levia  aut  ludicra  petuntur 
Praemia,     sed     Turni     de     vita     et     sanguine 
certant. — Virgil.  3  In  Milton. 

4  This  thought  is  taken  from  Juvenal,  Satire  15. 

5  Genua  labant     .     .     .     incidit   ictus, 
Ingens   ad    terram    duplicate    poplite   Turnus. 

— Virgil. 


Or  mountain  sunk  with  all  his  pines, 
Or  flow'r  the  plow  to  dust  consigns, 
And  more  things  else — but  all  men  know 

'em, 

If  slightly  versed  in  epic  poem. 
At  once  the  crew,  at  this  dread  crisis, 
Fall  on,  and  bind  him,  ere  he  rises ;       43° 
And  with  loud  shouts  and  joyful  soul, 
Conduct  him  prisoner  to  the  pole. 
When  how  the  mob  in  lucky  hour 
Had  got  their  en'mies  in  their  power, 
They  first  proceed,  by  grave  command, 
To  take  the  Constable  in  hand. 
Then  from  the  pole's  sublimest  top 
The  active  crew  let  down  the  rope, 
At  once  its  other  end  in  haste  bind, 
And  make  it  fast  upon  his  waistband;  44° 
Till  like  the  earth,  as  stretch'd  on  tenter, 
He  hung  self-balanced  on  his  centre.6 
Then  upwards,  all  hands  hoisting  sail, 
They  swung  him,  like  a  keg  of  ale, 
Till  to  the  pinnacle  in  height 
He  vaulted,  Tike  balloon  or  kite. 
As  Socrates7  of  old  at  first  did 
To  aid  philosophy  get  hoisted, 
And    found   his    thoughts    flow    strangely 

clear, 

Swung  in  a  basket  in  mid  air:  450 

Our  culprit  thus,  in  purer  sky, 
With  like  advantage  raised  his  eye, 
And  looking  forth  in  prospect  wide, 
His  Tory  errors  clearly  spied, 
And  from  his  elevated  station, 
With  bawling  voice  began  addressing. 
^  "Good  Gentlemen  and  friends  and  kin, 
For  heaven's  sake  hear,  if  not  for  mine! 
I  here  renounce  the  Pope,  the  Turks,    459 
The  King,  the  Devil  and  all  their  works; 
And  will,  set  me  but  once  at  ease, 
Turn  Whig  or  Christian,  what  you  please ; 
And  always  mind  your  rules  so  justly, 
Should  I  live  long  as  old  Methus'lah, 
I'll  never  join  in  British  rage, 
Nor  help  Lord  North,  nor  Gen'ral  Gage; 
Nor  lift  my  gun  in  future  fights, 
Nor  take  away  your  Charter-rights ; 
Nor  overcome  your  new-raised  levies, 
Destroy   your   towns,    nor   burn    your 

navies ;  47° 

Nor  cut  your  poles  down  while  I've  breath, 
Though  raised  more  thick  than  hatchel- 

teeth : 

But  leave  King  George  and  all  his  elves — 
To  do  their  conq'ring  work  themselves." 

8  And  earth  self-balanced  on  her  centre  hung. 

— Milton. 

7  In  Aristophanes'  Comedy  of  the  Clouds. 
Socrates  is  represented  as  hoisted  in  a  basket 
to  aid  contemplation. 


56 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


They  said,  they  lower'd  him   down  in 

state, 

Spread  at  all  points,  like  falling  cat; 
But  took  a  vote  first  on  the  question, 
That  they'd  accept  this  full  confession, 
And  to  their  fellowship  and  favor, 
Restore  him  on  his  good  behaviour.      4&> 

Not  so  our  'Squire  submits  to  rule, 
But  stood,  heroic  as  a  mule. 
"You'll  find  it  all  in  vain,"  quoth  he, 
"To  play  your  rebel  tricks  on  me. 
All  punishments,  the  world  can  render, 
Serve  only  to  provoke  th'  offender; 
The  will  gains   strength    from   treatment 

horrid, 

As  hides  grow  harder  when  they're  cur 
ried. 

No  man  e'er  felt  the  halter  draw, 
With  good  opinion  of  the  law;  49<> 

Or  held  in  method  orthodox 
His  love  of  justice,  in  the  stocks; 
Or  fail'd  to  lose  by  sheriff's  shears 
At  once  his  loyalty  and  ears. 
Have  you  made  Murray1  look  less  big, 
Or  smoked  old  Williams1  to  a  Whig? 
Did  our  mobb'd  Ol'ver2  quit  his  station, 
Or  heed  his  vows  of  resignation? 
Has  Rivington,3  in  dread  of  stripes, 
Ceased  lying  since  you  stole  his  types?  5°° 
And  can  you  think  my  faith  will  alter, 
By  tarring,  whipping  or  the  halter? 
I'll  stand  the  worst;  for  recompense 
I  trust  King  George  and  Providence. 
And  when  with  conquest  gain'd  I  come, 
Array'd  in  law  and  terror  home, 
Ye'll  rue  this  inauspicious  morn, 
And  curse  the  day,  when  ye  were  born, 
In  Job's  high  style  of  imprecations, 
With   all   his   plagues,   without  his  pa 
tience."  Sio 

Meanwhile  beside  the  pole  the  guard 
A  Bench  of  Justice  had  prepared,* 
Were  sitting  round  in  awful  sort 
The  grand  Committee  hold  their  Court; 

1  Members  of  the  Mandamus   Council  in   Mas 
sachusetts.      The    operation    of  _  smoking    Tories 
was  thus   performed.      The   victim   was   confined 
in    a   close    room    before    a   large    fire    of   green 
wood,    and    a    cover    applied   to    the   top   of   the 
chimney. 

2  Thomas    Oliver,    Esq.,    Lieut.     Governor    of 
Massachusetts.      He  was  surrounded   at   his  seat 
in  the  country  and  intimidated  by  the  mob  into 
the    signing    of    his    resignation. 

5  Rivington  was  a  Tory  Printer  in  New  York. 
Just  before  the  commencement  of  the  war,  a 
party  from  New  Haven  attacked  his  press,  and 
carried  off  or  destroyed  the  types. 

*  An  imitation  of  legal  forms  was  universally 
practiced  by  the  mobs  in  New-England,  in  the 
trial  and  condemnation  of  Tories.  This  marks 
a  curious  trait  of  national  character. 


While  all  the  crew,  in  silent  awe, 
Wait  from  their  lips  the  lore  of  law. 
Few  moments  with  deliberation 
They  hold  the  solemn  consultation ; 
When  soon  in  judgment  all  agree, 
And  Clerk  proclaims  the  dread  decree ;  5*° 

"That  'Squire  M'FiNGAL  having  grown 
The  vilest  Tory  in  the  town, 
And  now  in  full  examination 
Convicted  by  his  own  confession, 
Finding  no  tokens  of  repentance, 
This  Court  proceeds  to  render  sentence : 
That  first  the  Mob  a  slip-knot  single 
Tie  around  the  neck  of  said  M'FINGAL, 
And  in  due  form  do  tar  him  next, 
And  feather,  as  the  law  directs;    <         53° 
Then  through  the  town  attendant  ride  him 
In  cart  with  Constable  beside  him, 
And  having  held  him  up  to  shame, 
Bring  to  the  pole,  from  whence  he  came." 

Forthwith  the  crowd  proceed  to  ueck 
With  halter'd  noose  M'FINGAL'S  neck, 
While  he  in  peril  of  his  soul 
Stood  tied  half-hanging  to  the  pole; 
Then  lifting  high  the  ponderous  jar, 
Pour'd  o'er  his  head  the  smoaking  tar.  54° 
With  less  profusion  once  was  spread 
Oil  on  the  Jewish  monarch's  head, 
That  down  his  beard  and  vestments  ran, 
And  cover'd  all  his  outward  man. 
As  when  (So  Claudian5  sings)  the  Gods 
And  earth-born  Giants  fell  at  odds, 
The  stout  Enceladus  in  malice 
Tore  mountains  up  to  throw  at  Pallas ; 
And  while  he  held  them  o'er  his  head, 
The  river,  from  their  fountains  fed,      55° 
Pour'd  down  his  back  its  copious  tide, 
And  wore  its  channels  in  his  hide : 
So  from  the  high-raised  urn  the  torrents 
Spread  down  his  side  their  various  cur 
rents  ; 

His  flowing  wig,  as  next  the  brim, 
First  met  and  drank  the  sable  stream; 
Adown  his  visage  stern  and  grave 
Roll'd  and  adhered  'the  viscid  wave ; 
With  arms  depending  as  he  stood, 
Each  cuff  capacious  holds  the  flood;     560 
From  nose  and  chin's  remotest  end, 
The  tarry  icicles  descend; 
Till  all  o'erspread,  with  colors  gay, 
He  glitter'd  to  the  western  ray, 
Like  sleet-bound  trees  in  wintry  skies, 
Or  Lapland  idol  carved  in  ice. 
And  now  the  feather-bag  display'd 
Is  waved  in  triumph  o'er  his  head, 
And  clouds  him  o'er  with  feathers  missive, 
And  down,  upon  the  tar,  adhesive :         5/° 

8  Claudian's  Gigantomachia. 


JOHN   TRUMBULL 


57 


Not  Maia's1  son,  with  wings  for  ears, 

Such  plumage  round  his  visage  wears; 

Nor  Milton's  six-wing'd2  angel  gathers 

Such  superfluity  of  feathers. 

Now  all  complete  appears  our  'Squire, 

Like  Gorgon  or  Chimaera  dire; 

Nor  more  could  boast  on  Plato's3  plan 

To  rank  among  the  race  of  man, 

Or  prove  his  claim  to  human  nature, 

As  a  two-legg'd,  unfeather'd  creature,   sf* 

Then  on  the  fatal  cart,  in  state 
They  raised  our  grand  Duumvirate. 
And  as  at  Rome4  a  like  committee, 
Who  found  an  owl  within  their  city, 
With  solemn  rites  and  grave  processions 
At  every  shrine  perform'd  lustrations; 
And  least  infection  might  take  place 
From  such  grim  fowl  with  feather'd  face, 
All  Rome  attends  him  through  the  street 
In  triumph  to  his  country  seat :  59° 

With  like  devotion  all  the  choir 
Paraded  round  our  awful  'Squire; 
In  front  the  martial  music  comes 
Of  horns  and  fiddles,  fifes  and  drums, 
With  jingling  sound  of  carriage  bells, 
And  trebel  creak  of  rusted  wheels. 
Behind,  the  croud,  in  lengthen'd  row 
With  proud  procession,  closed  the  show. 
And  at  fit  periods  every  throat 
Combined  in  universal  shout ;  6°° 

And  hail'd  great  Liberty  in  chorus, 
Or  bawl'd  'confusion  to  the  Tories.' 
Not  louder  storm  the  welkin  braves 
From  clamors  of  conflicting  waves; 
Less  dire  in  Lybian  wilds  the  noise 
When  rav'ning  lions  lift  their  voice; 
Or  triumphs  at  town-meetings  made, 
On  passing  votes  to  regulate  trade.5 

Thus  having  borne  them  round  the  town, 
Last  at  the  pole  they  set  them  down;    6l° 
And  to  the  tavern  take  their  way 
To  end  in  mirth  the  festal  day. 

And  now  the  Mob,  dispersed  and  gone, 
Left  'Squire  and  Constable  alone. 

1  Mercury,  described  by  the  Poets  with  wings 
on  his  head  and  feet. 

3  An   angel  wing'd — six  wings   he  wore. 

— Milton. 

3  Alluding     to     Plato's     famous    definition     of 
Man,   Animal   bif>es   implume — a  two-legged   ani 
mal    without   feathers. 

4  Livy's  History. 

B  Such  votes  were  frequently  passed  at  town- 
meetings,  with  the  view  to  prevent  the  aug 
mentation  of  prices,  and  stop  the  depreciation 
of  the  paper  money. 


The  constable  with  rueful  face 
Lean'd  sad  and  solemn  o'er  a  brace; 
And  fast  beside  him,  cheek  by  jowl, 
Stuck  'Squire  M'FINGAL  'gainst  the  pole, 
Glued  by  the  tar  t'  his  rear  applied, 
Like  barnacle  on  vessel's  side.  62° 

But  though  his  body  lack'd  physician, 
His  spirit  was  in  worse  condition. 
He  found  his  fears  of  whips  and  ropes 
By  many  a  drachm  outweigh'd  his  hopes. 
As  men  in  jail  without  mainprize 
View  every  thing  with  other  eyes, 
And  all  goes  wrong  in  church  and  state, 
Seen  through  perspective  of  the  grate : 
So  now  M'FiNGAi/s  Second-sight 
Beheld  all  things  in  gloomier  light;       63° 
His  visual  nerve,  well  purged  with  tar, 
Saw  all  the  coming  scenes  of  war. 
As  his  prophetic  soul  grew  stronger, 
He  found  he  could  hold  in  no  longer. 
First  from  the  pole,  as  fierce  he  shook, 
His  wig  from  pitchy  durance  broke, 
His  mouth  unglued,  his  feathers  flutter'd, 
His    tarr'd    skirts    crack'd,    and    thus    he 
utter'd. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Constable,  in  vain  639 

We  strive  'gainst  wind  and  tide  and  rain ! 
Behold  my  doom !  this  feathery  omen 
Portends  what  dismal  times  are  coming. 
Now  future  scenes,  before  my  eyes, 
And  second-sighted  forms  arise. 
I  hear  a  voice,6  that  calls  away, 
And  cries  'The  Whigs  will  win  the  day.' 
My  beck'ning  Genius  gives  command, 
And  bids  me  fly  the  fatal  land; 
Where  changing  name  and  constitution, 
Rebellion  turns  to  Revolution,  650 

While  Loyalty,  oppress'd,  in  tears, 
Stands  trembling  for  its  neck  and  ears. 

"Go,  summon  all  our  brethren,  greeting, 
To  muster  at  our  usual  meeting; 
There  my  prophetic  voice  shall  warn  'em 
Of  all  things  future  that  concern  'em, 
And_  scenes  disclose  on  which,  my  friend, 
Their  conduct  and  their  lives  depend. 
There  I7 — but  first  'tis  more  of  use, 
From  this  vile  pole  to  set  me  loose ;       660 
Then  go  with  cautious  steps  and  steady, 
While  I  steer  home  and  make  all  ready. 

END   OF   CANTO   THIRD 

1782. 

*  I  hear  a  voice,  you  cannot  hear. 

That  says,  I  must  not  stay. — Tickell's  Ballad. 
1  Quos     Ego — sed     motos     praestat     componere 
fluctus. — Virgil, 


POETRY    OF   THE    REVOLUTION 


FROM    "BRADDOCK'S     FATE    AND 
AN  ENCITEMENT  TO  REVENGE" 

HIS    EPITAPH 

Beneath  this  stone  brave  Braddock  lies, 
Who  always  hated  cowardice, 
But  fell  a  savage  sacrifice; 

Amidst  Tiis  Indian  foes. 
I  charge  you,  heroes,  of  the  ground, 
To  guard  his  dark  pavilion  round, 
And  keep  off  all  obtruding  sound, 

And  cherish  his  repose. 

Sleep,  sleep,  I  say,  brave  valiant  man, 
Bold  death,  at  last,  has  bid  thee  stand,    I0 
And  to  resign  thy  great  demand, 

And  cancel  thy  commission: 
Altho'  thou  didst  not  much  incline, 
Thy  post  and  honors  to  resign; 
Now  iron  slumber  doth  confine; 

None  envy's  thy  condition. 

Their  skulking,  scalping,  murdering  tricks 

Have  so  enraged  old  sixty-six,1 

With  legs  and  arms  like  withered  sticks, 

And  youthful  vigor  gone;  2° 

That  if  he  lives  another  year, 
Complete  in  armor  he'll  appear, 
And  laugh  at  death,  and  scoff  at  fear, 

To  right  his  country's  wrong. 

Let  young  and  old,  both  high  and  low, 
Arm  well  against  this  savage  foe, 
Who  all  around  environ  us  so; 

The  sons  of  black  delusion. 
New  England's  sons,  you  know  their  way, 
And  how  to  cross  them  in  their  play,     30 
And  drive  these  murdering  dogs  away, 

Unto  their  last  confusion. 

One  bold  effort  O  let  us  make, 
And  at  one  blow  behead  the  snake; 
And  then  these  savage  powers  will  break, 

Which  long  have  us  oppress'd. 
And  this,  brave  soldiers,  will  we  do, 
If  Heaven  and  George  shall  say  so  too: 
And  if  we  drive  the  matter  thro' 

The  land  will  be  at  rest.  4<> 


1  The  author. 


Come,  every  soldier,  charge  your  gun, 
And  let  your  task  be  killing  one; 
Take  aim  until  the  work  is  done : 

Don't  throw  away  your  fire ; 
For  he  that  fires  without  an  aim, 
May  kill  his  friend,  and  be  to  blame, 
And  in  the  end  come  off  with  shame, 

When  forced  to  retire. 

O  mother  land,  we  think  we're  sure 
Sufficient  is  thy  marine  powers,  so 

To  dissipate  all  eastern  showers : 

And  if  our  arms  be  blest, 
Thy  sons  in  North  America 
Will  drive  these  hell-born  dogs  away 
As  far  beyond  the  realms  of  day, 

As  east  is  from  the  west. 

Forbear,  my  muse,  thy  barbarous  song, 
Upon  this  theme  thou'st  dwelt  too  long, 
It  is  too  high  and  much  too  strong, 

The  learned  won't  allow :  Co 

Much  honor  should  accrue  to  him, 
Who  ne'er  was  at  their  Academ, 
Come,  blot  out  every  telesem;2 

Go  home  unto  thy  plow. 

Aug.  20,  1755. 

Tilden's  Miscellaneous  Poems  on  Divers  Oc 
casions,  chiefly  to  animate  and  rouse  the  Sol 
diers.— 1756. 


TO  ARMS,   TO   ARMS!    MY  JOLLY 
GRENADIERS  » 

To  arms,  to  arms !  my  jolly  grenadiers ! 
Hark,  how  the  drums  do  roll  it  along! 
To    horse,    to    horse,    with    valiant    good 

cheer ; 
WV11  meet  our  proud  foe  before  it  is 

long. 
Let  not  your  courage  fail  you; 

Be  valiant,  stout,  and  bold; 
And  it  will  soon  avail  you, 
My  loyal  hearts  of  gold. 

*  A    name    the    author    gives    to    this    sort    of 
meter. — Author's  Note. 

*  "This    jingling     provincial     ballad     was    com 
posed    in    Chester    county,     Pennsylvania,    while 
the   army    was    on    its    march    in    the    spring   or 
early   summer   of   1755." — Winthrop   Sargent. 


58 


POETRY   OF   THE   REVOLUTION 


59 


Huzzah,    my   valiant   countrymen  ! — again 

I  say  huzzah ! 
'Tis    nobly    done — the    day's    our    own — 

huzzah,  huzzah !  10 

March    on,    march    on,    brave    Braddock 

leads  the  foremost; 
The  battle  is  begun  as  you  may  fairly 

see. 
Stand  firm,  be  bold,  and  it  will  soon  be 

over; 
We'll    soon    gain    the    field    from    our 

proud  enemy. 
A  squadron  now  appears,  my  boys; 

If  that  they  do  but  stand! 
Boys,  never  fear,  be  sure  you  mind 

The  word  of  command ! 
Huzzah,  my  valiant  countrymen !  again  I 

say  huzzah ! 

'Tis    nobly    done — the    day's    our    own — 
huzzah,  huzzah !  2° 

See  how,  see  how,  they  break  and  fly  be 
fore  us ! 
See  how  they  are  scattered  all  over  the 

plain ! 
Now,  Now, — now,  now,  our  country  will 

adore  us ! 
In  peace,  and   in  triumph,  boys,   when 

we  return  again ! 
Then  laurels  shall  our  glory  crown 

For  all  our  actions  told : 
The  hills  shall  echo  all  around 

My  loyal  hearts  of  gold. 
Huzzah,  my  valiant  countrymen ! — again  I 

say  Huzzah ! 

'Tis    nobly    done — the    day's    our    own — 
huzzah,  huzzah !  3° 

"The   History    of   an    Expedition    to    Fort    Du 
Quesne." — 1755. 


HOW  STANDS  THE  GLASS 
AROUND? 

GENERAL  WOLFE  (?) 

How  stands  the  glass  around? 
For  shame  ye  take  no  care,  my  boys, 

How  stands  the  glass  around? 

Let  mirth  and  wine  abound, 

The  trumpets  sound, 
The  colours  they  are  flying,  boys, 

To  fight,  kill,  or  wound, 

May  we  still  be  found 
Content  with  our  hard  fate,  my  boys, 

On  the  cold  ground. 


Why,  soldiers,,  why, 
Should  we  be  melancholy,  boys? 

Why,  soldiers,  why? 

Whose  business  'tis  to  die ! 

What,  sighing?  fie! 
Don't  fear,  drink  on,  be  jolly,  boys! 

'Tis  he,  you,  or  I ! 

Cold,  hot,  wet,  or  dry, 
We're  always  bound  to  follow,  boys, 

And  scorn  to  fly !  ^ 

'Tis  but  in  vain, — 
I  mean  not  to  upbraid  you,  boys, — 

'Tis  but  in  vain, 

For  soldiers  to  complain : 

Should  next  campaign 
Send  us  to  him  who  made  us,  boys, 

We're  free  from  pain ! 

But  if  we  remain, 
A  bottle  and  a  kind  landlady 

Cure  all  again.  3° 

1759. 

THE   DEATH   OF  WOLFE 
(Anon) 

Thy  merits,  Wolfe,  transcend  all  human 

praise, 

The  breathing  marble  or  the  muses'  lays. 
Art  is   but   vain — the    force   of   language 

weak, 
To    paint    thy    virtues,    or    thy    actions 

speak. 

Had  I  Duche's  or  Godfrey's  magic  skill, 
Each  line  to  raise,  and  animate  at  will — 
To  rouse  each  passion  dormant  in  the 

soul, 

Point  out  its  object,  or  its  rage  control — 
Then,    Wolfe,     some     faint    resemblance 

should  we  find 
Of  those  great  virtues  that  adorn'd  thy 

mind.  I0 

Like  Britain's  genius  shouldst  thou  then 

appear, 

Hurling  destruction  on  the  Gallic  rear — 
While  France,  astonish'd,  trembled  at  thy 

sight, 

And  placed  her  safety  in  ignoble  flight. 
Thy   last    great    scene    should    melt    each 

Briton's  heart, 

And  rage  and  grief  alternately  impart. 
With  foes  surrounded,  midst  the  shades 

of  death, 
These    were    the    words    that    closed    the 

warrior's  breath — 

"My  eyesight  fails ! — but  does  the  foe  re 
treat  ? 
If  they  retire,  I'm  happy  in  my  fate!"  *  » 


60 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


A  generous  chief,  to  whom  the  hero  spoke, 
Cried,  "Sir,  they  fly ! — their  ranks  entirely 

broke :    • 
Whilst   thy   bold   troops   o'er    slaughter'd 

heaps  advance, 
And  deal  due  vengeance  on  the  sons  of 

France." 

The  pleasing  truth  recalls  his  parting  soul, 
And    from    his    lips    these    dying   accents 

stole : — 
"I'm  satisfied !"  he  said,  then  wing'd  his 

way, 

Guarded  by  angels  to  celestial  day. 
An    awful    band ! — Britannia's    mighty 

dead, 

Receives  to  glory  his  immortal  shade.     3° 
Marlborough  and  Talbot  hail  the  warlike 

chief — 
Halket   and    Howe,    late    objects   of   our 

grief, 
With  joyful  song  conduct  their  welcome 

guest 

To  the  bright  mansions  of  eternal  rest — 
For   those  prepared   who   merit  just   ap 
plause 
By  bravely  dying  in  their  country's  cause. 

Pennsylvania  Gazette,  Nov.  8,  1759. 

SURE    NEVER    WAS    PICTURE 
DRAWN  MORE  TO  THE  LIFE 

Sure   never  was   picture   drawn  more  to 

the  life 
Or  affectionate  husband  more  fond  of  his 

wife, 
Than  America  copies  and  loves  Britain's 

sons, 
Who,  conscious  of  Freedom,  are  bold  as 

great  guns. 
'Hearts  of  Oak  are  we  still,  for  we're 

sons  of  those  Men 
Who    always    are    ready,    steady,    boys, 

steady, 

To  fight   for  their   freedom   again  and 
again." 

Tho'  we  feast  and  grow  fat  on  America's 
soil, 

Yet  we  own  ourselves   subjects  of  Brit 
ain's  fair  isle ; 

And    who's    so    absurd    to    deny    us    the 
name?  10 

Since  true   British  blood   flows   in  every 

vein. 
"Hearts  of  Oak,  etc." 

Then  cheer  up,  my  lads,  to  your  country 
be  firm, 


Like   kings   of  the   ocean,   we'll   weather 

each  storm; 

Integrity  calls  out,  fair  liberty,  see, 
Waves  her  Flag  o'er  our  heads  and  her 

words  are  be  free. 
"Hearts  of  Oak,  etc." 

To    King    George,    as   true   subjects,    we 

loyal  bow  down, 
But  hope  we  may  call  Magna  Charta  our 

own. 
Let  the  rest  of  the  world  slavish  worship 

decree,  2° 

Great  Britain  has  ordered  her  sons  to  be 

free. 
"Hearts  of  Oak,  etc." 

Poor  Esau  his  birth-right  gave  up  for  a 

bribe, 
Americans    scorn    th'    mean    soul-selling 

tribe ; 
Beyond    life    our    freedom    we    chuse    to* 

possess, 
Which,  thro'  life  we'll  defend,  and  abjure 

a  broad  S.1 
"Hearts  of  Oak  are  we  still,  and  we're 

sons  of  those  men, 
Who  fear  not  the  ocean,  brave  roarings 

of  cannon, 

To     stop     all     oppression,     again     and 
again." 

On    our    brow    while    we    laurel-crown'd 

Liberty  wear,  3° 

What    Englishmen    ought    we    Americans 

dare; 
Though  tempests  and  terrors  around  us 

we  see, 
Bribes  nor  fears  can  prevail  o'er  the  hearts 

that  are  free. 
"Hearts  of  Oak  are  we  still,  for  we're 

sons  of  those  men. 
Who    always    are    ready,    steady,    boys, 

steady, 

To  fight   for  their   freedom  again   and 
again." 

With  Loyalty,  Liberty  let  us  entwine, 
Our  blood  shall  for  both  flow  as  free  as 

our  wine; 
Let    us    set    an    example,    what    all    men 

should  be, 
And  a  Toast  give  the  World,  "Here's  to 

those  dare  be   free."  40 

"Hearts  of  Oak,  etc." 

Virginia  Gazette,  May  2,   1766. 
1  A  gold  sovereign. 


POETRY   OF   THE   REVOLUTION 


61 


COME   JOIN    HAND    IN    HAND, 
BRAVE  AMERICANS   ALL 

To  the  tune  of  "Hearts  of  Oak" 
JOHN  DICKINSON  (?) 

Come,  join  hand  in  hand,  brave  Ameri 
cans  all, 

And  rouse  your  bold  hearts  at  fair  Lib 
erty's  call; 
No  tyrannous  act  shall  suppress  your  just 

claim, 

Or  stain  with  dishonour  America's  name. 
In  freedom  we're  born,  and  in  freedom 

we'll  live ! 

Our  purses  are  ready—* 
Steady,   friends,  steady; 
Not    as    slaves,    but    as    freemen    our 
money  we'll  give. 

Our  worthy  forefathers   (let's  give  them 

a  cheer) 
To    climates    unknown    did    courageously 

steer ;  i° 

Through   oceans  to   deserts    for   freedom 

they  came, 
And,  dying,  bequeath'd  us  their   freedom 

and  fame. 
In  freedom  we're  born,  etc. 

Their  generous  bosoms  all  dangers  de 
spised, 

So  highly,  so  wisely  their  birthrights 
they  prized ; 

We'll  keep  what  they  gave,  we  will  piously 
keep, 

Noi   frustrate  their  toils  on  the  land  and 

the  deep. 
In  freedom  we're  born,  etc. 

The  tree  their  own  hands  had  to  Liberty 

rear'd, 
They  lived  to  behold  growing  strong  and 

revered,  » 

With    transport    then    cried,    "Now    our 

wishes  we  gain, 
For  our  children  shall  gather  the  fruits 

of  our  pain." 
In  freedom  we're  born,  etc. 

How  sweet  are  the  labours  that  freemen 
endure, 

That  they  shall  enjoy  all  the  profit,  se 
cure — 

No  more  such  sweet  labours  Americans 
know 

If  Britons  shall  reap  what  Americans  sow. 
In  freedom  we're  born,  etc. 


Swarms  of  placemen  and  pensioners1  soon 
will  appear, 

Like  locusts  deforming  the  charms  of  the 
year ;  3° 

Suns  vainly  will  rise,  showers  vainly  de 
scend, 

If   we   are   to   drudge,    for   what   others 

shall  spend. 
In  freedom  we're  born,  etc. 

Then   join   hand   in  hand,  brave   Ameri 
cans  all, 

By  uniting,  we  stand,  by  dividing,  we  fall ; 

In   so   righteous  a  cause   let   us   hope   to 
succeed 

For  Heaven  approves  of  each  generous 

deed. 
In  freedom  we're  born,  etc. 

All  ages  shall  speak  with  amaze  and  ap 
plause 

Of  the  courage  we'll  show  in  support  of 
our  laws ;  4° 

To  die  we  can  bear,  but  to  serve  we  dis 
dain, 

For  shame  is  to  freemen  more  dreadful 

than  pain.  .},    . 

In  freedom  we're  born,  etc. 

This  bumper  I  crown  for  our  sovereign's 

health, 

And  this  for  Britannia's  glory  and  wealth ; 
That  wealth  and  that  glory  immortal  may 

be, 

If  she  is  but  just,  and  if  we  ate  but  free. 
In  freedom  we're  born,  etc. 

Pennsylvania  Chronicle,  July  4,  1768. 


A  TORY  PARODY  OF  THE  ABOVE 

Come,  shake  your  dull  noddles,  ye  pump 
kins  and  bawl, 

And  own  that  you're  mad  at   fair  Lib 
erty's  call. 
No  scandalous  conduct  can  add  to  your 

shame, 

Condemn' d  to  dishonor,  inherit  the  fame ! 
In  folly  you're  born,  and  in  folly  you'll 

live, 

To  madness  still  ready, 
And  stupidly  steady, 
Not  as  men  but  as  monkies,  the  tokens 
you  give. 

1  The  ministry  have  already  begun  to  give 
away  in  pensions  the  money  they  lately  took  out 
of  our  pockets  without  our  consent. 

— (Author's  Note.) 


62 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Your  grandsire,  old  Satan — now  give  him 

a  cheer ! — 
Would  act  like  yourselves,  and  as  wildly 

would  steer.  I0 

So  great  an  example  in  prospect  still  keep ; 
Whilst    you    are    alive,    old    Belzee    may 

sleep. 
In  folly,  etc. 

Such  villains,  such  rascals,  all  dangers  de 
spise, 

And  stick  not  at  mobbing,  when  mischief's 
the  prize : 

They    burst    through    all    barriers,     and 
piously  keep, 

Such  chattels  and  goods  the  vile  rascals 

can  sweep. 
In  folly,  etc. 

The  tree  which  the  wisdom  of  justice  hath 

rear'd, 
Should  be  stout  for  their  use,  and  by  no 

means  be  spared,  2° 

When  fuddled  with  rum,  the  mad  sots  to 

restrain ; 

Sure  Tyburn  will  sober  the  wretches  again. 
In  folly,  etc. 

Your  brats  and  your  bunters  by  no  means 

forget, 
But   feather  your  nests,  for  they're  bare 

enough  yet; 
From    the    insolent    rich    sure    the    poor 

knave  may  steal, 
Who  ne'er  in  his  life  knew  the  scent  of 

a  meal. 
In  folly,  etc. 

When  in  your  own  cellars  you've  quaffed 

a  regale, 
Then  drive,  tug  and  stink  the  next  house 

to  assail.  3° 

For  short  is  your  harvest,  nor  long  shall 

you  know 
The  pleasure  of  reaping  what  other  men 

sow. 
In  folly,  etc. 

Then    plunder,    my   lads,    for   when    red 

coats  appear, 
You'll  melt  like  the  locusts  when  winter 

is  near. 
Gold  vainly  will  glow;  silver  vainly  will 

shine; 
But  faith  you  must  skulk,  you  no  more 

shall  purloin. 
In  folly,  etc. 


Then  nod  your  poor  numbskulls,  ye  pump 
kins,  and  bawl ! 

The  De'il  take  such  rascals,  fools,  whore 
sons  and  all.  4° 

Your  cursed  old  trade  of  purloining  must 
cease, 

The  curse  and  the  dread  of  all  order  and 

peace. 
In  folly,  etc. 

All  ages  shall  speak  with  contempt  and 

amaze, 
Of   the   vilest   Banditti   that    swarm'd   in 

those  days ; 
In  defiance  of  halters,  of  whips,  and  of 

chains, 
The  rogues  would  run  riot,  damn'd  fools 

for  their  pains. 
In.  folly,  etc. 

Gulp  down  your  last  dram,  for  the  gal 
lows  now  groans, 

And  order  depress'd  her  lost  empire  be 
moans  ;  5° 

While    we   quite    transported    and    happy 
shall  be, 

From    snobs,    knaves    and    villains,    pro 
tected  and  free. 
In  folly,  etc. 

Boston  Gazette,  Sept.  26,  1768. 

THE   PARODY   PARODIZED 
OR  THE  MASSACHUSETTS  SONG  OF  LIBERTY 

Come,  swallow  your  bumpers,  ye  Tories, 

and  roar, 
That  the  sons  of  fair  freedom  are  ham- 

per'd  once  more ; 
But  know  that  no  cut-throat  our  spirits 

can  tame, 
Nor  a  host  of  oppressors  shall  smother 

the  flame. 

Chorus 

In  freedom  we're  born,  and  like  sons  of 
the  brave, 

Will  never  surrender, 

But  swear  to  defend  her, 
And  scorn  to  survive  if  unable  to  save. 

Our  grandsires,  blest  heroes !   we'll  give 
them  a  tear, 

Nor   sully   their   honors   by    stooping   to 
fear ;  I0 

Thro'    deaths    and    thro'    dangers    their 
trophies  they  won, 

We  dare  be  their  rivals,  nor  will  be  out 
done. 

Chorus. 


POETRY   OF   THE   REVOLUTION 


63 


Let  tyrants  and  minions  presume  to  de 
spise, 

Encroach  on  our  rights  and  make   free 
dom  their  prize; 

The    fruits    of    their    rapine    they    never 
shall  keep — 

Tho"  vengeance  may  nod,  yet  how  short 
is  her  sleep. 

Chorus. 

The  tree  which  proud  Haman   for  Mor- 

decai  rear'd, 
Stands  recorded,  that  virtue  endanger'd  is 

spar'd ; 
That  rogues,  whom  no  bonds  and  no  laws 

can  restrain, 
Must    be    stript    of    their    honors    and 

humbled  again.  M 

Chorus. 

Our  wives  and  our  babes  still  protected, 

shall  know 
Those  who  dare  to  be  free  shall  for  ever 

be  so; 
On  these  arms  and  these  hearts  they  may 

safely  rely, 
For  in  freedom  we'll  live,  or  like  heroes 

we'll  die. 

Chorus. 

Ye  insolent  tyrants,  who  wish  to  enthrall, 

Ye    minions !    ye    placemen !    pimps,    pen 
sioners,  all ! 

How  short  is  your  triumph,  how    feeble 
your  trust! 

Your  honors  must  wither  and  nod  to  the 
dust. 

Chorus. 

When   opprest  and   reproach'd,   our  king 
we  implore, 

Still  firmly  persuaded  our  rights  he'll  re 
store  ;  30 

When  our  hearts  beat  to  arms  to  defend 
a  just  right, 

Our  monarch  rules  there,  and  forbids  us 
to  fight. 

Chorus. 

Not  the  glitter  of  arms,  nor  the  dread  of 

a  fray, 
Could  make  us  submit  to  their  chains  for 

a  day; 

Withheld  by  affection,  on  Britons  we  call, 
Prevent  the  fierce  conflict  which  threatens 

your  fall. 

Chorus. 


All  ages  shall  speak  with  amaze  and  ap 
plause, 

Of  the  prudence  we  show  in  support  of 
our  cause. 

Assur'd  of  our  safety  a  Brunswick  still 
reigns, 

Whose  free,  loyal  subjects  are  strangers 
to  chains.  4<> 

Chorus. 

Then  join  hand  in  hand,  brave  Americans 

all, 
To  be  free  is  to  live ;  to  be  slaves  is  to 

fall; 
Has  the  land   such    a   dastard   as   scorns 

not  a  lord? 
Who  dreads  not  a  fetter  much  more  than 

a  sword? 

Chorus. 

Handbill,  Boston,  early  October    1768. 


THE  LIBERTY  POLE   SATIRIZED 

(Anon.) 
To  the  tune  of  "Derry  Down." 

Come,    listen,    good    neighbors    of    every 

degree, 
Whose  hearts,  like  your  purses,  are  open 

and  free, 

Let  this  pole  a  monument  ever  remain, 
Of  the  folly  and  arts  of  the  time-serving 

train. 

Derry  down,  etc. 

Its  bottom,  so  artfully  fix'd  under  ground. 

Resembles  their  scheming,  so  low  and 
profound ; 

The  dark  underminings,  and  base  dirty 
ends, 

On  which  the  success  of  the  faction  de 
pends. 

Derry  down,  etc.  I0 

The  vane,  mark'd  with  freedom,  may  put 

us  in  mind, 
As  it  varies,  and  flutters,  and  turns,  with 

the  wind, 
That  no  faith  can  be  plac'd  in  the  words 

of  our  foes, 
Who  change  as  the  wind  of  their  interest 

blows. 

Derry  down,  etc. 

The  iron  clasp'd  around  it,  so  firm  and 
so  neat, 

Resembles  too  closely  their  fraud  and  de 
ceit, 


64 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


If  the  outside's  but  guarded,  they  care  not 

a  pin, 

How  rotten  and  hollow  the  heart  is  within. 
Derry  down,  etc.  » 

Then    away,   ye   pretenders    to    freedom, 
away, 

Who  strive  to  cajole  us  in  hopes  to  be 
tray; 

Leave  the  pole  for  the  stroke  of  the  light 
ening  to  sever, 

And,   huzzah    for   King   George   and   our 
country  for  ever! 

Derry  down,  etc. 

From   "The   Procession   with   the   Standard 
of  a  Faction.     A   Cantata."   March  5,   1770. 


A  SONG 

JOSEPH    STANSBURY 

Ye  Sons  of  St.  George,  here  assembled 

today, 

So  honest  and  hearty,  so  chearful  and  gay, 
Come  join  in  the  chorus,  and  loyally  sing 
In  praise  of  your  patron,  your  country 

and  king. 

Tho'  plac'd  at  a  distance  from  Britain's 
bold  shore, 

From  thence  either  we  or  our  fathers 
came  o'er : 

And  in  will,  word  and  deed,  we  are  En 
glishmen  all ; 

Still  true  to  her  cause  and  awake  to  her 
call. 

Let  Cressy,   Poictiers,   and  let  Agincourt 

show 

How  our  ancestors  acted  some  ages  ago :  ™ 
While  Minden's  red  field  and  Quebec  shall 

proclaim 
That    their    sons    are    unchanged    or    in 

nature  or  name. 

Should  the  proud  Spanish  dons  but  ap 
pear  on  the  main, 

The  island  they  pilfered,  by  force  to  main 
tain, 

The  brave  sons  of  thunder  our  wrongs 
will  redress, 

And  teach  them  again  what  they  learn'd 
of  Queen  Bess. 

Tho'  the  proud  Roman   eagle  to   Britain 

was  borne, 
Both    talons    and    feathers    got    plaguily 

torn; 


And  Caesar  himself,  both  with   foot  and 

with  horse, 
Was   glad   to   sneak   off   with — "It's   well 

'twas  no  worse."  2° 

Tho'  party  contentions  awhile  may  run 
high, 

When  danger  advances  they'll  vanish  and 
die: 

While  all  with  one  heart,  hand  and  spirit 
unite, 

Like  Englishmen  think  and  like  English 
men  fight. 

Then   here's   to   our  king,   and   oh,   long 

may  he  reign — 
The  lord  of  those  men  who  are  lords  of 

the  main ! 
While  all  the  contention  among  us  shall 

be 
To  make  him  as  happy  as  we  are  made 

free. 

And  here's  to  the  daughters  of  Britain's 

fair  isle — 
May  freedom  and  they  ever  crown  with 

a  smile  3° 

The  Sons  of  St.  George,  our  good  knight 

so  profound — 
The    Sons    of    St.    George,    men    all    the 

world  round. 

Sung  at  the  second  anniversary  meeting 
of  the  Sons  of  St.  George  in  New  York, 
April  23,  1771. 


THE  BOSTON  TEA  PARTY 
(Anon.) 

As  near  beauteous  Boston  lying, 
On  the  gently  swelling  flood, 

Without  jack  or  pendant  flying, 
Three  ill  fated  tea-ships  rode; 

Just  as  glorious  Sol  was  setting, 
On  the  wharf  a  numerous  crew, 

Sons  of  freedom  fear  forgetting, 
Suddenly  appeared  in  view. 

Armed  with  hammers,  axe  and  chisels, 
Weapons  new  for  warlike  deed,  IC 

Toward  the  herbage- freighted  vessels 
They  approached  with  dreadful  speed. 

O'er  their  heads  aloft  in  mid-sky, 
Three  bright  angel  forms  were  seen; 

This  was  Hampden,  that  was  Sidney, 
With  fair  Liberty  between. 


POETRY  OF  THE   REVOLUTION 


65 


"Soon,"    they    cried,    "your     foes    you'll 
banish, 

Soon  the  triumph  shall  be  won ; 
Scarce  shall  setting  Phoebus  vanish 

Ere  the  deathless  deed  be  done."         2° 

Quick  as  thought  the  ships  were  boarded, 
Hatches  burst  and  chests  displayed; 

Axes,  hammers,  help  afforded ; 
What  a  glorious  crash  they  made. 

Squash  into  the  deep  descended 
Cursed  weed  of  China's  coast; 

Thus  at  once  our  fears  were  ended ; 
British  rights  shall  ne'er  be  lost. 

Captains !  once  more  hoist  your  streamers, 
Spread  your  sails  and  plough  the  wave; 

Tell  your  masters  they  were  dreamers  31 
When  they  thought  to  cheat  the  brave. 

Pennsylvania  Packet,  1773. 


A  LADY'S  ADIEU  TO  HER 
TEA-TABLE 

Farewell    the    tea-board,    with    its    gaudy 

equipage 
Of     cups     and     saucers,     cream-buckets, 

sugar-tongs, 

The  pretty  tea-chest  also,  lately  stor'd 
With    Hyson,    Congou,    and    best    double 

fine. 
Full  many  a  joyous   moment  have  I   sat 

by  ye, 
Hearing  the  girls  tattle,  the  old  maids  talk 

scandal, 
And  the  spruce  coxcomb  laugh  at — may 

be — nothing. 
No  more  shall  I  dish  out  the  once  lov'd 

liquor, 

Though  now  detestable, 
Because   I    am   taught    (and  I   believe   it 

true)  10 

Its   use    will  fasten   slavish   chains  upon 

my  country, 

And  LIBERTY'S  the  goddess  I  would  choose 
To  reign  triumphant  in  AMERICA. 

1774. 

VIRGINIA  BANISHING  TEA 
By  a  Lady 

Begone,  pernicious  baneful  tea, 
With  all  Pandora's  ills  possess'd; 

Hyson,  no  more  beguiled  by  thee, 
My  noble  sons  shall  be  oppress'd. 


To  Britain  fly,  where  gold  enslaves 

And  venal  men  their  birth-right  sell  ; 
Tell  North  and  his  brib'd  clan  of  knaves 

Their  bloody  acts  were  made  in  hell. 
In  Henry's  reign  those  acts  began, 

Which  sacred  rules  of  justice  broke;  I0 
North  now  pursues  the  hellish  plan, 

To  fix  on  us  his  slavish  yoke. 
But  we  oppose,  and  will  be  free, 

This  great  food  cause  we  will  defend ; 
Nor  bribe,  nor  Gage,  nor  North's  decree, 

Shall  make  us  "at  his  feet  to  bend." 
From  Anglia's  ancient  sons  we  came, 

Those  heroes  who  for  freedom  fought; 
In    Freedom's    cause    we'll    match    their 
fame, 

By  their  example  greatly  taught.          2° 
Our  king  we  love,  but  North  we  hate, 

Nor  will  to  him  submission  own; 
If  death's  our  doom,  we'll  brave  our  fate, 

But  pay  allegiance  to  the  throne. 

Pennsylvania  Journal,  Sept.  14,  1774. 


WHEN   GOOD   QUEEN   ELIZABETH 
GOVERNED  THE  REALM 

JOSEPH  STANSBURY 

When  good  Queen  Elizabeth  govern'd  the 

realm, 
And  Burleigh's  sage  counsels  directed  the 

helm, 
In  vain  Spain  and  France  our  conquests 

oppos'd, — 
For  valor  conducted  what  wisdom  pro- 

pos'd. 

Beef  and  beer  was  their  food; 
Love  and  truth  armed  their  band; 
Their  courage  was  ready — 
Steady,  boys,  steady — 
To  fight  and  to  conquer  by  sea  and  by 
land. 

But  since  tea  and  coffee,  so  much  to  our 

grief,  10 

Have  taken  the  place  of  strong  beer  and 

roast  beef, 
Our   laurels   have   wither'd,   our   trophies 

been  torn, 

And   the   lions    of    England    French    tri 
umphs  adorn. 

Tea  and  slops  are  their  food — • 
Which  unnerve  every  hand; 
Their  courage  unsteady 
And  not  always  ready — 
They  often  are  conquered  by  sea  and  by 
land. 


66 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


St.  George  views  with  transport  our  gen 
erous  flame : — 

"My    sons,    rise    to    glory,    and    rival    my 
fame ;  2° 

Ancient  manners  again  in  my  sons  I  be 
hold, 
And   this   age  must   eclipse   all  the   ages 

of  gold." 

Beef  and  beer  are  our  food; 
Love  and  truth  arm  our  band; 
Our  courage  is  steady, 
And  always  is  ready 
To  fight  and  to  conquer  by  sea  and  by 
land. 

While  thus  we  regale,  as  our  fathers  of 

old  — 
Our   manners  as  simple,  our  courage  as 

bold- 
May    vigor    and    prudence    our    freedom 
secure,  30 

Long  as  rivers,  or  oceans,  or  stars  shall 

endure. 

Beef  and  beer  are  our  food; 
Love  and  truth  arm  our  band; 
Our  courage  is  steady, 
And  always  is  ready 
To  fight  and  to  conquer  by  sea  and  by 
land. 

1774?  5? 


In  a  chariot  of  light  from  the  regions  of 

day, 

The  Goddess  of  Liberty  came; 
Ten  thousand  celestials  directed  the  way, 

And  hither  conducted  the  dame. 
A  fair  budding  branch  from  the  gardens 

above, 

Where  millions  with  millions  agree, 
She  brought  in  her  hand  as  a  pledge  of 

her  love, 
And  the  plant  she  named  Liberty  Tree. 

The   celestial   exotic   struck   deep   in   the 

ground, 

Like  a  native  it  flourished  and  bore;     I0 
The   fame  of  its   fruit  drew  the  nations 

around, 

To  seek  out  this  peaceable  shore. 
Unmindful  of  names  or  distinctions  they 

came, 

For  freemen  like  brothers  agree ; 
With  one  spirit  endued,  they  one  friend 
ship  pursued, 
And  their  temple  was  Liberty  Tree. 


Beneath  this  fair  tree,  like  the  patriarchs 

of  old, 

Their  bread  in  contentment  they  ate 
Unvexed  with  the  troubles  of  silver  and 

gold, 

The  cares  of  the  grand  and  the  great.  2° 
With  timber  and  tar  they  Old  England 

supplied, 

And  supported  her  power  on  the  sea; 
Her  battles  they  fought,  without  getting 

a  groat, 
For  the  honor  of  Liberty  Tree. 

But  hear,  O  ye  swains,  'tis  a  tale  most 

profane, 

How  all  the  tyrannical  powers, 
Kings,   Commons  and  Lords,  are  uniting 

amain, 

To  cut  down  this  guardian  of  ours ; 
From  the  east  to  the  west  blow  the  trum 
pet  to  arms, 

Through   the  land  let  the  sound   of  it 

flee,  30 

Let  the  far  and  the  near,  all  unite  with 

a  cheer, 
In  defence  of  our  Liberty  Tree. 

Pennsylvania  Packet,  1775. 


A  SONG 
To  the  tune  of  "The  Echoing  Horn" 

Hark!  'tis  Freedom  that  calls,  come,  pa 
triots,  awake ! 

To  arms,  my  brave  boys,  and  away: 
'Tis  Honour,  'tis  Virtue,  'tis  Liberty  calls, 

And  upbraids  the  too  tedious  delay. 
What  pleasure  we   find  in  pursuing  our 

foes, 

Thro'  blood  and  thro'  carnage  we'll  fly; 
Then    follow,   we'll   soon   overtake  them, 

huzza ! 
The  tyrants  are  seized  on,  they  die. 

Triumphant  returning  with  Freedom  se- 

cur'd, 

Like  men,  we'll  be  joyful  and  gay —    J° 
With   our   wives    and   our    friends,    we'll 

sport,  love  and  drink, 
And  lose  the  fatigues  of  the  day. 
'Tis  freedom  alone  gives  a  relish  to  mirth, 

But  oppression  all  happiness  sours ; 
It   will   smooth   life's   dull  passage,   'twill 

slope  the  descent, 
And  strew  the  way  over  with  flowers. 

Pennsylvania  Journal,  May  31,  1775. 


POETRY   OF   THE   REVOLUTION 


67 


THE  BALLAD  OF  NATHAN  HALE 

The    breezes    went    steadily   through    the 

tall  pines, 
A-saying   "oh !    hu-sh  !"    a-saying   "oh ! 

hu-sh !" 

As  stilly  stole  by  a  bold  legion  of  horse, 
For  Hale  in  the  bush,  for  Hale  in  the 
bush. 

"Keep    still!"    said    the    thrush    as    she 

nestled  her  young 
In  a  nest  by  the  road ;  in  a  nest  by  the 

road, 
"For  the  tyrants  are  near,  and  with  them 

appear 

What  bodes  us  no  good,  what  bodes  us 
no  good." 

The  brave  captain  heard  it,  and  thought 

of  his  home 

In  a  cot  by  the  brook;  in  a  cot  by  the 

brook.  I0 

With    mother    and    sister    and    memories 

dear, 

He  so  gayly  forsook;  he  so  gayly  for 
sook. 

Cooling  shades  of  the  night  were  coming 

apace, 
The   tattoo   had   beat;    the   tattoo   had 

beat. 
The    noble    one    sprang    from    his    dark 

lurking-place, 

To  make  his  retreat;  to  make  his  re 
treat. 

He  warily  trod  on  the  dry  rustling  leaves, 
As  he  passed  through  the  wood;  as  he 

passed  through  the  wood ; 
And   silently   gained   his   rude  launch   on 

the  shore, 

As  she  played  with  the  flood ;   as  she 
played  with  the  flood.  2° 

The  guards  of  the  camp,   on  that  dark, 

dreary  night, 

Had  a  murderous  will ;  had  a  murder 
ous  will. 
They  took  him  and  bore  him  afar  from 

the  shore, 

To  a  hut  on  the  hill ;  to  a  hut  on  the 
hill. 

No  mother  was  there,  nor  a  friend  who 

could  cheer, 

In  that  little   stone  cell;   in  that   little 
stone  cell. 


But  he  trusted  in  love,   from  his  Father 

above. 

In  his  heart,  all  was  well;  in  his  heart, 
all  was  well. 

An   ominous   owl,   with   his   solemn   bass 

voice, 

Sat  moaning  hard  by ;  sat  moaning  hard 

by:  3° 

"The  Tyrant's  proud  minions  most  gladly 

rejoice, 

For   he   must   soon   die;    for   he   must 
soon  die." 

The  brave  fellow  told  them,  nothing  re 
strained, — 

The  cruel  general!  the  cruel  general! 
His  errand  from  camp,  of  the  ends  to  be 

gained, 

And  said  that  was  all;   and  said  that 
was  all. 

They  took  him  and  bound  him  and  bore 

him  away, 
Down  the  hill's  grassy  side;  down  the 

hill's  grassy  side. 
'Twas  there  the  base  hirelings,   in   royal 

array, 

His  cause  did  deride;  his  cause  did  de 
ride.  40 

Five  minutes  were  given,  short  moments, 

no  more, 

For  him  to  repent;  for  him  to  repent. 
He  prayed  for  his  mother,  he  asked  not 

another, 

To    Heaven    he    went;    to    Heaven    he 
went. 

The     faith     of    a     martyr    the    tragedy 

showed, 
As  he  trod  the  last  stage;  as  he  trod 

the  last  stage. 
And  Britons  will  shudder  at  gallant  Hale's 

blood, 

As  his  words  do  presage,  as  his  words 
do  presage. 

"Thou   pale   king  of   terrors,    thou    life's 

gloomy  foe, 

Go  frighten  the  slave,  go   frighten  the 

slave ;  s° 

Tell  tyrants,  to  you  their  allegiance  they 

owe. 

No  fears  for  the  brave;  no  fears  for 
the  brave." 

1776. 


68 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


INDEPENDENCE 

Come  all  you  brave  soldiers,  both  valiant 

and  free, 

It's  for  Independence  we  all  now  agree, 
Let  us  gird  on  our  swords,  and  prepare 

to  defend 

Our    liberty,    property,    ourselves    and 
our  friends. 

In  a  cause  that's  so  righteous,  come  let 

us  agree, 
And  from  hostile  invaders  set  America 

free; 
The  cause  is  so  glorious  we  need  not  to 

fear 

But    from    merciless    tyrants    we'll    set 
ourselves  clear. 

Heaven's  blessing  attending  us,  no  tyrant 

shall  say 

That  Americans  e'er  to  such  monsters 

gave  way ;  I0 

But,  fighting,  we'll  die  in  America's  cause, 

Before  we'll  submit  to  tyrannical  laws. 

George  the   Third,  of   Great   Britain,  no 

more  shall  he  reign, 
With    unlimited    sway    o'er    these    free 

states  again ; 
Lord   North,  nor  old  Bute,  nor  none  of 

their  clan, 
Shall  ever  be  honor'd  by  an  American. 

May    heaven's    blessing    descend    on    our 

United  States, 
And   grant   that   the  union   may  never 

abate; 
May    love,    peace   and    harmony    ever   be 

found 
For  to  go  hand  in  hand  America  round. 


Upon   our   grand   Congress,    may  heaven 

bestow 
Both    wisdom    and    skill    our    good    to 

pursue ; 

On  heaven  alone  dependent  we'll  be, 
But  from  all  earthly  tyrants  we  mean 
to  be  free. 

Unto  our  brave  generals  may  heaven  give 

skill, 
Our  armies  to  guide  and  the  sword  for 

to  wield  ; 
May  their  hands  taught  to  war  and  their 

fingers  to  fight, 
Be  able  to  put  British  armies  to  flight. 


And  now,  brave  Americans,  since  it  is  so, 
That    we    are    independent    we'll    have 
them  to  know,  3° 

That  united  we  are,  and  united  we'll  be, 
And   from  all  British  tyrants  we'll  try 
to  keep  free. 

May  heaven  smile  on  us  in  all  our  en 
deavors, 
Safe   guard   our   sea-ports,   our   towns 

and  our  rivers; 
Keep  us  from  invaders,  by  land  and  by 

sea, 

And  from  all  who'd  deprive  us  of  our 
liberty. 

Freeman's  Journal,  or  New  Hampshire 
Gazette,  Aug.  17,  1776. 


A  BALLAD 
To  the  tune  of  "Smile  Britannia" 

Rise,  rise,  bright  genius  rise, 

Conduct  thy  sons  to  war; 
Thy  spear  pois'd  to  the  skies, 

Whirl,  whirl  thy  rapid  car; 
Fire  each  firm  breast  with  noble  zeal, 
To  conquer  for  the  common  weal. 

For  years  the  iron  rod 

Has  hover'd  o'er  our  heads, 
Submit  to  George's  nod, 

Whose  power  all  Europe  dreads;         I0 
The  slavish  minion  cries, 
But  Freedom's  sons  all  fears  despise. 

All  means  for  peace  we've  tried, 
But  found  those  measures  vain; 

North's  ministerial  pride 
Thought  fear  made  us  complain. 

But  in  the  end,  convinc'd  he'll  see, 

We  dread  not  death,  but  slavery. 

Tho'  fatal  lust  of  pow'r 

Has  steel' d  the  tyrants  soul ;  2° 

Though  in  an  ill-tim'd  hour 

He  bids  his  thunders  roll, 
Great  LIBERTY,  inspired  by  thee, 
We  fly  to  death  or  victory. 

Great  Nature's  law  inspires, 

And  free-born  souls  unite, 
While  common  interest  fires 

Us  to  defend  our  right 
Against  corruption's  boundless  claim, 
And  firmly  fix  great  Freedom's  reign.    3° 


POETRY  OF   THE   REVOLUTION 


69 


They  foreign  troops  employ, 

For  mercenary  hire; 
Their  weakness  we  enjoy, 

Each  pulse  new  ardors  fire, 
Convinc'd  the  wretch  who  fights  for  pay, 
Will  never  bear  the  palm  away. 

They  boast  their  power  by  sea, 

The  ruin  of  our  trade; 
Our  navy  soon  they'll  see, 

Wide  o'er  the  ocean  spread ;  4° 

Britain  not  long  shall  boast  her  reign 
O'er  the  wide  empire  of  the  main. 

Throughout  the  universe 

Our  commerce  we'll  extend, 
Each  power  on  the  reverse 

Shall  seek  to  be  our  friend, 
Whilst  our  sons  crown'd  with  wealth  im 
mense, 
Sing  WASHINGTON  and  COMMON  SENSE. 

Freeman's  Journal,  or  New  Hampshire 
Gazette,  Oct.  22,  1776. 


SONG 
^ONATHAN  ODELL 

How   sweet  is   the   season,   the   sky  how 

serene ; 
On  Delaware's  banks  how  delightful  the 

scene ; 
The  prince   of   the  rivers,   his  waves  all 

asleep, 
In  silence  majestic  glides  on  to  the  deep. 

Away  from  the  noise  of  the  fife  and  the 

drum, 

And  all  the  rude  din  of  Bellona  we  come, 
And  a  plentiful  store  of  good  humor  we 

bring 
To  season  our  feast  in  the  shade  of  Cold 

Spring. 

A  truce  then  to  all  whig  and  tory  debate; 
True   lovers   of    freedom,    contention   we 

hate :  i° 

For  the  demon  of  discord  in  vain  tries  his 

art 
To  possess1  or  inflame  a  true  Protestant * 

heart. 

True   Protestant  friends  to   fair  liberty's 

cause, 
To    decorum,    good    order,    religion    and 

laws, 

1  "Protestant   was  a  term   adopted   by   a  circle 
of   Loyalists."     (Author's   note.) 


From  avarice,  jealousy,  perfidy,  free: 
We  wish  all  the  world  were  as  happy  as 
we. 

We  have  wants,  we  confess,  but  are  free 

from  the  care 
Of  those  that  abound,  yet  have  nothing  to 

spare : 

Serene  as  the  sky,  as  the  river  serene, 
We  are  happy  to  want  envy,  malice  and 

spleen.  20 

While  thousands  around  us,  misled  by  a 
few, 

The  phantoms  of  pride  and  ambition  pur 
sue. 

With  pity  their  fatal  delusion  we  see ; 

And  wish  all  the  world  were  as  happy  as 
we. 

For   a    fishing   party   near    Burlington    on 
the  Delaware   in   1776. 


THE  CONGRESS 

Ye  Tories  all  rejoice  and  sing 
Success  to  George  our  gracious  king 
The  faithful  subjects  tribute  bring 
And  execrate  the  Congress. 

These  hardy  knaves  and  stupid  fools, 
Some  apish  and  pragmatic  mules, 
Some  servile  acquiescing  tools, — 
These,  these  compose  the  Congress ! 

When  Jove  resolved  to  send  a  curse, 
And  all  the  woes  of  life  rehearse,  I0 

Not  plague,  not  famine,  but  much  worse — 
He  cursed  us  with  a  Congress. 

Then  peace  forsook  this  hapless  shore, 
Then  cannons  blazed  with  horrid  roar ; 
We  hear  of  blood,  death,  wounds,  and 

gore, 
The  offspring  of  the  Congress. 

Imperial  Rome  from  scoundrels  rose, 
Her  grandeur's  hailed  in  verse  and  prose ; 
Venice  the  dregs  of  sea  compose; 

So  sprung  the  mighty  Congress.          2° 

When  insects  vile  emerge  to  light, 
They  take  their  short  inglorious  flight, 
Then  sink  again  to  native  night, 
An  emblem  of  the  Congress. 

With  freemen's  rights  they  wanton  play; 
At  their  command,  we  fast  and  pray; 
With  worthless  paper  they  us  pay, 
A  fine  device  of  Congress. 


70 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


With  poverty  and  dire  distress, 
With  standing  armies  us  oppress,  3° 

Whole  troops  to  Pluto  swiftly  press, 
As  victims  to  the  Congress. 

Time  serving  priests  to  zealots  preach, 
Who  king  and  parliament  impeach; 
Seditious  lessons  to  us  teach 
At  the  command  of  Congress. 

Good  Lord !  disperse  this  venal  tribe ; 
Their  doctrine  let  no  fools  imbibe — 
Let  Balaam  no  more  asses  ride, 
Nor  burdens  bear  to  Congress.  4° 

With  puffs,  and  flams,  and  gasconade, 
With  stupid  jargon  they  bravade; 
We  transports  take — Quebec  invade — 
With  laurels  crown  the  Congress. 

Our  mushroom  champions  they  dragoon, 
We  cry  out  hero,  not  poltroon, 
The  next  campaign  we'll  storm  the  moon, 
And  there  proclaim  the  Congress. 

In  shades  below,  Montgomery's  ghost 
Is  welcomed  to  the  Stygian  coast;          S» 
Congenial  traitors  see  and  boast 
Th'  unhappy  days  of  Congress. 

Old  Catiline,  and  Cromwell  too, 
Jack  Cade,  and  his  seditious  crew, 
Hail  brother-rebel  at  first  view, 
And  hope  to  meet  the  Congress. 

The  world's  amazed  to  see  the  pest 
The  tranquil  land  with  wars  infest; 
Britannia  puts  them  to  the  test, 
And  tries  the  strength  of  Congress.     6° 

O  goddess,  hear  our  hearty  prayers; 
Confound  the  villains  by  the  ears; 
Disperse  the  plebeians — try  the  peers, 
And  execute  the  Congress, 
n 

See,  see,  our  hope  begins  to  dawn ! 
Bold  Carleton  scours  the  Northern  lawn, 
The  sons  of  faction  sigh  forlorn, 
Dejected  is  the  Co'ngress. 

Clinton,  Burgoyne  and  gallant  Howe, 
Will  soon  reward  our  conduct  true,         7° 
And  to  each  traitor  give  his  due, 
Perdition  waits  the  Congress. 

See  noble  Dunmore  keeps  his  post; 
Maraudes  and  ravages  the  coast; 
Despises  Lee  and  all  his  host, 
That  hair  brain  tool  of  Congress. 


There's  Washington  and  all  his  men — 
Where  Howe  had  one,  the  goose  had  ten — 
March'd  up  the  hill,  and  down  again 
And  sent  returns  to  Congress.  8° 

Prepare,  prepare,  my  friends,  prepare 
For  scenes  of  blood,  the  field  of  war; 
To  royal  standard  we'll  repair, 
And  curse  the  haughty  Congress. 

Huzza  I  Huzza.  I  we  thrice  huzza  I 
Return  peace,  harmony,  and  law ! 
Restore  such  times  as  once  we  saw, 
And  bid  adieu  to  Congress. 

Towne's  Evening  Post,  No.  435,  1776. 


BOLD  HAWTHORNE  i 

The  twenty-second  of  August, 

Before  the  close  of  day, 
All  hands  on  board  of  our  privateer, 

We  got  her  under  weigh ; 
We  kept  the  Eastern  shore  along, 

Fo~  forty  leagues  or  more, 
Then  our  departure  took  for  sea, 

From  the  isle  of  Mauhegan  shore. 

Bold  Hawthorne  was  commander, 

A  man  of  real  worth,  I0 

Old  England's  cruel  tyranny 

Induced  him  to  go  forth ; 
She,  with  relentless  fury, 

Was  plundering  all  our  coast, 
And   thought,   because  her  strength   was 
great, 

Our  glorious  cause  was  lost. 

Yet  boast  not,  haughty  Britons, 

Of  power  and  dignity, 
By  land  thy  conquering  armies, 

Thy  matchless  strength  at  sea;  x 

Since  taught  by  numerous  instances 

Americans  can  fight, 
With  valor  can  equip  their  stand, 

Your  armies  put  to  flight. 

Now  farewell  to  fair  America, 

Farewell  our  friends  and  wives; 
We  trust  in  Heaven's  peculiar  care, 

For  to  protect  their  lives; 
To  prosper  our  intended  cruise 

Upon  the  raging  main,  3° 

And  to  preserve  our  dearest-friends 

Till  we  return  again. 

1  The  Surgeon's  record  of  the  Cruise  of  the 
"Fair  American,"  Captain  Daniel  Hawthorne, 
Commander, — 1777, 


POETRY   OF  THE   REVOLUTION 


71 


The  wind  it  being  leading, 

It  bore  us  on  our  way, 
As  far  unto  the  southward 

As  the  Gulf  of  Florida; 
Where  we  fell  in  with  a  British  ship, 

Bound  homeward  from  the  main; 
We  gave  her  two  bow-chasers, 

And  she  returned  the  same.  4° 

We  hauled  up  our  courses, 

And  so  prepared  for  fight; 
The  contest  held  four  glasses, 

Until  the  dusk  of  night; 
Then  having  sprung  our  main-mast, 

And  had  so  large  a  sea, 
We  dropped  astern  and  left  our  chase 

Till  the  returning  day. 

Next  morn  we  fished  our  main-mast, 

The  ship  still  being  nigh,  so 

All  hands  made  for  engaging 

Our  chance  once  more  to  try; 
But  wind  and  sea  being  boisterous 

Our  cannon  would  not  bear, 
We  thought  it  quite  imprudent 

And  so  we  left  her  there.  l< 

We  cruised  to  the  eastward, 

Near  the  coast  of  Portugal, 
In  longitude  of  twenty-seven 

We  saw  a  lofty  sail;  60 

We  gave  her  chase,  and  soon  perceived 

She  was  a  British  snow 
Standing  for  fair  America, 

With  troops  for  General  Howe. 

Our  captain  did  inspect  her 

With  glasses,  and  he  said, 
"My  boys,  she  means  to  fight  us, 

But  be  you  not  afraid ; 
All  hands  repair  to  quarters, 

See  everything  is  clear,  70 

We'll  give  a  broadside,  my  boys, 

As  soon  as  she  comes  near." 

She  was  prepared  with  nettings, 

And  her  men  were  well  secured, 
And  bore  directly  for  us, 

And  put  us  close  on  board; 
When  the  cannon  roared  like  thunder, 

And  the  muskets  fired  amain, 
But  soon  we  were  along-side 

And  grappled  to  her  chain.  80 

And  now  the  scene  it  altered, 

The  cannon  ceased  to  roar, 
.We    fought    with    swords    and    boarding 
pikes 

One  gladd  or  something  more, 


Till  British  pride  and  glory 
No  longer  dared  to  stay, 

But  cut  the  Yankee  grapplings, 
And  quickly  bore  away. 

Our  case  was  not  so  desparate 

As  plainly  might  appear; 
Yet  sudden  death  did  enter 

On  board  our  privateer. 
Mahoney,  Crew,  and  Clemmons, 

The  valiant  and  the  brave, 
Fell  glorious  in  the  contest, 

And  met  a  watery  grave. 

Ten  other  men  were  wounded 

Among  our  warlike  crew, 
With  them  our  noble  captain, 

To  whom  all  praise  is  due; 
To  him  and  all  our  officers 

Let's  give  a  hearty  cheer; 
Success  to  fair  America 

And  our  good  privateer. 


90 


Cir.  1777. 


A  BIRTHDAY -SONG 
JONATHAN  ODELL 

Composed  at  New  York,  in  honour  of  the  an 
niversary  of  the  King's  birthday,  June  4th,  1777: 
and  printed  in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  for 
that  year. 

Time    was    when    America   hallow'd    the 
morn 

On  which   the  lov'd  monarch  of   Britain 
was  born 

Hallow'd  the  day,  and  joyfully  chanted 
God  save  the  King! 

Then  flourish'd  the  blessings  of  freedom 
and  peace 

And   plenty   flow'd   in   with   a  yearly   in 
crease. 

Proud  of  our  lot  we  chanted  merrily 
Glory  and  joy  crown  the  King! 

With  envy  beheld  by  the  lations  around, 
We  rapidly  grew,  nor  was  anything  found 
Able  to  check  our  growth  while  we  chanted 

God  save  the  King!  12 

O  blest  beyond  measure,  had  honour  and 

truth 
Still    nursed    in    our    hearts    what    they 

planted  in  youth ! 
Loyalty  still  had  chanted  merrily 

Glory  and  joy  crown  the  King! 

But    see!    how    rebellion    has    lifted    her 

head! 
How  honour  and  truth  are  with  loyalty 

fled! 


72 


P"ew  are  there  now  who  join  us  in  chant 
ing 

God  save  the  King!  2° 

And  see !  how  deluded  the  multitude  fly 
To  arm  in  a  cause  that  is  built  on  a  lye ! 
Yet  are  we  proud  to  chant  thus  merrily 

Glory  and  joy  crown  the  King! 

Though  faction  by  falsehood  awhile  may 

prevail ! 

And  loyalty  suffers  a  captive  in  jail; 
Britain  is  rouz'd,  rebellion  is  falling : 

God  save  the  King! 
The  captive  shall  soon  be  releas'd  from 

his  chain : 

And  conquest  restore  us  to  Britain  again, 
Ever  to  join  in  chanting  merrily,  31 

Glory  and  joy  crown  the  King! 

June  4,  1777. 


THE  FATE  OF  JOHN  BURGOYNE 

When  Jack  the.  king's  commander 

Was  going  to  his  duty, 
Through    all    the    crowd    he    smiled    and 
bowed 

To  every  blooming  beauty. 

The  city  rung  with  feats  he'd  done 

In  Portugal  and  Flanders, 
And  all  the  town  thought  he'd  be  crowned 

The  first  of  Alexanders. 

To  Hampton  Court  he  first  repairs 

To  kiss  great  George's  hand,  sirs;        I0 

Then  to  harangue  on  state  affairs 
Before  he  left  the  land,  sirs. 

The  "Lower  House"  sate  mute  as  mouse 

To  hear  his  grand  oration; 
And  "all  the  peers,"  with  loudest  cheers, 

Proclaimed  him  to  the  nation. 

Then  off  he  went  to  Canada, 

Next  to   Ticonderoga, 
And  quitting  those  away  he  goes 

Straightway  to  Saratoga.  20 

With  great  parade  his  march  he  made 
To  gain  his  wished-for  station, 

While  far  and  wide  his  minions  hied 
To  spread  his  "Proclamation." 

To  such  as  stayed  he  offers  made 

Of  "pardon  on  submission : 
But  savage  bands  should  waste  the  lands 

Of  all  in  opposition." 


But  ah,  the  cruel  fates  of  war! 

This  boasted  son  of  Britain, 
When  mounting  his  triumphal  car, 

With  sudden  fear  was  smitten. 


3° 


To  sons  of  Freedom  gathered  round, 
His  hostile  bands  confounded, 

And  when  they'd  fain  have  turned  their 

back 
They  found  themselves  surrounded ! 

In  vain  they  fought,  in  vain  they  fled; 

Their  chief,  humane  and  tender, 
To  save  the  rest  soon  thought  it  best 

His  forces  to  surrender.  4° 

Brave  St.  Clair,  when  he  first  retired, 
Knew  what  the  fates  portended; 

And  Arnold  and  heroic  Gates 
His  conduct  have  defended. 

Thus  may  America's  brave  sons 

With  honor  be  rewarded, 
And  be  the  fate  of  all  her  foes 

The  same  as  here  recorded. 

1777. 


When  war  with  his  bellowing  sound 

Pervades  each  once  happy  retreat 
And  friendship  no  longer  is  found 

With  those  who  her  praises  repeat; 
The  good  from  the  crowd  may  retire 

And  follow  sweet  peace  to  the  grove 
Where  virtue  rekindles  her  fire 

And  raises  an  altar  to  love. 

There  blest  with  a  sociable  few — 

The  few  that  are  just  and  sincere —    I0 
We  bid  the  ambitious  adieu, 

And  drop  them,  in  pity,  a  tear. 
We  grieve  at  the  fury  and  rage 

Which  burn  in  the  breasts  of  our  foes. 
We  fain  would  that  fury  assuage ; 

We  dare  not  that  fury  oppose. 

With  peace  and  simplicity  blest, 

No  troubles  our  pleasures  annoy ; 
We  quaff  the  pure  stream  with  a  zest 

The  temp'rate  alone  can  enjoy.  20 

Thus  innocent,  chearful  and  gay 

The  swift-fleeting  moments  secure : 
An  age  would  seem  short  as  a  day 

With  pleasures  as  simple  and  pure. 

Summer,  1778. 


POETRY   OF   THE   REVOLUTION 


73 


THE   EPILOGUE 

Our   farce   is  now   finished,  your  sport's 

at  an  end, 
But   ere  you   depart,   let  the   voice   of   a 

friend, 

By  way  of  a  chorus  the  evening  crown, 
With  a  song  to  the  tune  of  a  hey  derry 

down. 
Derry  down,  down,  hey  derry  down. 

Old  Shakespeare,  a  poet  who  should  not 

be  spit  on,    • 
Altho'  he  was  born   in  the  island  called 

Briton, 
Hath   said   that   mankind   are   all  players 

at  best, 
A  truth  we'll  admit  of,   for  the  sake  of 

the  jest. 
Derry  down,  etc.  I0 

On  this  puny  stage  we  have  strutted  our 

hour, 
And  have  acted  our  parts  to  the  best  of 

our  power. 
That  the  farce  has  concluded  not  perfectly 

well 

Was  surely  the  fault  of  the  Devil  in  Hell. 
Derry  down,  etc. 

This  Devil,  you  know,  out  of  spleen  to 

the  church, 
Will  often  times  leave  his  best  friends  in 

the  lurch, 
And    turn   them    adrift   in    the    midst   of 

their  joy; 
'Tis    a   difficult   matter  to   cheat   the   old 

boy. 
Derry  down,  etc.  2° 

Since  this  is  the  case,  we  must  e'en  make 

the  best 
Of  a  game  that  is  lost;  let  us  turn  it  to 

jest, 
We'll  smile,  nay,  we'll  laugh,  we'll  carouse 

and  we'll  sing, 
And  cheerfully  drink  life  and  health  to 

the  King. 
Derry  down,  etc. 

Let  Washington  now  from  his  mountains 

descend, 
Who  knows  but  in  George  he  may  still 

find  a  friend. 
A   Briton,    although   he   loves   bottle   and 

wench, 
Is   an   honester    fellow   than   parlez  vous 

French. 
Derry  down,  etc.  30 


Our  great  Independence  we  give  to  the 

wind, 
And   pray  that   Great   Britain   may   once 

more  be  kind, 

In  this  jovial  song  all  hostility  ends, 
And    Britons    and   we   will    for   ever   be 

friends. 
Derry  down,  etc. 

Boy,   fill  me  a  bumper,  now  join  in  the 
chorus, 

There's  happiness  still  in  the  prospect  be 
fore  us; 

In  this  sparkling  glass  all  hostility  ends, 

And    Britons    and    we    will    for    ever    be 

friends. 
Derry  down,  etc.  4° 

Good   night,    my   good   people,    retire   to 

your  houses, 
Fair  ladies,  I  beg  you  convince  your  fair 

spouses, 

That  Britons  and  we  are  united  in  bliss, 
And  ratify  all  with  a  conjugal  kiss. 
Derry  down,  etc. 

Once  more,  here's  a  health  to  the  King 

and  the  Queen, 
Confusion    to    him    who    in    rancor    and 

spleen, 

Refuses  to  drink  with  an  English  friend, 
Immutable  amity  to  the  world's  end. 
Derry  down,  etc.  so 

A   Broadside,  Philadelphia  and  New 

York,  Oct.  24,  1778. 
Rivington's   Royal    Gazette.   Oct.   24, 

1778. 


YANKEE   DOODLE i 

Father  and  I  went  down  to  camp, 
Along  with  Captain  Gooding, 

And  there  we  see  the  men  and  boys, 
As  thick  as  hasty  pudding. 

Chorus 

Yankee  Doodle,  keep  it  up, 

Yankee  Doodle,  dandy, 
Mind  the  music  and  the  step, 

And  with  the  girls  be  handy. 

1  See  "The  Origin  of  Yankee  Doodle,"  by 
B.  J.  Lossing,  Littell's  Living  Age  (July,  1861). 
This  gives  the  complete  poem  with  its  history 
ana  its  ballad  origins. 


74 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


And  there  we  see  a  thousand  men, 
As  rich  as  'Squire  David;  I0 

And  what  they  wasted  every  day 
I  wish  it  could  be  saved. 

The  'lasses  they  eat  every  day 
Would  keep  an  house  a  winter; 

They  have  as  much  that,  I'll  be  bound, 
They  eat  it  when  they're  a  mind  to. 

And  there  we  see  a  swamping  gun, 

Large  as  a  log  of  maple, 
Upon  a  deuced  little  cart, 

A  load  for  father's  cattle.  *> 

And  every  time  they  shoot  it  off, 

It  takes  a  horn  of  powder, 
And  makes  a  noise  like  father's  gun, 

Only  a  nation  louder. 

I  went  as  nigh  to  one  myself 

As  Siah's  underpinning; 
And  father  went  as  nigh  again, 

I  thought  the  deuce  was  in  him. 

Cousin  Simon  grew  so  bold, 

I  thought  he  would  have  cocked  it;    3° 
It  scared  me  so,  I  shrinked  it  off, 

And  hung  by  father's  pocket. 

And  Captain  Davis  has  a  gun, 
He  kind  of  clapt  his  hand  on't, 

And  stuck  a  crooked  stabbing  iron 
Upon  the  little  end  on't. 

And  there  I  see  a  pumpkin  shell 

As  big  as  mother's  bason; 
And  every  time  they  touched  it  off, 

They  scampered  like  the  nation.  4° 

I  see  a  little  barrel  too, 

The  heads  were  made  of  leather, 
They  knocked  upon  't  with  little  clubs 

And  called  the  folks  together. 

And  there  was  Captain  Washington, 

And  gentlefolks  about  him, 
Iney  say  he's  grown  so  tarnal  proud 

He  will  not  ride  without  'em. 

He  got  him  on  his  meeting  clothes, 
Upon  a  slapping  stallion,  so 

He  set  the  world  along  in  rows, 
In  hundreds  and  in  millions. 

The  flaming  ribbons  in  his  hat, 
They  looked  so  tearing  fine  ah, 

I  wanted  pockily  to  get, 
To  give  to  my  Jemimah. 


I  see  another  snarl  of  men 
A  digging  graves,  they  told  me, 

So  tarnal  long,  so  tarnal  deep, 
They  'tended  they  should  hold  me.     6° 

It  scared  me  so,  I  hooked  it  off, 
Nor  stopped,  as  I  remember, 

Nor  turned  about,  till  I  got  home, 
Locked  up  in  mother's  chamber. 

(Undated.) 

YANKEE    DOODLE'S    EXPEDITION 
TO  RHODE  ISLAND 

From  Lewis,  Monsieur  Gerard  came, 
To  Congress  in  this  town,  sir, 

They  bowed  to  him,  and  he  to  them, 
And  then  they  all  sat  down,  sir. 

Begar,  said  Monsieur,  one  grand  coup 
You  shall  bientot  behold,  sir; 

This  was  believed  as  gospel  true, 
And  Jonathan  felt  bold,  sir. 

So  Yankee  Doodle  did  forget 

The  sound  of  British  drum,  sir,  I0 

How  oft  it  made  him  quake  and  sweat, 

In  spite  of  Yankee  rum,  sir. 

He  took  his  wallet  on  his  back, 

His  rifle  on  his  shoulder, 
And  veowed  Rhode  Island  to  attack, 

Before  he  was  much  older. 

In  dread  array  their  tattered  crew 
Advanced  with  colors  spread,  sir, 

Their  fifes  played  Yankee  doodle,  doo, 
King  Hancock  at  their  head,  sir.          » 

What  numbers  bravely  crossed  the  seas, 

I  can  not  well  determine, 
A  swarm  of  rebels  and  of  fleas, 

And  every  other  vermin. 

Their   mighty   hearts   might   shrink   they 
thought, 

For  all  flesh  only  grass  is, 
A  plenteous  store  they  therefore  brought 

Of  whiskey  and  molasses. 

They    swore    they'd    make   bold    Pigot 
squeak, 

So  did  their  good  ally,  sir,  3° 

And  take  him  prisoner  in  a  week, 

But  that  was  all  my  eye,  sir. 

As  Jonathan  so  much  desired 

To  shine  in  martial  story, 
D'Estaing  with  politeness  retired, 

To  leave  him  all  the  glory. 


POETRY   OF  THE  REVOLUTION 


75 


He  left  him  what  was  better  yet, 
At  least  it  was  more  use,  sir, 

He  left  him  for  a  quick  retreat, 
A  very  good  excuse,  sir.  4° 

To  stay,  unless  he  ruled  the  sea, 
He  thought  would  not  be  right,  sir, 

And  Continental  troops,  said  he, 
On  islands  should  not  fight,  sir. 

Another  cause  with  these  combined, 
To  throw  him  in  the  dumps,  sir, 

For  Clinton's  name  alarmed  his  mind, 
And  made  him  stir  his  stumps,  sir. 

Riving  ton's  Gazette,  Oct.  3,  1778. 


A   FABLE 
DAVID   MATTHEWS  (?) 

Rejoice,  Americans,  rejoice! 
Praise  ye  the  Lord  with  heart  and  voice ! 
The  treaty's  signed  with  faithful  France, 
And  now,  like  Frenchmen,  sing  and  dance ! 

But  when  your  joy  gives  way  to  reason, 
And  friendly  hints  are  not  deemed  trea 
son, 

Let  me,  as  well  as  I  am  able, 
Present  your  Congress  with  a  fable. 

Tired  out  with  happiness,  the  frogs 
Sedition  croaked  through  all  their  bogs ;  I0 
And  thus  to  Jove  the  restless  race, 
Made  out  their  melancholy  case. 

"Famed,  as  we  are,  for  faith  and  prayer, 

We  merit  sure  peculiar  care; 

But  can  we  think  great  good  was  meant 

us, 
When  logs  for  Governors  were  sent  us? 

"Which  numbers  crushed  they  fell  upon, 
And  caused  great  fear, — till  one  by  one, 
As  courage  came,  we  boldly  faced  'em, 
Then  leaped  upon  'em,  and  disgraced  'em ! 

"Great   Jove,"   they   croaked,   "no   longer 
fool  us,  2I 

None  but  ourselves  are  fit  to  rule  us; 
We  are  too  large,  too  free  a  nation, 
To  be  encumbered  with  taxation ! 

"We  pray  for  peace,  but  wish  confusion, 
Then  right  or  wrong,  a — revolution ! 
Our  hearts  can  never  bend  to  obey; 
Therefore  no  king — and  more  we'll  pray." 


Jove  smiled,  and  to  their  fate  resigned 
The  restless,  thankless,  rebel  kind;          3<> 
Left  to  themselves,  they  went  to  work, 
And  signed  a  treaty  with  king  Stork. 

He  swore  that  they,  with  his  alliance, 
To  all  the  world  might  bid  defiance; 
Of  lawful  rule  there  was  an  end  on't, 
And  frogs  were  henceforth — independent. 

At  which  the  croakers,  one  and  all, 
Proclaimed  a  feast,  and  festival! 
But  joy  to-day  brings  grief  to-morrow; 
Their  feasting  o'er,  now  enter  sorrow !   4° 

The  Stork  grew  hungry,  longed  for  fish; 
The  monarch  could  not  have  his  wish; 
In  rage  he  to  the  marshes  flies, 
And  makes  a  meal  of  his  allies. 

Then  grew  so  fond  of  well-fed  frogs, 
He  made  a  larder  of  the  bogs ! 
Say,  Yankees,  don't  you  feel  compunction, 
At  your  unnatural  rash  conjunction? 

Can  love  for  you  in  him  take  root, 
Who's  Catholic,  and  absolute?  s° 

I'll  tell  these  croakers  how  he'll  treat'  'em ; 
Frenchmen,    like    storks,    love    frogs — to 
eat  'em. 

Rivington's  Royal  Gazette,  1778, 


A  CRY  TO  BATTLE 
J.  M.  SEWALL 

Ye  see  mankind  the  same  in  every  age; 
Heroic  fortitude,  tyrannic  rage, 
Boundless  ambition,  patriotic  truth, 
And  hoary  treason,  and  untainted  youth, 
Have  deeply  marked  all  periods  and  all 

climes : 
The    noblest    virtues,    and    the    blackest 

crimes ! 

Britannia's  daring  sins  and  virtues  both, 
Perhaps  once  marked  the  Vandal  and  the' 

Goth, 
And  what  now  gleams  with  dawning  ray 

at  home 
Once    blazed    in    full-orbed    majesty    at 

Rome.  I0 

Did    Caesar,   drunk    with    power,    and 

madly  brave, 

Insatiate  burn,  his  country  to  enslave? 
Did  he  for  this  lead  forth  a  servile  host, 
And  spill  the  choicest   blood  that  Rome 

could  boast? 


76 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Our  British  Caesar  too  has  done  the  same, 
And  damned  this  age  to  everlasting  fame. 
Columbia's  crimsoned  fields  still  smoke 

with  gore ! 

Her  bravest  heroes  cover  all  the  shore ! 
The    flower    of    Britain    too    in    martial 

bloom, 
In   one    sad   year    sent    headlong    to    the 

tomb !  2° 


Rise    then,    my    countrymen !    for    fight 

prepare, 
Gird  on  .your  swords,  and   fearless  rush 

to  war ! 
For  your  grieved  country  nobly  dare  to 

die, 

And  empty  all  your  veins  for  liberty. 
No  pent-up  Utica  contracts  your  powers, 
But    the    whole    boundless    continent    is 

yours ! 

Epilogue  to  "Cato,"  1778. 


WAR  AND  WASHINGTON 
J.  M.  SEWALL 

Vain  Britons,  boast  no  longer  with  proud 

indignity, 
By    land    your    conquering    legions,    your 

matchless  strength  at  sea. 
Since  we,  your  braver  sons  incensed,  our 

swords  have  girded  on, 
Huzza,  huzza.,  huzza,  huzza,  for  war  and 

Washington. 

Urged  on  by  North  and  vengeance  those 

valiant  champions  came, 
Loud    bellowing    Tea    and    Treason,    and 

George  was  all  on  flame, 
Yet   sacrilegious   as    it   seems,    we    rebels 

still  live  on, 
And  laugh  at  all  their  empty  puffs,  huzza 

for  Washington. 

Still  deaf  to  mild  entreaties,  still  blind 
to  England's  good. 

You  have  for  thirty  pieces  betrayed  your 
country's  blood.  I0 

Like  Esop's  greedy  cur  you'll  gain  a 
shadow  for  your  bone, 

Yet  find  us  fearful  shades  indeed,  in 
spired  by  Washington. 

Mysterious !  unexampled !  incomprehen 
sible  ! 

The  blundering  schemes  of  Britain  their 
folly,  pride,  and  zeal, 


Like  lions  how  ye  growl  and  threat!  mere 

asses  have  you  shown, 
And   ye    shall   share    an    ass's    fate,    and 

drudge   for  Washington ! 

Your     dark     un  fathomed     councils     our 

weakest  heads  defeat, 
Our  children  rout  your  armies,  our  boats 

destroy  your  fleet, 
And  to  complete  the  dire  disgrace,  cooped 

up  within  a  town, 
You   live  the  scorn   of  all  our  host,  the 

slaves  of  Washington.  2° 

Great  Heavens !  is  this  the  nation  whose 

thundering  arms  were  hurled, 
Through    Europe,    Afric,    India?    whose 

navy  ruled  the  world? 
The  luster  of  your  former  deeds,  whole 

ages  of  renown, 
Lost  in  a  moment,  or  transferred  to  us 

and  Washington ! 

Yet  think  not  thirst  of  glory  unsheaths 

our  vengeful  swords 
To    rend   your    bands    asunder,    and    cast 

away  your  cords. 
'Tis    heaven-born    freedom    fires    us    all, 

and  strengthens  each  brave  son, 
From  him' who  humbly  guides  the  plough, 

to  godlike  Washington. 

For  this,  oh  could  our  wishes  your  an 
cient  rage  inspire, 

Your  armies  should  be  doubled,  in  num 
bers,  force,  and  fire.  3° 

Then  might  the  glorious  conflict  prove 
which  best  deserved  the  boon, 

America  or  Albion,  a  George  or  Wash 
ington. 

Fired  with  the  great  idea,  our  Fathers' 
shades  would  rise, 

To  view  the  stern  contention,  the  gods 
desert  their  skies ; 

And  Wolfe,  'midst  hosts  of  heroes,  supe 
rior  bending  down, 

Cry  out  with  eager  transport,  God  save 
great  Washington. 

Should  George,  the  choice  of  Britons,  to 

foreign  realms  apply, 
And  madly  arm  half  Europe,  yet  still  we 

would  defy 
Turk,    Hessian,   Jew,   and    Infidel,    or   all 

those  powers   in  one, 

While  Adams  guides  our  senate,  our  camp 
>   great   Washington !  4° 


POETRY   OF   THE   REVOLUTION 


77 


Should  warlike  weapons  fail  us,  disdain 
ing  slavish   fears, 

To  swords  we'll  beat  our  ploughshares, 
our  pruning-hooks  to  spears, 

And  rush,  all  desperate !  on  our  foe,  nor 
breathe  till  b'attle  won, 

Then  shout,  and  shout  America !  and  con 
quering  Washington ! 

Proud  France  should  view  with  terror, 

and  haughty  Spain  revere, 
While  every  warlike  nation  would  court 

alliance  here; 
And  George,  his  minions  trembling  round, 

dismounting  from  his  throne, 
Pay    homage    to    America    and    glorious 
Washington. 

From  "Cato,"  1778. 


Last  year  rebellion  proudly  stood, 

Elate,  in  her  meridian  glory ; 
But  this  shall  quench  her  pride  in  blood — 

George  will  avenge  each  martyr'd  Tory. 

Then  bring  us  wine,  full  bumpers  bring : 

Hail  this  New  Year  in  joyful  chorus; 

God  bless  great  George,  our  gracious  king, 

And  crush  rebellion  down  before  us. 

'Tis  New  Year's  morn ;   why  should 

we  part? 

Why   not    enjoy   what    heaven    has 
sent  us?  30 

Let  wine  expand  the  social  heart, 
Let    friends,   and   mirth,   and   wine 
content  us. 

Rivington's  Royal  Gazette,  Jan.  2,  1779. 


THE  OLD  YEAR  AND  THE  NEW: 
A  PROPHECY 

J.  ODELL(?) 

What  though  last  year  be  past  and  gone, 
Why  should  we  grieve  or  mourn  about  it? 
As  good  a  year  is  now  begun, 

And  better,  too, — let  no  one  doubt  it 
'Tis  New  Year's  morn;   why  should 

we  part? 
Why    not    enjoy    what   heaven    has 

sent  us? 

Let  wine  expand  the  social  heart, 
Let    friends,   and   mirth,   and   wine 
content  us. 

War's  rude  alarms  disturb'd  last  year; 

Our  country  bled  and  wept  around  us ; 
But  this  each  honest  heart  shall  cheer,    " 

And  peace  and  plenty  shall  surround  us. 

Last  year  saw  many  honest  men 

Torn    from   each   dear  and  sweet   con 
nection  : 

But  this  shall  see  them  home  again, 
And  happy  in  their  King's  protection. 

Last  year  "King  Congo"  through  the  land, 
Display'd  his  thirteen  stripes  to   fright 
us; 

But  George's  power,  in  Clinton's  hand, 
In  this  New  Year  shall  surely  right  us. 

Last    year    vain    Frenchmen    brav'd    our 

coasts, 
And    baffled    Howe,    and    scap'd    from 

Byron ; 

But  this  shall  bring  their  vanquish'd  hosts 
To  crouch  beneath  the  British  lion.     2° 


THE  PRESENT  AGE 

Of  all  the  ages  ever  known, 

The  present  is  the  oddest; 
For  all  the  men  are  honest  grown, 

And  all  the  women  modest. 

Nor  lawyers  now  are  fond  of  fees, 

Nor  clergy  of  their  dues, 
No  idle  people  now  one  sees, 

At  church  no  empty  pews. 

No  courtiers  now  their  friends  deceive 
With  promises  of  favor;  10 

For  what  they  made  'em  once  believe 
Is  done  and  done  forever. 

Our  nobles — Heaven  defend  us  all ! 

I'll  nothing  say  about  'em; 
For  they  are  great  and  I'm  but  small, 

So  muse,  jog  on  without  'em. 

Our  gentry  are  a  virtuous  race, 

Despising  earthly  treasures; 
Fond  of  true  honor's  noble  chase, 

And  quite  averse  to  pleasures.  » 

The  ladies  dress  so  plain  indeed, 
You'd  think  'em  Quakers  all ; 

Witness  the  wool-packs  on  their  heads, 
So  comely  and  so  small. 

No  tradesman  now  forsakes  his  shop, 

For  politics  or  news ; 
Or  takes  his  dealer  at  a  hop 

Through  interested  views. 

No  soaking  sot  forsakes  his  spouse 
For  mugs  of  mantling  nappy;  3° 

Nor  taverns  tempt  him  from  his  house, 
Where  all  are  pleased  and  happy. 


78 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Our  frugal  taste  the  State  secures, 
Whence  then  can  woes  begin? 

For  luxury's  turned  out  of  doors, 
And  prudence  taken  in. 

From  hence  proceeds  the  abundant  flow 

Of  plenty  through  the  land; 
Where  all  provisions,  all  men  know, 

Are  cheap  on  every  hand.  4° 

No  pleasure-chaises  fill  the  streets, 
Nor  crowd  the  roads  on  Sunday; 

So  horses,  ambling  through  the  week, 
Obtain  a   respite  one   day. 

All  gaming,  tricking,  swearing,  lying, 
Is  grown  quite  out  of  fashion; 

For  modern  youth's  so  self-denying 
It  flies  all  lawless  passion. 

Happy  the  nation  thus  endowed ! 

So  void  of  wants  and  crimes;  5° 

Where  all  are  rich  and  none  are  proud, 

Oh !  these  are  glorious  times. 

Your  characters   (with  wondering  stare 
Cries  Tom)   are  mighty  high,  sir; 

But  pray  forgive  me,  if  I  swear, 
I  think  they're  all  a  lie,  sir. 

Ha!  think  you  so,  my  honest  clown? 

Then  take  another  light  on't; 
Just  turn  the  picture  upside  down, 

I  fear  you'll  see  the  right  on't.  6° 

The  Freeman's  Journal  or  the  New 
Hampshire  Gazette,  1779. 

THE  CONGRATULATION 
JONATHAN  ODELL 

Dii  boni,  boni  quid  porto. — TERENCE. 

Joy  to   Great   Congress,  joy  an  hundred 

fold: 

The  grand  cajolers  are  themselves  cajol'd  ! 
In  vain  has  [Franklin's]  artifice  been  tried, 
And  Louis  swell'd  with  treachery  and 

pride : 
Who  reigns  supreme  in  heav'n  deception 

spurns, 
And   on   the   author's   head   the   mischief 

turns. 

1  Written  by  Rev.  Dr.  Odell,  on  occasion  of  the 
failure  of  the  great  expectations  entertained  by 
the  Americans  from  the  presence  in  our  waters 
of  D'Estaing's  fleet  during  the  years  1778  and 
1779.  This  piece  appears  to  have  been  very 
popular  at  the  period,  being  printed  at  New 
York  in  Rivington's  Royal  Gazette  of  Novem 
ber  6th,  1779;  and  again  in  the  Supplement  of 
November  24th. — (WINTHROP  SARGENT'S  Note.) 


What  pains  were  taken  to  procure  D'Es- 

taing ! 
His   fleet's    dispers'd,    and   Congress    may 

go  hang. 

Joy  to  great  Congress,  joy  an  hundred 
fold: 

The  grand  cajolers  are  themselves  ca 
jol'd  !  I0 

Heav'ns  King  sends  forth  the  hurricane 
and  strips 

Of  all  their  glory  the  perfidious  ships. 

His  Ministers  of  Wrath  the  storm  direct: 

Nor  can  the  Prince  of  Air  his  French  pro 
tect. 

St.  George,  St.  David  show'd  themselves 
true  hearts; 

St.  Andrew  and  St.  Patrick  topp'd  their 
parts. 

With  right  Eolian  puffs  the  wind  they 
blew; 

Crack  went  the  masts ;  the  sails  to  shivers 
flew. 

Such  honest  saints  shall  never  be  forgot : 

St.  Dennis,  and  St.  Tammany  go  rot.    20 

Joy   to   great   Congress,   joy   an   hundred 

fold: 

The  grand  cajolers  are  themselves  ca 
jol'd! 

Old  Satan  holds  a  council  in  mid-air; 
Hear  the  black  Dragon  furious  rage  and 

swear — 
— Are  these   the   triumphs   of   my    Gallic 

friends? 
How  will  you  ward  this  blow,  my  trusty 

fiends? 

What  remedy  for  this  unlucky  job? 
What   art   shall   raise  the   spirits   of  the 

mob? 

Fly  swift,  ye  sure  supporters  of  my  realm, 
Ere  this  ill-news  the  rebels  overwhelm.  30 
Invent,  say  anything  to  make  them  mad ; 
Tell  them  the  King — No,  Dev'ls  are  not 

so  bad; 
The    dogs    of    Congress    at    the   king   let 

loose ; 
But  ye,  brave   Dev'ls,   avoid    such   mean 

abuse. 

Joy  to  great  Congress,  joy  an  hundred 
fold: 

The  grand  cajolers  are  themselves  ca 
jol'd! 

What  thinks  Sir  Washington  of  this  mis 
chance  ; 

Blames  he  not  those,  who  put  their  trust 
in  France?  38 


POETRY   OF   THE   REVOLUTION 


79 


A  broken  reed  comes  pat  into  his  mind : 

Egypt  and  France  by  rushes  are  defined. 

Basest  of  Kingdoms  underneath  the  skies, 

Kingdoms  that  could  not  profit  their  al 
lies. 

How  could  the  tempest  play  him  such  a 
prank  ? 

Blank  is  his  prospect,  and  his  visage 
blank : 

Why  from  West  Point  his  armies  has  he 
brought  ? 

Can  naught  be  done?  sore  sighs  he  at  the 
thought. 

Back  to  his  mountains  Washington  may 
trot: 

He  take  this  city — yes,  when  Ice  is  hot. 

Joy  to  great   Congress,   joy   an   hundred 

fold  : 
The    grand    cajolers    are   themselves    ca- 

jol'd!  so 

Ah,  poor  militia  of  the  Jersey  state, 
Your  hopes  are  bootless,   you  are  come 

too  late, 
Your  four  hours  plunder  of  New  York  is 

fled. 
And  grievous   hunger   haunts   you   in   its 

stead. 

Sorrow  and  sighing  seize  the  Yankee  race, 
When  the  brave  Briton  looks  them  in  the 

face: 

The  brawny  Hessian,  the  bold  Refugee, 
Appear  in  arms,  and  lo !  the  rebels  flee ; 
Each  in  his  bowels  griping  spankue  feels; 
Each  drops  his  haversack,  and  trusts  his 

heels.  6° 

Scamp'ring   and   scouring  o'er   the   fields 

they  run, 
And  here  you  find  a  sword,  and  there  a 

gun. 

Joy  to   great   Congress,   joy  an   hundred 

fold : 
The   grand    cajolers    are    themselves    ca- 

jol'd ! 

The  doleful  tidings  Philadelphia  reach, 
And  Duffield  cries — The  wicked  make  a 

breach ! 

Members  of  Congress  in  confusion  meet, 
And    with    pale    countenance    each    other 

greet. 
— No  comfort,  brother? — Brother,  none  at 

all, 
Fall'n  is  our  tower :  yea,  broken  down  our 

wall.  TO 

Oh   brother,   things   are   at   a   dreadful 

pass : 
Brother,  we  sinn'd  in  going  to  the  Mass. 


The  Lord,  who  taught  our  fingers   how 

to  fight, 
For    this    denied    to    curb    the    tempest's 

might : 

Our  paper  coin  refus'd  for  flour  we  see, 
And  lawyers  will  not  take  it  for  a  fee. 

Joy  to  great  Congress,  joy  an  hundred 
fold: 

The  grand  cajolers  are  themselves  ca- 
jol'd! 

What  caus'd  the  French  from  Parker's 
fleet  to  steal? 

They  wanted  thirty  thousand  casks  of 
meal.  80 

Where  are  they  now— can  mortal  man 
reply? 

Who  finds  them  out  must  have  a  Lynx's 
eye. 

Some  place  them  in  the  ports  of  Chesa- 
peak : 

Others  account  them  bound  to  Martin 
ique; 

Some  think  to  Boston  they  intend  to  go; 

And  some  suppose  them  in  the  deep  be 
low. 

One  thing  is  certain,  be  they  where  they 
will, 

They  keep  their  triumph  most  exceeding 
still. 

They  have  not  even  Pantagruel's  luck, 

Who  conquer'd  two  old  women  and  a 
duck.  9° 

Joy   to  great   Congress,   joy  an   hundred 

fold: 
The    grand    cajolers    are    themselves    ca- 

jol'd! 

How  long  shall  the  deluded  people  look 
For  the  French  squadron  moor'd  at  Sandy 

Hook? 
Of  all  their  hopes  the  comfort  and  the 

stay, 

This  vile  deceit  at  length  must  pass  away. 
What  imposition  can  be  thought  on  next, 
To  cheer  their  partizans,  with  doubt  per- 

plex'd? 

Dollars  on  dollars  heap'd  up  to  the  skies, 
Their  value  sinks  the  more,  the  more  they 

rise ;  I0° 

Bank  notes  of  bankrupts,  struck  without 

a  fund, 
Puff'd    for    a    season,    will    at    last    be 

shunn'd. 

Call  forth  invention,  ye  renown'd  in  guile ; 
New  falsehoods  frame  in  matter,  and  in 

style ; 

Send  some  enormous  fiction  to  the  press ; 
Again  prepare  the  circular  address; 


80 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


With  lies,  with  nonsense,  keep  the  people 

drunk : 
For  should  they  once  reflect,  your  power 

is  sunk. 

Toy  to   great   Congress,   joy   an   hundred 

fold: 
The    grand   cajolers   are   themselves   ca- 

jol'd!  »° 

The  farce  of  empire  will  be  finished  soon, 
And  each  mock-monarch  dwindle  to  a 

loon, 
Mock-money  and   mock-states  shall   melt 

away, 
And  the  mock-troops  disband  for  want  of 

pay. 

Ev'n  now  decisive  ruin  is  prepar  d, 
Ev'n    now    the    heart    of    Huntington    is 

scar'd. 

Seen  or  unseen,  on  earth,  above,  below, 
All  things  conspire  to  give  the  final  blow. 
Heav'n  has  ten  thousand  thunderbolts  to 

dart; 
From  Hell,  ten  thousand  livid  flames  will 

start ;  I2° 

Myriads    of    swords    are    ready    for    the 

field; 

Myriads  of  lurking  daggers  are  conceal'd ; 
In  injur'd  bosoms  dark  revenge  is  nurst; 
Yet  but  a  moment,  and  the  storm  shall 

burst. 

Joy   to   great   Congress,   joy  an    hundred 

fold: 
The    grand    cajolers    are    themselves    ca- 

jol'd!   • 
Now    War,    suspended    by   the    scorching 

heat, 
Springs  from  his  tent,  and  shines  in  arms 

complete. 
Now  Sickness,  that  of  late  made  heroes 

pale, 
Flies  from  the  keenness  of  the  northern 

gale.  J3° 

Firmness  and  Enterprise,  united,  wait 
The  last  command,  to  strike  the  stroke  of 

Fate. 
Now      Boston      trembles:       Philadelphia 

quakes : 

And  Carolina  to  the  center  shakes. 
There  is,  whose  councils  the  just  moment 

scan: 

Whose  wisdom  meditates  the  mighty  plan  : 
He,  when  the  season  is  mature,  shall 

speak ; 
All  Heav'n  shall  plaud  him,  and  all  Hell 

shall  shriek. 

At  his  dread  fiat  tumult  shall  retire; 
Abhorred  rebellion  sicken  and  expire ;       J4° 


The   fall  of  Congress  prove  the  world's 

relief; 
And    deathless   glory    crown   the   godlike 

Chief ! 

Joy  to   great   Congress,   joy   an   hundred 

fold: 
The   grand    cajolers    are   themselves    ca- 

jol'd! 

What  now  is  left  of  Continental  brags? 
Taxes  unpaid,  tho'  payable  in  rags. 
What  now  remains  of  Continental  force? 
Battalions  mould'ring:  Waste  without  re 
source. 

What  rests  there  yet  of  Continental  Sway? 
A  ruin'd  People  ripe  to  disobey.  '5° 

Hate   now  of   men,   and   soon  to   be  the 

Jest; 
Such   is  your   fate,  ye   Monsters   of   the 

West! 

Yet  must  on  every  face  a  smile  be  worn, 
While  every  breast  with  agony  is  torn. 
Hopeless  yourselves,  yet  hope  you  must 

impart, 

And  comfort  others  with  an  aching  heart. 
Ill  fated  they  who,  lost  at  home,  must 

boast 

Of  help  expected  from  a  foreign  coast: 
How  wretched  is  their  lot,  to  France  and 

Spain, 
Who  look   for  succor,  but  who   look  in 

vain.  l6° 

Joy  to   great   Congress,  joy   an   hundred 

fold: 
The    grand    cajolers    are    themselves    ca- 

jol'd ! 
Courage,  my  boys;  dismiss  your  chilling 

fears : 

Attend  to  me,  I'll  put  you  in  your  geers. 
Come,  I'll  instruct  you  how  to  advertize 
Your  missing  friends,  your  hide-and-seek 

Allies. 

O  YES! — If  any  man  alive  will  bring 
News  of  the  squadron  of  the   Christian 

King: 

If  any  man  will  find  out  Count  D'Estaing, 
With  whose  scrub  actions  both  the  Indies 

rang :  J7<> 

If  any  man  will  ascertain  on  oath 
What    has    become    of    Monsieur    de    la 

Mothe  : 

Whoever  these  important  points  explains, 
Congress  will  nobly  pay  him  for  his  pains, 
Of  pewter  dollars,  what  both  hands  can 

hold, 

A  thimbleful  of  plate,  a  mite  of  gold; 
The  lands  of  some  big  Tory  he  shall  get, 
And  start  a  famous  Colonel  en  brevet; 


POETRY   OF   THE   REVOLUTION 


81 


And   last   to  honour   him    (we   scorn   to 

bribe) 

We'll    make  him    chief    of    the    Oneida 

Tribe !  *8o 

Rivington's  Royal  Gazette,  Nov.  6,  1779. 


THE  AMERICAN  TIMES 

A  Satire 
IN  THREE  PARTS 

Facit    indignatis    versum — JUVENAL. 
BY   CAMILLO   QUERNO 

(DR.   JONATHAN   ODELL) 
Chaplain   to   the  Congress. 

FROM  PART  I 

When  Faction,  pois'nous  as  the  scorpion's 

sting, 

Infects  the  people,  and  insults  the  King; 
When  foul  Sedition  skulks  no  more  con- 

ceal'd, 
But  grasps  the  sword  and  rushes  to  the 

field; 

When  Justice,  Law  and  Truth  are  in  dis 
grace 
And  Treason,  Fraud  and  Murder  fill  their 

place : 

Smarting  beneath  accumulated  woes, 
Shall  we  not  dare  the  tyrants  to  expose? 
We  will,  we  must — though  mighty  Laurens 

frown, 
Or    Hancock    with    his    rabble    hunt    us 

down ;  10 

Champions  of  virtue,  we'll  alike  disdain 
The   guards   of  Washington,   the   lies  of 

Paine, 
And    greatly   bear,    without    one    anxious 

throb, 
The  wrath  of  Congress,  or  its  lords  the 

mob. 
Bad   are   the   Times,   almost  too   bad   to 

paint ; 
The  whole  head  sickens,  the  whole  heart 

is  faint : 

The  State  is  rotten,  rotten  to  the  core 
'Tis  all  one  bruize,  one  putrefying  sore. 
Here  Anarchy  before  the  gaping  crowd 
Proclaims  the  people's  majesty  aloud;    2° 
There  Folly  runs  with  eagerness  about, 
And    prompt    the    cheated    populace    to 

shout ; 

Here  paper-dollars  meager  Famine  holds, 
There    votes    of    Congress    Tyranny    un 
folds  ; 
With  doctrines  strange  in  matter  and  in 

dress, 


Here  sounds  the  pulpit,  and  there  groans 
the  press; 

Confusion  blows  her  trump — and  far  and 
wide 

The  noise  is  heard — the  plough  is  laid 
aside ; 

The  awl,  the  needle,  and  the  shuttle  drops ; 

Tools  change  to  swords,  and  camps  suc 
ceed  to  shops ;  30 

The  doctor's  glister-pipe,  the  lawyer's 
quill, 

Transform'd  to  guns,  retain  their  pow'r 
to  kill ; 

From  garrets,  cellars,  rushing  thro'  the 
street, 

The  new-born  statesmen  in  committee 
meet  ; 

Legions  of  senators  infest  the  land, 

And  mushroom  generals  thick  as  mush 
rooms  stand. 

Ye  western  climes,  where  youthful  plenty 
smil'd, 

Ye  plains  just  rescued  from  the  dreary 
wild, 

Ye  cities  just  emerging  into  fame, 

Ye  minds  new  ting'd  with  learning's 
sacred  flame,  40 

Ye  people  wondering  at  your  swift  in 
crease 

Sons  of  united  liberty  and  peace, 

How  are  your  glories  in  a  moment  fled? 

See,  Pity  weeps,  and  Honour  hangs  its 
head. 

Not  always  generals  offer  to  our  aim, — 
By  turns  we  must  advert  t'  inferior  game. 
Yet  hard  to  rescue  from  oblivion's  grasp 
The  worthless  beetle  and  the  noxious  asp ; 
And  full  as  hard  to  save  from  after-times 
The  names  of  men  known  only  for  their 

crimes.  so 

Left  to   themselves   they   soon   would   be 

forgot ; 
But  yet  'tis  right  that  rogues  should  hang 

and  rot. 

Strike    up,    hell's    music!    roar,    infernal 

drums ! 
Discharge  the  cannon !     Lo,  the  warrior 

comes ! 

He  comes,  not  tame  as  on  Ohio's  banks 
But  rampant  at  the  head  of  ragged  ranks. 
Hunger  and  itch  are  with  him — Gates  and 

Wayne ! 

And  all  the  lice  of  Egypt  in  his  train. 
Sure   these   are    Falstaff's    soldiers,    poor 

and  bare,  59 

Or  else  the  rotten  reg'ments  of  Rag  Fair. 


82 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Bid  the  French  generals  to  their  chief  ad 
vance, 
And   grace   his    suite — O    shame !    they're 

fled  to  France. 

Wilt  thou,  great  chief  of  Freedom's  law 
less  sons, 
Great  captain  of  the  western  Goths  and 

Huns, 

Wilt  thou  for  once  permit  a  private  man 
To  parley  with  thee,  and  thy  conduct  scan  ? 
At  Reason's  bar  has  Catiline  been  heard : 
At  Reason's  bar  e'en  Cromwell  has  ap 
peared. 

Successless  or  successful,  all  must  stand 
At  her  tribunal  with  uplifted  hand  7° 

Severe,  but  just,  the  case  she  fairly  states 
And  fame  or  infamy  her  sentence  waits. 

Hear    thy     indictment,     Washington,     at 

large ; 

Attend  and  listen  to  the  solemn  charge : 
Thou  hast  supported  an  atrocious  cause 
Against  thy  King,  thy  Country,  and  the 

laws; 

Committed  perjury,  encourag'd  lies, 
Forced  conscience,  broken  the  most  sacred 

ties ; 

Myriads  of  wives  and  fathers  at  thy  hand 
Their    slaughter'd    husbands,    slaughter'd 

sons,  demand;  8° 

That  pastures  hear  no  more  the  lowing  kine, 
That  towns  are  desolate,  all — all  is  thine; 
The  frequent  sacrilege  that  pained  my  sight, 
The  blasphemies  my  pen  abhors  to  write, 
Innumerable  crimes  on  thee  must  fall — 
For  thou  maintainest,  thou  defendest  all. 

Wilt  thou  pretend  that  Britain  is  in  fault? 

In  Reason's  court  a  falsehood  goes  for 
nought. 

Will  it  avail,  with  subterfuge  refin'd 

To  say,  such  deeds  are  foreign  to  thy 
mind?  90 

Wilt  thou  assert  that,  generous  and  hu 
mane, 

Thy  nature  suffers  at  another's  pain? 

He  who  a  band  of  ruffians  keeps  to  kill 

Is  he  not  guilty  of  the  blood  they  spill? 

Who  guards  M'Kean,  and  Joseph  Reed 
the  vile, 

Help'd  he  not  murder  Roberts  and  Car 
lisle? 

Lo,  who  protects  committees  in  the  chair 

In  all  their  shocking  cruelties  must  share. 

What  could,  when  half-way  up  the  hill  to 

fame, 
Induce   thee    to    go   back,    and   link   with 

shame?  I0° 


Was  it  ambition,  vanity,  or  spite 

That    prompted    thee    with    Congress    to 

unite ; 

Or  did  all  three  within  thy  bosom  roll, 
"Thou  heart  of  hero  with  a  traitor's  soul"? 
Go,    wretched    author    of    thy    country's 

grief, 

Patron  of  villainy,  of  villains  chief; 
Seek   with    thy   cursed    crew    the    central 

gloom, 
Ere    Truth's    avenging    sword    begin    thy 

doom; 

Or  sudden  vengeance  of  celestial  dart 
Precipitate  thee  with  augmented  smart.  no 

FROM  PART  III 

Stand  forth,  Taxation !  kindler  of  the 
flame — 

Inexplicable  question,  doubtful  claim : 

Suppose  the  right  in  Britain  to  be  clear, 

Britain  was  mad  to  exercise  it  here. 

Call  it  unjust,  or,  if  you  please,  unwise, 

The  colonists  were  mad  in  arms  to  rise : 

Impolitic,  and  open  to  abuse, 

How  could  it  answer — what  could  it  pro 
duce? 

No  need  for  furious  demagogues  to  chafe, 

America  was  jealous,  and  was  safe;        I2° 

Secure  she  stood  in  national  alarms, 

And  Madness  only  would  have  flown  to 
arms. 

Arms  could  not  help  the  tribute,  nor  con 
found  : 

Self-slain  it  must  have  tumbled  to  the 
ground. 

Impossible  the  scheme  should  e'er  succeed, 

Why  lift  the  spear  against  a  brittle  reed? 

But  arm  they  would,  ridiculously  brave; 

Good  laughter,  spare  me;  I  would  fain  be 
grave : 

So  arm  they  did — the  knave  led  on  the 
fool; 

Good  anger,  spare  me;  I  would  fain  be 
cool :  '3° 

Mixtures  were  seen  amazing  in  their  kind ; 

Extravagance  with  cruelty  was  joined. 

The  presbyterian  with  the  convict  march'd ; 

The  meeting-house  was  thinn'd,  the  gaol 
was  search'd : 

Servants  were  seiz'd,  apprentices  enroll'd : 

Youth  guarded  not  the  boy,  nor  age  the 
old: 

Tag,  rag  and  bobtail  issued  on  the  foe, 

Marshal'd  by  generals — Ewin,  Roberdeau. 

This   was   not    Reason — this    was    wildest 

rage, 
To  make  the  land  one  military  stage :    :4° 


POETRY   OF   THE   REVOLUTION 


83 


The  strange  resolve,  obtain'd  the  Lord 
knows  how, 

Which  forc'd  the  farmer  to  forsake  the 
plough ; 

Bade  tradesmen  mighty  warriors  to  be 
come, 

And  lawyers  quit  the  parchment  for  the 
drum; 

To  fight  they  knew  not  why,  they  knew 
not  what ; 

Was  surely  Madness — Reason  it  was  not. 

Next    independence    came,    that    German 

charm 

Of  pow'r  to  save  from  violence  and  harm; 
That  curious  olio,  vile  compounded  dish, 
Like  salmagundy,  neither  flesh  nor  fish;  '5° 
That  brazen  serpent,  rais'd  on  Freedom's 

pole, 

To  render  all  who  look'd  upon  it  whole ; 
That    half-dressed    idol    of    the    western 

shore 

All  rags  behind,  all  elegance  before: 
That  conj'ror,  which  conveys  away  your 

gold, 
And  gives  you  paper  in  its  stead  to  hold. 

Heav'ns !  how  my  breast  has  swell'd  with 

painful  throb 

To  view  the  phrenzy  of  the  cheated  mob: 
True  sons  of  liberty  in  flattering  thought; 
But  real  slaves  to  basest  bondage  brought : 
Frantic  as  Bacchanals  in  ancient  times,  l61 
They  rush'd  to  perpetrate  the  worst  of 

crimes; 
Chas'd    peace,    chas'd    order    from    each 

bless'd  abode ; 
While    Reason   stood   abash'd,   and    Folly 

crow'd. 

Now,  now  erect  the  rich  triumphal  gate; 
The  French  alliance  comes  in  solemn 

state. 

Hail  to  the  master-piece  of  madness,  hail 
This  head  of  glory  with  a  serpent's  tail ! 
This  seals,  America,  thy  wretched  doom: 
Here,  Liberty,  survey  thy  destin'd  tomb : 
Behold  the  temple  of  tyrannic  sway       '7* 
Is  now  complete — ye  deep  ton'd  organs, 

play: 
Proclaim    thro"    all    the    land    that    Louis 

rules — 
Wrorship     your     saint,     ye     giddy-headed 

fools. 

Illustrious  guardians  of  the  laurel  hill, 
Excuse  this  warmth,  these  sallies  of  j;he 
quill : 


I  would  be  temperate,  but  severe  disdain 
Calls   for  the  lash  whene'er  I  check  the 

rein :  '?8 

I  would  be  patient,  but  the  teazing  smart 
Of  insects  makes  the  fiery  courser  start. 
I  wish'd  for  Reason  in  her  calmest  mood, 
In  vain, — the  cruel  subject  fires  my  blood. 
When  thro'  the  land  the  dogs  of  havock 

roar, 

And  the  torn  country  bleeds  in  every  pore. 
'Tis    hard    to    keep    the    sober    line    of 

thought : 
The  brain   turns   round  with    such   ideas 

fraught. 
Rage  makes  a  weapon  blunt  as  mine  to 

pierce 
And  indignation  gathers  in  the  verse. 

1780. 


ODE  FOR  THE  NEW  YEAR 
JONATHAN  ODELL 

When  rival  nations  first  descried, 
Emerging  from  the  boundless  main 
This  land  by  tyrants  yet  untried, 
On  high  was  sung  this  lofty  strain: 
Rise  Britannia  beaming  far ! 
Rise  bright  freedom's  morning  star. 

To  distant  regions  unexplor'd 

Extend  the  blessings  of  thy  sway; 

To  yon  benighted  world  afford 

The  light  of  thy  all-chearing  ray;  I0 

Rise,  Britannia,  rise  bright  star 

Spread  thy  radiance  wide  and  far ! 

The  shoots  of  science  rich  and  fair, 
Transplanted  from  thy  fostering  isle 
And  by  thy  genius  nurtur'd  there, 
Shall  teach  the  wilderness  to  smile, 
Shine,  Britannia,  rise  and  shine! 
To  bless  mankind  the  task  be  thine. 

Nor  shall  the  Muses  now  disdain 
To  find  a  new  asylum  there :  x 

And  ripe  for  harvest  see  the  plain, 
Where  lately  rov'd  the  prowling  bear. 
Plume,  Britannia,  plume  thy  wing! 
Teach  the  savage  wild  to  sing! 

From  thee  descended,  there  the  swain 
Shall  arm  the  port  and  spread  the  sail, 
And  speed  his  traffick  o'er  the  main 
With  the  skill  to  brave  the  sweeping  gale : 
Skill,  Britannia,  taught  by  thee, 
Unrivall'd  empress  of  the  sea!  3° 


84 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


This  high  and  holy  strain  how  true 
Had  now  from  age  to  age  been  shown; 
And  to  the  world's  admiring  view 
Rose  freedom's  transatlantic  throne : 
Here,  Britannia,  here  thy  fame 
Long  did  we  with  joy  proclaim. 

But  ah !  what  frenzy  breaks  a  band 

Of  love  and  union  held  so  dear ! 

Rebellion  madly  shakes  the  land, 

And  love  is  turn'd  to  hate  and  fear.        4° 

Here,  Britannia,  here  at  last 

We  feel  contagion's  deadly  blast. 

Thus  blind,  alas,  when  all  is  well, 
Thus  blind  are  mortals  here  below : 
As  when  apostate  angels  fell, 
Ambition  turns  our  bliss  to  woe. 
Now,  Britannia,  now  beware; 
For  other  conflicts  now  prepare. 

By  thee  controul'd  for  ages  past, 

See  now  half  Europe  in  array:  so 

For  wild  ambition  hopes  at  last 

To  fix  her  long  projected  sway. 

Rise,  Britannia,  rise  again 

The  scourge  of  haughty  France  and  Spain ! 


The  howling  tempest  fiercely  blows, 
And  ocean  rages  in  the  storm : 
'Tis  then  the  fearless  pilot  shows 
What  British  courage  can  perform. 
Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves 
And  ruin  all  intruding  slaves. 

Written  at  New  York,  January  1st,  1780. 


do 


LORDS  OF  THE  MAIN 

i 

JOSEPH  STANSBURY 

When  Faction,  in  league  with  the  treach 
erous  Gaul, 

Began  to  look  big,  and  paraded  in  state, 
A  meeting  was  held  at  Credulity  Hall,> 
And   Echo   proclaimed   their  ally  good 
and  great. 

By  sea  and  by  land 
Such  wonders  are  planned — 
No    less    than    the    bold    British    lion    to 
chain ! 

Well  hove !  says  Jack  Lanyard, 
French,  Congo,  and  Spaniard. 
Have  at  you — remember,  we're  Lords  of 
the  Main!  I0 

Lords   of   the   Main,   aye,   Lords   of   the 

Main; 

The  Tars  of  Old  England  are  Lords  of 
the  Main. 


Though  party-contention  awhile  may  per 
plex, 

And  lenity  hold  us  in  doubtful  suspense, 
If  perfidy  rouse,  or  ingratitude  vex 

In    defiance   of   hell   we'll   chastise   the 
offence. 

When  danger  alarms, 
'Tis  then  that  in  arms 
United  we  rush  on  the  foe  with  disdain ; 
And  when  the  storm  rages,  2° 

It  only  presages 
Fresh  triumphs  to   Britons,   as  Lords  of 

the  Main ! 
Lords    of    the    Main — ay,    Lords    of    the 

Main — 

Let  Thunder  proclaim  it,  we're  Lords  of 
the  Main ! 

Then,  Britons,  strike  home — make  sure  of 

your  blow : 
The  chase  is  in  view ;  never  mind  a  lee 

shore. 
With  vengeance  o'ertake  the  confederate 

foe: 

'Tis  now  we  may  rival  our  heroes  of 
yore! 

Brave  Anson,  and  Drake, 
Hawke,  Russell,  and  Blake,  30 

With  ardour  like  yours,  we  defy  France 
and  Spain! 

Combining  with  treason, 
They're  deaf  to  all  reason ; 
Once  more  let  them  feel  we  are  Lords  of 

the  Main. 
Lords    of    the    Main — ay,    Lords    of    the 

Main — 

The  first-born  of  Neptune  are  Lords  of 
the  Main ! 

Nor  are  we  alone  in  the  noble  career; 
The   Soldier   partakes  of  the  generous 

flame 

To  glory  he  marches,  to  glory  we  steer; 
Between  us  we  share  the  rich  harvest 
of  fame.  4° 

Recorded  on  high, 
Their  names  never  die. 
Of   heroes   by   sea   and   by  land   what   a 
train. 

To  the  king,  then,  God  bless  him ! 
The  world  shall  confess  him 
The  Lord  of  those  men  who  are  Lords  of 

the  Main ! 
Lords    of    the    Main — ay,    Lords    of    the 

Main — 

The  Tars  of  Old  England  are  Lords  of 
the  Main. 

Riving  ton's  Royal  Gazette,  Feb.  16,  1780. 


POETRY   OF  THE   REVOLUTION 


85 


A   PASQUINADE 
JOSEPH  STANSBURY 

"Has  the  Marquis  La  Fayette 

Taken  off  all  our  hay  yet?" 
Says    Clinton   to   the   wise   heads   around 
him : 

"Yes,  faith,  Sir  Harry, 

Each  stack  he  did  carry, 
And  likewise  the  cattle — confound  him ! 

"Besides,  he  now  goes, 

Just  under  your  nose, 
To  burn  all  the  houses  to  cinder." 

"If  that  be  his  project,  I0 

It  is  not  an  object 
Worth  a  great  man's  attempting  to  hinder. 

"For  forage  and  house 

I  care  not  a  louse; 
For  revenge,  let  the  Loyalists  bellow; 

I  swear  I'll  not  do  more 

To  keep  them  in  humor, 
Than  play  on  my  violincello. 

"Since  Charleston  is  taken, 

'Twill  sure  save  my  bacon, —  2° 

I  can  live  a  whole  year  on  that  same,  sir; 

Ride  about  all  the  day, 

At  night,  concert  or  play; 
So  a  fig  for  the  men  that  dare  blame,  sir; 

"If  growlers  complain, 

I  inactive  remain — 
Will  do  nothing,  nor  let  any  others! 

'Tis  sure  no  new  thing 

To  serve  thus  our  king — 
Witness    Burgoyne,    and    two    famous 
Brothers !"  30 

Posted  in  New  York,  Aug.  25,  1780. 


VOLUNTEER  BOYSi 

Hence  with  the  lover  who  sighs  o'er  his 

wine, 

Chloes  and  Phillises  toasting. 
Hence  with  the  slave  who  will  whimper 

and  whine 

Of  ardor  and  constancy  boasting. 
Hence  with  love's  joys, 
Follies  and  noise, 

The  toast   that   I   give  is  the   Volunteer 
Boys. 

1  This  is  attributed  to  Henry  Archer,  a  young 
and  wealthy  Englishman  who  came  to  America 
in  1778  and  volunteered  in  the  Revolutionary 
army.  The  sixth  and  seventh  stanzas  must  have 
been  written  before  his  change  of  allegiance; 
but  the  song  as  a  whole,  whenever  composed, 
was  popular  with  the  Colonials. 


Nobles   and   beauties   and    such   common 

toasts, 

Those  who  admire  may  drink,  sir ; 
Fill  up  the  glass  to  the  volunteer  hosts,  I0 
Who  never  from  danger  will  shrink,  sir. 
Let  mirth  appear, 
Every  heart  cheer, 

The  toast  that  I  give  is  the  brave  vol 
unteer. 

Here's  to  the  squire  who  goes  to  parade, 

Here's  to  the  citizen  soldier; 
Here's  to  the  merchant  who  fights  for  his 

trade, 

Whom  danger  increasing  makes  bolder. 
Let  mirth  appear, 

Union  is  here,  20 

The  toast  that  I  give  is  the  brave  vol 
unteer. 

Here's  to  the  lawyer  who,  leaving  the  bar, 

Hastens  where  honor  doth  lead,  sir, 
Changing  the  gown  for  the  ensigns  of  war, 
The  cause  of  his  country  to  plead,  sir. 
Freedom  appears, 
Every  heart  cheers, 

And  calls  for  the  health  of  the  law  vol 
unteers. 

Here's  to  the  soldier,  though  batter'd  in 

wars, 

And  safe  to  his  farm-house  retir'd;    3<> 
When  called  by  his  country,  ne'er  thinks 

of  his  scars, 

With  ardor  to  join  us  inspir'd. 
Bright  fame  appears, 
Trophies  uprear, 
To  veteran  chiefs  who  become  volunteers. 

Here's  to  the   farmer  who  dares  to  ad 
vance 

To  harvests  of  honor  with  pleasure; 
Who    with    a    slave    the    most    skilful    in 

France, 

A  sword  for  his  country  would  measure. 
Hence  with  cold  fear,  4° 

Heroes  rise  here; 

The   ploughman   is   chang'd   to  the   stout 
volunteer. 

Here's  to  the  peer  first  in  senate  and  field 

Whose  actions  to  titles  add  grace,  sir; 
Whose  spirit  undaunted  would  never  yet 

yield 

To  a  foe,  to  a  pension  or  place,  sir.     . 
Gratitude  here, 
Toasts  to  the  peer, 

Who  adds  to  his  titles,  "the  brave  volun 
teer." 


86 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Thus  the  bold  bands  for  old  Jersey's  de 
fence,  so 
The  muse   hath   with  rapture   review'd 

sir; 
With  our  volunteer  boys,  as  our  verses 

commence, 

With  our  volunteer  boys  they  conclude, 
sir. 

Discord  or  noise 
Ne'er  damp  our  joys, 
But  health  and  success  to  the  volunteer 
boys. 

SONG,  FOR  A  VENISON  DINNER 
JOSEPH  STANSBURY 

Friends,  push  round  the  bottle,  and  let  us 

.  be  drinking, 
While  Washington  up  in  his  mountains  is 

slinking : 
Good   faith,   if   he's  wise  he'll  not  leave 

them  behind  him, 
For  he  knows  he's  safe  nowhere  where 

Britons  can  find  him. 
When  he  and  Fayette  talk  of  taking  this 

city, 
Their  vaunting  moves  only  our  mirth  and 

our  pity. 

But,  though  near  our  lines  they're  too 
cautious  to  tarry. 

What  courage  they  shew  when  a  hen 
roost  they  harry ! 

Who  can  wonder  that  poultry  and  oxen 
and  swine 

Seek  shelter  in  York  from  such  valor 
divine, —  I0 

While  Washington's  jaws  and  the  French 
man's  are  aching 

The  spoil  they  have  lost,  to  be  boiling  and 
baking. 

Let  Clinton  and  Arnold  bring  both  to  sub 
jection, 

And  send  us  more  geese  here  to  seek  our 
protection. 

Their  flesh  and  their  feathers  shall  meet 
a  kind  greeting; 

A  fat  rebel  turkey  is  excellent  eating, 

A  lamb  fat  as  butter,  and  white  as  a 
chicken — 

These  sorts  of  tame  rebels  are  excellent 
picking. 

To-day  a  wild  rebel  has  smoaked  on  the 

table ; 
You've  cut  him  and  slic'd  him  as  long  as 

you're  able.  ^ 


He  bounded  like  Congo,  and  bade  you  de 
fiance, 

And  plac'd  on  his  running  his  greatest 
reliance; 

But  fate  overtook  him  and  brought  him 
before  ye, 

To  shew  how  rebellion  will  wind  up  her 
story. 

Then  chear  up,  my  lads !  if  the  prospect 
grows  rougher, 

Remember  from  whence  and  for  whom 
'tis  you  suffer  : — 

From  men  whom  mild  laws  and  too  happy 
condition 

Have  puffed  up  with  pride  and  inflam'd 
with  sedition; 

For  George,  whose  reluctance  to  punish 
offenders 

Has  strengthened  the  hands  of  these  up 
start  pretenders.  3° 

1781. 

THE  DANCE 

Cornwallis  led  a  country  dance, 

The  like  was  never  seen,  sir, 
Much  retrogade  and  much  advance, 

And  all  with  General  Greene,  sir. 

They  rambled  up  and  rambled  down, 
Joined  hands,  then  off  they  run,  sir, 

Our  General  Greene  to  Charlestown, 
The  earl  to  Wilmington,  sir. 

Greene  in  the  South,  then  danced  a  set, 
And  got  a  mighty  name,  sir,  I0 

Cornwallis  jigged  with  young  Fayette, 
But  suffered  in  his  fame,  sir. 

Then  down  he  figured  to  the  shore, 

Most  like  a  lordly  dancer. 
And  on  his  courtly  honor  swore 

He  would  no  more  advance,  sir. 

Quoth  he,  my  guards  are  weary  grown 
With  footing  country  dances, 

They  never  at  St.  James's  shone, 
At  capers,  kicks  or  prances.  2° 

Though  men  so  gallant  ne'er  were  seen, 
While  sauntering  on  parade,  sir, 

Or    wriggling    o'er    the    park's    smooth 

green, 
Or  at  a  masquerade,  sir. 

Yet  are  red  heels  and  long-laced  skirts, 
For  stumps  and  briars  meet,  sir? 

Or  stand  they  chance  with  hunting-shirts, 
Or  hardy  veteran  feet,  sir? 


POETRY   OF  THE   REVOLUTION 


87 


Now  housed  in  York  he  challenged  all, 
At  minuet  or  all  'amande,  3° 

And  lessons  for  a  courtly  ball 

His  guards  by  day  and  night  conned. 

This  challenge  known,   full  soon  there 
came, 

A  set  who  had  the  bon  ton, 
De  Grasse  and  Rochambeau,  whose  fame 

Fut  brillant  pour  un  long  terns. 

And  Washington,  Columbia's  son, 
Whom  easy  nature  taught,  sir, 

That  grace  which  can't  by  pains  be  won, 
Or  Plutus's  gold  be  bought,  sir.  40 

Noiv  hand  in  hand  they  circle  round 

This  ever-dancing  peer,  sir; 
Their  gentle  movements  soon  confound 

The  earl  as  they  draw  near,  si.'. 

His  music  soon  forgets  to  play — 
His  feet  can  no  more  move,  sir, 

And  all  his  bands  now  curse  the  day 
They  jigged  to  our  shore,  sir. 

Now  Tories  all,  what  can  ye  say? 

Come — is  not  this  a  griper,  so 

That  while  your  hopes  are  danced  away, 

'Tis  you  must  pay  the  piper? 

1781. 


CORNWALLIS  BURGOYNED 
Adapted  to  the  air,  "Maggie  Lauder" 

When  British  troops  first  landed  here, 

With  Howe  commander  o'er  them 
They  thought  they'd  make  us  quake  for 
fear, 

And  carry  all  before  them : 
With  thirty  thousand  men  or  more, 

And  she  without  assistance 
America  must  needs  give  o'er, 

And  make  no  more  resistance. 

But  Washington,  her  glorious  son, 

Of  British  hosts  the  terror,  I0 

Soon,  by  repeated  overthrows, 

Convinc'd  them  of  their  error: 
Let  Princeton  and  let  Trenton  tell, 

What  gallant  deeds  he's  done,  sir. 
And  Monmouth's  plains  where  hundreds 
fell 

And  thousands  more  have  run,  sir. 

Cornwallis,  too,  when  he  approach'd 
Virginia's  old  dominion 


Thought  he  would  soon  her  conqu'ror  be ; 

And  so  was  North's  opinion.  2° 

From  State  to  State  with  rapid  stride, 

His  troops  had  march'd  before,  sir, 
Till  quite  elate  with  martial  pride, 

He  thought  all  dangers  o'er,  sir. 

But  our  allies,  to  his  surprise, 

The  Chesapeake  had  enter'd; 
And  now  too  late,  he  cursed  his  fate 

And  wish'd  he  ne'er  had  ventur'd, 
For  Washington  no  sooner  knew 

The  visit  he  had  paid  her,  30 

Than  to  his  parent  State  he  flew, 

To  crush  the  bold  invader. 

When  he  sat  down  before  the  town, 

His  lordship  soon  surrender'd: 
His  martial  pride  he  laid  aside, 

And  cased  the  British  standard ; 
Gods !  how  this  stroke  will  North  provoke, 

And  all  his  thoughts  confuse,  sir! 
And  how  the  peers  will  hang  their  ears, 

When  first  they  hear  the  news,  sir.      40 

Be  peace,  the  glorious  end  of  war, 

By  this  event  effected; 
And  be  the  name  of  Washington, 

To  latest  times  respected; 
Then  let  us  toast  America, 

And  France  in  union  with  her; 
And  may  Great  Britain  rue  the  day 

Her  hostile  bands  came  hither. 

1781. 


LET  US  BE  HAPPY  AS  LONG  AS 
WE  CAN 

JOSEPH  STANSBURY 

I've  heard  in  old  times  that  a  sage  used 

to  say, 
The  seasons  were  nothing,  December,  or 

May; 
The  heat,  or  the  cold  never  enter'd  his 

plan — 
That  all  should  be  happy  whenever  they 

can. 

No  matter  what  power  directed  the  state, 
He  looked  upon  such  things  as  ordered 

by  fate : 
Whether  governed  by  many,  or  rul'd  by 

one  man, 
His    rule   was — be   happy   whenever   you 

can. 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


He  happen'd  to  enter  this  world  the  same 
day 

With  the  supple,  complying,  fam'd  Vicar 
of  Bray:  I0 

Thro'  both  of  their  lives  the  same,  prin 
ciple  ran — 

My  boys,  we'll  be  happy  as  long  as  we 
can. 

Time-serving  I   hate,  yet  I   see  no  good 

reason 
A  leaf  from  their  book  should  be  thought 

out  of  season : 
When  kick'd  like  a  football  from  Sheba 

to  Dan — 
Egad,  let's  be  happy  as  long  as  we  can. 


Since  no   man   can   tell   what  to-morrow 

may  bring. 
Or  which  side  shall  triumph,  the  Congress 

or  King, 
Since  fate  must  o'errule  us  and  carry  her 

plan — 
Why,  let  us  be  happy  as  long  as  we  can.  M 

To-night,  let's  enjoy  this  good  wine  and 

a  song, 
And   relish    the    hour    which    we    cannot 

prolong : 
If    evil    will   come,    we'll    adhere    to    our 

plan — 
And  baffle  misfortune  as  long  as  we  can. 

1782-3. 


PHILIP    FRENEAU 

(1752-1832) 


(The  text  and  author's  notes  are  taken  from 
early  editions  and  collated  with  the  invaluable 
"Poems  of  Philip  Freneau,"  ed.  by  F.  L.  Pattee. 
3  vols.  1902.) 

THE  POWER  OF  FANCY 

Wakeful,   vagrant,   restless  thing, 
Ever  wandering  on  the  wing, 
Who  thy  wondrous  source  can  find, 
Fancy,  regent  of  the  mind; 
A  spark  from  Jove's  resplendent  throne, 
But  thy  nature  all  unknown. 

This  spark  of  bright,  celestial  flame, 
From  Jove's  seraphic  altar  came, 
And  hence  alone  in  man  we  trace, 
Resemblance  to  the  immortal  race.          I0 

Ah !  what  is  all  this  mighty  whole. 
These  suns  and  stars  that  round  us  roll ! 
What  are  they  all,  where'er  they  shine, 
But  Fancies  of  the  Power  Divine ! 
What  is  this  globe,  these  lands,  and  seas, 
And  heat,  and  cold,  and  flowers,  and  trees, 
And  life,  and  death,  and  beast,  and  man, 
And  time — that  with  the  sun  began — 
But  thoughts  on  reason's  scale  combin'd, 
Ideas  of  the  Almighty  mind !  *> 

On  the  surface  of  the  brain 
Night  after  night  she  walks  unseen, 
Noble  fabrics  doth  she  raise 
In  the  woods  or  on  the  seas, 
On  some  high,  steep,  pointed  rock, 
Where  the  billows  loudly  knock 
And  the  dreary  tempests  sweep 
Clouds  along  the  uncivil  deep. 

Lo !  she  walks  upon  the  moon, 
Listens  to  the  chimy  tune  3° 

Of  the  bright,  harmonious  spheres, 
And  the  song  of  angels  hears ; 
Sees  this  earth  a  distant  star, 
Pendant,  floating  in  the  air; 
Leads  me  to  some  lonely  donje, 
Where  Religion  loves  to  come, 
Where  the  bride  of  Jesus  dwells, 
And  the  deep  ton'd  organ  swells 
In  notes  with  lofty  anthems  jpin'd, 
Notes  that  half  distract  the  mind.  40 

Now  like  lightning  she  descends 
To  the  prison  of  the  fiends, 
Hears  the  rattling  of  their  chains, 
Feels  their  never  ceasing  pains — 
But,  O  never  may  she  tell 
Half  the  frightfulness  of  hell. 


Now  she  views  Arcadian  rocks, 
Where  the  shepherds  guard  their  flocks, 
And,  while  yet  her  wings  she  spreads, 
Sees  chrystal  streams  and  coral  beds,      5° 
Wanders  to  some  desert  deep, 
Or  some  dark,  enchanted  steep, 
By  the  full  moonlight  doth  shew 
Forests  of  a  dusky  blue, 
Where,  upon  some  mossy  bed, 
Innocence  reclines  her  head. 

Swift,  she  stretches  o'er  the  seas 
To  the  far  off  Hebrides, 
Canvas  on  the  lofty  mast 
Could  not  travel  half  so  fast —  6> 

Swifter  than  the  eagle's  flight 
Or  instantaneous  rays  of  light! 
Lo !  contemplative  she  stands 
On  Norwegia's  rocky  lands — 
Fickle  Goddess,  set  me  down 
Where  the  rugged  winters  frown 
Upon  Orca's  howling  steep, 
Nodding  o'er  the  northern  deep, 
Where  the  winds  tumultuous  roar, 
Vext  that  Ossian  sings  no  more.  7° 

Fancy,  to  that  land  repair, 
Sweetest  Ossian  slumbers  there; 
Waft  me  far  to  southern  isles 
Where  the  soften'd  winter  smiles, 
To  Bermuda's  orange  shades, 
Or  Demarara's  lovely  glades; 
Bear  me  o'er  the  sounding  cape, 
Painting  death  in  every  shape, 
Where  daring  Anson  spread  the  sail 
Shatter'd  by  the  stormy  gale — 
Lo !  she  leads  me  wide  and  far, 
Sense  can  never  follow  her — 
Shape  thy  course  o'er  land  and  sea, 
Help  me  to  keep  pace  with  thee, 
Lead  me  to  yon'  chalky  cliff, 
Over  rock  and  over  reef, 
Into  Britain's  fertile  land, 
Stretching  far  her  proud  command. 
Look  back  and  view,  thro'  many  a  year, 
Caesar,  Julius  Caesar,  there.  9° 

Now  to  Tempe's  verdant  wood, 
Over  the  mid-ocean  flood 
Lo!  the  islands  of  the  sea — 
Sappho,  Lesbos  mourns  for  thee : 
Greece,  arouse  thy  humbled  head, 
Where  are  all  thy  mighty  dead, 
Who  states  to  endless  ruin  hurl'd- 


89 


90 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


And  carried  vengeance  through  the  world? 

Troy,  thy  vanish' d  pomp  resume, 

Or,  weeping  at  thy  Hector's  tomb,          I0° 

Yet  those  faded  scenes  renew, 

Whose  memory  is  to  Homer  due. 

Fancy,  lead  me  wandering  still 

Up  to  Ida's  cloud-topt  hill; 

Not  a  laurel  there  doth  grow 

But  in  vision  thou  shalt  show, — 

Every  sprig  on  Virgil's  tomb 

Shall  in  livelier  colours  bloom, 

And  every  triumph  Rome  has  seen 

Flourish  on  the  years  between.  »° 

Now  she  bears  me  far  away 
In  the  east  to  meet  the  day, 
Leads  me  over  Ganges'  streams, 
Mother  of  the  morning  beams — 
O'er  the  ocean  hath  she  ran, 
Places  me  on  Tinian ; 
Farther,  farther  in  the  east, 
Till  it  almost  meets  the  west, 
Let  us  wandering  both  be  lost 
On  Taitis  sea-beat  coast,  I2° 

Bear  me  from  that  distant  strand, 
Over  ocean,  over  land, 
To  California's  golden  shore — 
Fancy,  stop,  and  rove  no  more. 

Now,  tho'  late,  returning  home, 
Lead  me  to  Belinda's  tomb; 
Let  me  glide  as  well  as  you 
Through  the  shroud  and  coffin  too, 
And  behold,  a  moment,  there, 
All  that  once  was  good  and  fair —  '3° 

Who  doth  here  so  soundly  sleep? 
Shall  we  break  this  prison  deep? 
Thunders  cannot  wake  the  maid, 
Lightnings  cannot  pierce  the  shade, 
And  tho'  wintry  tempests  roar, 
Tempests  shall  disturb  no  more. 

Yet  must  those  eyes  in  darkness  stay, 
That  once  were  rivals  to  the  day? — 
Like  heaven's  bright  lamp  beneath  the  main 
They  are  but  set  to  rise  again.  MO 

Fancy,  thou  the  muses'  pride, 
In  thy  painted  realms  reside 
Endless  images  of  things, 
Fluttering  each  on  golden  wings, 
Ideal  objects,  such  a  store, 
The  universe  could  hold  no  more : 
Fancy,  to  thy  power  I  owe 
Half  my  happiness  below; 
By  thee  Elysian  groves  were  made,       '49 
Thine  were  the  notes  that  Orpheus  play'd; 
By  thee  was  Pluto  charm'd  so  well 
While  rapture  seiz'd  the  sons  of  hell — 
Come,  O  come — perceiv'd  by  none, 
You  and  I  will  walk  alone. 


1770. 


In  "Poems,"  1786. 


ON  RETIREMENT 
By  HEZEKIAH  SALEM  x 

A  hermit's  house  beside  a  stream, 

With  forests  planted  round, 
Whatever  it  to  you  may  seem 
More  real  happiness  I  deem 

Than  if  I  were  a  monarch  crown'd. 

A  cottage  I  could  call  my  own, 
Remote  from  domes  of  care; 

A  little  garden  walled  with  stone, 

The  wall  with  ivy  overgrown, 

A  limpid  fountain  near.  ™ 

Would  more  substantial  joys  afford, 

More  real  bliss  impart 
Than  all  the  wealth  that  misers  hoard, 
Than    vanquish'd    worlds,    or   worlds    re 
stored — 

Mere  cankers  of  the  heart! 

Vain,  foolish  man !  how  vast  thy  pride, 
How  little  can  your  wants  supply ! — 

'Tis  surely  wrong  to  grasp  so  wide — 

You  act  as  if  you  only  had 

To  vanquish — not  to  die !  *° 

In  "Poems,"  1786. 


A  POLITICAL  LITANY 

Libera  Nos,  Domine. — Deliver  us,  O 
Lord,  not  only  from  British  depend 
ence,  but  also 

From  a  junto  that  labour  with   absolute 

power, 
Whose  schemes    disappointed  have  made 

them  look  sour, 
From  the  lords  of  the  council,  who  fight 

against  freedom, 
Who  still  follow  on  where  delusion  shall 

lead  them. 

From  the  group  at  St.  James's,  who  slight 

our  petitions, 
And    fools   that   are  waiting   for    further 

submissions — 
From  a  nation  whose  manners  are  rough 

and  severe, 
From  scoundrels  and  rascals, — do  keep  us 

all  clear. 

From  pirates  sent  out  by  command  of  the 

king 
To    murder    and    plunder,    but    never    to 

swing.  10 

1 A    pseudonym    frequently    used    by    Freneau. 


PHILIP    FRENEAU 


91 


From  Wallace  and  Greaves,  and  Vipers 

and  Roses, 
Whom,  if  heaven  pleases,  we'll  give  bloody 

noses. 

From  the  valiant  Dunmore,  with  his  crew 

of  banditti, 
Who  plunder  Virginians  at  Williamsburg 

city, 
From    hot-headed    Montague,    mighty   to 

swear,  . 

The  little  fat  man  with  his  pretty  white 

hair. 

From  bishops  in  Britain,  who  butchers  are 
grown, 

From  slaves  that  would  die  for  a  smile 
from  the  throne, 

From  assemblies  that  vote  against  Con 
gress  proceedings, 

(Who  now  see  the  fruit  of  their  stupid 
misleadings.)  2° 

From  Tryon  the  mighty,  who  flies   from 

our  city, 
And  swelled  with  importance  disdains  the 

committee : 
(But  since  he   is  pleased  to  proclaim  us- 

his  foes, 
What  the  devil  care  we  where  the  devil 

he  goes.) 

From  the  caitiff,  lord  North,  who  would 
bind  us  in  chains, 

From  a  royal  king  Log,  with  his  tooth- 
full  of  brains, 

Who  dreams,  and  is  certain  (when  taking 
a  nap) 

He  has  conquered  our  lands,  as  they  lay 
on  his  map. 

From  a  kingdom  that  bullies,  and  hectors, 

and  swears, 
We  send  up  to  heaven  our  wishes   and 

prayers  3° 

That  we,  disunited,  may  freemen  be  still, 
And  Britain  go  on — to  be  damned  if  she 

will. 

June,  1775. 

AMERICAN  LIBERTY  i 

Great  guardians  of  our  freedom,  we  pur 
sue 

Each  patriot  measure  as  inspir'd  by  you, 
Columbia,  nor  shall  fame  deny  it  owes 
Past  safety  to  the  counsel  you  propose; 

1  The  concluding  lines  of  a  long  poem  on 
American  conditions  from  the  "Present  Situa 
tion"  to  "Future  Happiness," 


And  if  they  do  not  keep  Columbia  free, 
What  will  alas!  become  of  Liberty? 
Great  souls  grow  bolder  in  their  country's 

cause, 

Detest  enslavers,  and  despise  their  laws. 
O  Congress  fam'd,  accept  this  humble  lay, 
The  little  tribute  that  the  muse  can  pay;  I0 
On  you  depends  Columbia's  future  fate, 
A  free  asylum  or  a  wretched  state. 
Fall'n  on   disastrous  times  we  push   our 

plea, 
Heard  or  not  heard,  and  struggle  to  be 

free. 
Born  to  contend,  our  lives  we  place  at 

stake, 
And  grow  immortal  by  the  stand  we  make. 

O  you,  who,  far  from  liberty  detain'd, 
Wear  out  existence  in  some  slavish  land, 
Fly  thence  from  tyrants,  and  their  flatt'r- 

ing  throng, 

And  bring  the  fiery  freeborn  soul  along.  2° 
Neptune  for  you  shall  smooth  the  hoary 

deep, 
And  awe  the  wild  tumultuous  waves  to 

sleep ; 
Here  vernal  woods,  and  flow'ry  meadows 

blow, 

Luxuriant  harvests  in  rich  plenty  grow, 
Commerce  extends  as   far  as  waves  can 

roll, 
And  freedom,  God-like  freedom,  crowns 

the  whole. 
And  you,   brave   men,   who   scorn    the 

dread  of  death, 

Resolv'd  to  conquer  to  the  latest  breath, 
Soldiers  in  act,  and  heroes  in  renown, 
Warm  in  the  cause  of  Boston's  hapless 

town,  3° 

Still  guard   each  pass;    like   ancient   Ro 
mans,  you 

At  once  are  soldiers,  and  are  farmers  too  ; 
Still  arm  impatient  for  the  vengeful  blow, 
And  rush  intrepid  on  the  yielding  foe ; 
As  when  of  late  midst  clouds  of  fire  and 

smoke, 
Whole  squadrons   fell,   or   to   the  center 

shook, 
And  even  the  bravest  to  your  arm  gave 

way, 
And    death,    exulting,    ey'd    the    unhappy 

fray. 
Behold,   your   Warren   bleeds,   who   both 

inspir'd 

To  noble  deeds,  and  by  his  actions  fir'd ;  4° 
What  pity,  heaven ! — but  you  who  yet  re 
main 

Affect  his  spirit  as  you  lov'd  the  man : 
Once  more,  and  yet  once  more  for  free 
dom  strive, 


92 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


To  be  a  slave  what  wretch  would   dare 

to  live? 
We  too  to  the  last  drop  our  blood  will 

drain, 

And  not  till  then  shall  hated  slavery  reign, 
When  every  effort,  every  hope  is  o'er, 
And  lost  Columbia  swells  our  breasts  no 

more. 
Oh    if   that    day,    which    heaven    avert, 

must  come, 
And     fathers,    husbands,    children,    meet 

their  doom,  5° 

Let  one  brave  onset  yet  that  doom  pre 
cede, 

To  shew  the  world  America  can  bleed, 
One  thund'ring  volley  raise  the  midnight 

cry, 
And  one  last  flame  send  Boston  to  the 

sky. 
But  cease,  foreboding  Muse,  nor  strive 

to  see 

Dark  times  deriv'd  by  fatal  destiny; 
If  ever  heaven  befriended  the  distrest, 
If  ever  valour  succour'd  those  opprest, 
Let  America  rejoice,  thy  standard  rear, 
Let  the  loud  trumpet  animate  to  war:     6° 
Thy  guardian  Genius,  haste  thee  on  thy 

way, 
To   strike   whole   hosts   with   terror   and 

dismay. 

Happy  some  land,  which  all  for  free 
dom  gave, 
Happier  the  men  whom  their  own  virtues 

save; 
Thrice  happy  we  who  long  attacks  have 

stood, 

And  swam  to  Liberty  thro'  seas  of  blood ; 
The  time  shall  come  when  strangers  rule 

no  more, 
Nor   cruel  mandates  vex   from   Britain's 

shore ; 
When  commerce  shall  extend  her  short- 

'ned  wing, 
And  her  free  freights  from  every  climate 

bring ;  7° 

When    mighty   towns    shall   flourish    free 

and  great, 

Vast  their  dominion,  opulent  their  state ; 
When  one  vast  cultivated  region  teems, 
From     ocean's     edge     to     Mississippi's 

streams ; 
While  each  enjoys  his  vineyard's  peaceful 

shade, 
And   even  the   meanest  has   no   cause  to 

dread ; 

Such  is  the  life  our  foes  with  envy  see, 
Such  is  the  godlike  glory  to  be  free. 

Separately  published  1775. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  CONSULTATION 

OR   A   TRIP  TO   BOSTON 

_1 

Twelve  was  the  hour — congenial  dark 
ness  reigned, 
And    no    bright    star    a    mimic    day-light 

feigned — 
First,  Gage  we  saw — a  crimson  chair  of 

state 
Received  the  honour  of  his   Honour's 

weight ; 

This  man  of  straw  the  regal  purple  bound, 
But  dullness,  deepest  dullness,  hovered 

round. 
Next    Graves,    who    wields    the    trident 

of  the  brine, 
The    tall    arch-captain    of    the    embattled 

line, 
All  gloomy  sate — mumbling  of  flame  and 

fire, 
Balls,  cannon,  ships,  and  all  their  damned 

attire ;  10 

Well  pleased  to  live  in  never-ending  hum, 
But  empty  as  the  interior  of  his  drum. 
Hard  by,  Burgoyne  assumes  an  ample 

space, 
And    seemed    to    meditate    with    studious. 

face, 

As  if  again  he  wished  our  world  to  see 
Long,   dull,    dry   letters,   writ   to   General 

Lee — 
Huge  scrawls   of  words  through  endless 

circuits  drawn 

Unmeaning  as  the  errand  he's  upon. — 
Is  he  to  conquer — he  subdue  our  land? — 
This  buckram  hero,  with  his  lady's  hand? 
By  Cesars  to  be  vanquished  is  a  curse,   2I 
But   by   a   scribbling    fop — by    heaven,    is 

worse ! 
Lord  Piercy  seemed  to  snore — but  may 

the  Muse 

This  ill-timed  snoring  to  the  peer  excuse ; 
Tired  was  the  long  boy  of  his  toilsome 

day, 

Full  fifteen  miles  he  fled — a  tedious  way; 
How  could  he  then  the  dews  of  Somnus 

shun, 
Perhaps  not  used  to  walk — much  less  to 

run. 

Red-faced  as  suns,  when  sinking  to  re 
pose, 

Reclined  the  infernal  captain  of  the  Rose, 
In    fame's    proud    temple    aiming    for    a 

niche,  3' 

With  those  who  find  her  at  the  cannon's 

breech ; 

1  Omitting  the  first   69   lines   of  general  intro 
duction. 


PHILIP    FRENEAU 


93 


Skilled  to  direct  the  cannonading  shot, 
No  Turkish  rover  half  so  murdering  hot, 
Pleased  with  base  vengeance  on  defence 
less  towns, 
His  heart  was  malice — but  his  words  were, 

Zounds ! 
Howe,  vexed  to  see  his  starving  army's 

doom, 
In  prayer,  besought  the  skies   for  elbow 

room — 

Small  was  his  stock,  and  theirs,  of  heav 
enly  grace, 

Yet  just  enough  to  ask  a  larger  place.  4<> 
He  cursed  the  brainless  minister  that 

planned 

His  bootless  errand  to  this  hostile  land, 
But,   awed   by   Gage,   his   bursting  wrath 

recoiled, 

And  in  his  inmost  bosom  doubly  boiled. 
These,   chief   of   all   the  tyrant-serving 

train, 

Exalted  sate — the  rest  (a  pensioned  clan), 
A  sample  of  the  multitude  that  wait, 
Pale  sons  of  famine,  at  perdition's  gate, 
North's  friends  down  swarming   (so  our 
monarch  wills),  49 

Hungry  as  death,  from  Caledonian  hills ; 
Whose  endless  numbers  if  you  bid  me  tell, 
I'll  count  the  atoms  of  this  globe  as 

well, — 

Knights,     captains,     'squires — a     wonder 
working  band, 
Held  at   small   wages  'till  they  gain  the 

land, 

Flocked  pensive  round — black  spleen   as 
sailed  their  hearts, 
(The    sport    of    plough-boys,    with    their 

arms  and  arts) 

And  make  them  doubt  (howe'er  for  ven 
geance  hot) 
Whether  they  were  invincible  or  not. 


The    clock    strikes    two ! — Gage    smote 

upon  his  breast, 
And  cried, — "What  fate  determines,  must 

be  best —  6° 

But  now  attend — a  counsel  I  impart 
That   long   has   laid   the    heaviest   at    my 

heart — 
Three  weeks — ye  gods  ! — nay,  three  long 

years  it  seems 
Since  roast-beef  I  have  touched  except  in 

dreams. 

In  sleep,  choice  dishes  to  my  view  repair, 
Waking,    I    gape    and    champ    the    empty 

air. — 

1  Here  are  omitted  lines   127-225. 


Say,    is    it    just    that    I,    who    rule    these 

bands, 

Should  live  on  husks,  like  rakes  in  for 
eign   lands  ? — 
Come,  let  us  plan   some  project  ere  we 

sleep, 

And  drink  destruction  to  the  rebel  sheep. 
"On  neighbouring  isles  uncounted  cat 
tle  stray,  7» 
Fat    beeves    and    swine,    an    ill-defended 

prey— 
These   are   fit  visions    for   my   noon   day 

dish, 

These,  if  my  soldiers  act  as  I  would  wish, 
In  one  short  week  should  glad  your  ma'ws 

and  mine; 
On    mutton   we   will    sup — on   roast   beef 

dine." 
Shouts  of  applause  re-echoed  through 

the  hall, 
And  what  pleased  one  as  surely  pleased 

them  all; 

Wallace  was  named  to  execute  the  plan, 
And  thus  sheep-stealing  pleased  them  to 

a  man.  &> 

Now   slumbers   stole  upon  the  great 

man's  eye, 
His   powdered    foretop   nodded   from  on 

high, 
His  lids  just  opened  to  find  how  matters 

were, 
"Dissolve,"  he  said,  "and  so  dissolved  ye 

are," 
Then   downward   sunk  to   slumbers   dark 

and  deep, — 
Each   nerve  relaxed — and   even   his   guts 

asleep. 

EPILOGUE 

What  are  these  strangers  from  a  for 
eign  isle, 

That  we  should  fear  their  hate  or  court 
their  smile? — 

Pride   sent   them   here,   pride   blasted    in 
the  bud, 

Who,  if  she  can,  will  build  her  throne  in 
blood,  90 

With  slaughtered  millions  glut  her  tear 
less   eyes, 

And  bid  even  virtue   fall,  that  she   may 

rise. 

What    deep    offence   has    fired    a   mon 
arch's  rage? 

What    moon-struck    madness    seized    the 
brain  of  Gage? 

Laughs  not  the  soul  when  an  imprisoned 
crew 

Affect  to  pardon  those  they  can't  subdue, 


94 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Though  thrice  repulsed,  and  hemmed  up 
to  their  stations, 

Yet  issue  pardons,   oaths,  and  proclama 
tions  ! — 

Too  long  our  patient  country  wears  their 
chains, 

Too  long  our  wealth  all-grasping  Britain 
drains.  I0° 

Why   still   a   handmaid   to   that   distant 
land? 

Why  still  subservient  to  their  proud  com 
mand? 

Britain   the   bold,  the   generous,   and  the 
brave 

Still  treats  our  country  like  the  meanest 
slave, 

Her  haughty  lords  already  share  the  prey, 

Live  on  our  labours,  and  with  scorn  re 
pay; — 

Rise,   sleeper,  rise,   while  yet  the  power 
remains, 

And  bind  their  nobles  and  their  chiefs  in 
chains : 

Bent  on  destructive  plans,  they  scorn  our 
plea, 

'Tis  our  own  efforts  that  must  make  us 
free—  »° 

Born  to  contend,  our  lives   we  place  at 
stake, 

And  rise  to  conquerors  by  the  stand  we 

make. — 

The    time    may    come    when    strangers 
rule  no  more, 

Nor  cruel   mandates  vex   from   Britain's 
shore, 

When  commerce  may  extend  her  short 
ened  wing, 

And  her  rich  freights  from  every  climate 
bring. 

When    mighty   towns    shall   flourish    free 
and  great, 

Vast  their  dominion,  opulent  their  state, 

When  one  vast  cultivated  region  teems 

From  ocean's  side  to  Mississippi  streams, 

While  each  enjoys  his  vineyard's  peaceful 
shade, 

And    even    the    meanest    has    no    foe    to 

dread. 

And   you,   who,    far   from  Liberty    de 
tained, 

Wear  out  existence  in  some  slavish  land — 

Forsake     those     shores,     a     self -ejected 
throng, 

And    armed    for    vengeance,    here    resent 
the  wrong: 

Come    to    our    climes,    where    unchained 
rivers  flow, 

And   loftiest  groves,   and  boundless   for 
ests  grow. 


Here  the  blest  soil  your  future  care  de 
mands  ; 
Come,     sweep     the     forests     from     these 

shaded  lands,  "3° 

And  the  kind  earth  shall  every  toil  repay, 

And  harvests  flourish  as  the  groves  decay. 

O  heaven-born  Peace,  renew  thy  wonted 

charms — 
Far    be    this    rancour,    and    this    din    of 

arms — 
To    warring    lands    return,    an    honoured 

guest, 
And  bless  our  crimson  shore  among  the 

rest — 

Long  may  Britannia  rule  our  hearts  again, 
Rule  as  she  ruled  in  George  the  Second's 

reign, 
May   ages    hence   her   growing    grandeur 

see, 
And    she    be    glorious — but    ourselves    as 

free !  MO 

Separately  published,  Sept.,  1775 


AMERICA  INDEPENDENT  i 

Americans !      revenge     your     country's 

wrongs ; 

To  you  the  honour  of  this  deed  belongs, 
Your    arms    did    once    this    sinking    land 

sustain, 
And  saved  those  climes  where  Freedom 

yet  must  reign — 

Your  bleeding   soil   this   ardent  task   de 
mands, 
Expel   yon'    thieves    from    these    polluted 

lands, 
Expect    no    peace    till    haughty     Britain 

yields, 
'Till  humbled  Britons  quit  your  ravaged 

fields- 
Still  to  the  charge  that  routed  foe  re 
turns,  9 
The  war  still  rages,  and  the  battle  burns — 
No  dull  debates,  or  tedious  counsels  know, 
But  rush  at  once,  embodied,  on  your  foe; 
With  hell-born  spite  a  seven  years'  war 

they  wage, 
The    pirate    Goodrich,    and    the    ruffian 

Gage. 
Your   injured    country    groans    while   yet 

they  stay, 
Attend  her  groans,  and  force  their  hosts 

away; 
Your  mighty  wrongs  the  tragic  muse  shall 

trace, 

1  Published  in  "Travels  of  the  Imagination," 
1778,  by  Robert  Bell,  Philadelphia.  The  conclu 
sion  of  a  poem  of  350  lines. 


PHILIP    FRENEAU 


95 


Your   gallant    deeds    shall    fire    a    future 

race; 

To  you  may  kings  and  potentates  appeal, 
You    may    the    doom    of    jarring   nations 

seal ;  2° 

A  glorious  empire  rises,  bright  and  new ! 
Firm  be  the  structure,  and  must  rest  on 

you ! — 
Fame   o'er  the  mighty  pile   expands  her 

wings, 
Remote  from  princes,  bishops,  lords,  and 

kings, 
Those  fancied  gods,  who,  famed  through 

every  shore, 
Mankind  have  fashioned,  and  like   fools, 

adore. 
Here  yet  shall  heaven  the  joys  of  peace 

bestow, 
While   through   our   soil   the   streams   of 

plenty  flow, 
And  o'er  the  main  we  spread  the  trading 

sail, 
Wafting  the  produce  of  the  rural  vale.  30 

GEORGE  THE  THIRD'S  SOLILOQUY 

What  mean  these  dreams,  and  hideous 

forms  that  rise 
Night    after    night,    tormenting   to    my 

eyes — 

No  real  foes  these  horrid  shapes  can  be, 
But  thrice  as  much  they  vex  and  torture 

me. 
How  cursed  is  he — how  doubly  cursed 

am  I — 
Who  lives  in  pain,  and  yet  who  dares  not 

die;  . 

To    him    no    joy    this    world    of    Nature 

brings, 
In  vain  the  wild  rose  blooms,  the   daisy 

springs. 

Is  this  a  prelude  to  some  new  disgrace, 
Some    baleful    omen    to    my    name    and 

race ! —  I0 

It  may  be  so — ere  mighty  Caesar  died 
Presaging    Nature    felt    his    doom,    and 

sighed ; 
A    bellowing    voice    through    midnight 

groves  was  heard, 
And  threatening  ghosts   at   dusk  of  eve 

appeared — 

Ere  Brutus  fell,  to  adverse  fates  a  prey, 
His  evil  genius  met  him  on  the  way, 
And  so  may  mine ! — but  who  would  yield 

so   soon 
A  prize,  some  luckier  hour  may  make  my 

own? 
Shame  seize  my  crown  ere  such  a  deed 

be  mine — 


No — to  the  last  my  squadrons  shall  com 
bine,  *> 

And  slay  my  foes,  while  foes  remain  to 
slay, 

Or  heaven  shall  grant  me  one  successful 

day. 

Is    there    a    robber    close    in    Newgate 
hemmed, 

Is  there  a  cut-throat,   fettered  and  con 
demned  ? 

Haste,  loyal  slaves,  to  George's  standard 
come, 

Attend    his    lectures   when  you   hear   the 
drum; 

Your  chains  I  break — for  better  days  pre 
pare, 

Come  out,  my  friends,   from  prison   and 
from  care, 

Far  to   the   west   I   plan  your   desperate 
sway, 

There   'tis   no   sin   to   ravage,   burn,   and 
slay,  30 

There,    without    fear,    your    bloody    aims 
pursue, 

And  shew  mankind  what  English  thieves 

can  do. 

That  day,  when  first  I  mounted  to  the 
throne, 

I  swore  to  let  all  foreign  foes  alone. 

Through    love   of   peace   to   terms    did   I 
advance, 

And  made,  they  say,  a  shameful   league 
with  France. 

But    different    scenes    rise    horrid    to    my 
view, 

I  charged  my  hosts  to  plunder  and  sub 
due — 

At  first,  indeed,  I  thought  short  wars  to 
wage 

And   sent   some   jail-birds   to   be   led   by 
Gage,  40 

For  'twas  but  right,  that  those  we  marked 
for  slaves 

Should  be  reduced  by  cowards,  fools,  and 
knaves ; 

Awhile  directed  by  his  feeble  hand, 

Whose    troops    were    kicked    and    pelted 
through  the  land, 

Or  starved  in  Boston,  cursed  the  unlucky 
hour 

They  left  their  dungeons   for  that   fatal 

shore. 

France  aids  them  now,  a  desperate  game 
I  play, 

And  hostile  Spain  will  do  the  same,  they 
say ; 

My  armies  vanquished,  and  my  heroes  fled, 

My  people  murmuring,  and  my  commerce 
dead,  5° 


96 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


My   shattered  navy  pelted,   bruised,  and 

clubbed, 

My   Dutchmen   bullied,   and   my   French 
men  drubbed, 

My  name  abhorred,  my  nation  in  disgrace, 
How   should   I   act  in  such   a  mournful 

case! 
My  hopes  and  joys  are  vanished  with  my 

com, 

My  ruined  army,  and  my  lost  Burgoyne! 
What    shall    I    do — confess    my    labours 

vain, 
Or  whet   my   tusks,   and   to   the   charge 

again! 
But    where's    my    force  —  my   choicest 

troops  are  fled. 
Some  thousands  crippled,  and  a  myriad 

dead —  fo 

If  I  were  owned  the  boldest  of  mankind, 
And  hell  with  all  her  flames  inspired  my 

mind, 
Could  I  at  once  with  Spain  and  France 

contend. 
And  fight  the  rebels  on  the  world's  green 

end?— 

The  pangs  of  parting  I  can  ne'er  endure, 
Yet  part  we  must,  and  part  to  meet  no 

more! 

Oh,  blast  this   Congress,  blast  each  up 
start  State, 

On  whose  commands  ten  thousand  cap 
tains  wait; 
From  various  climes  that  dire  Assembly 

came,  & 

True  to  their  trust,  as  hostile  to  my  fame, 
*Tis  these,  ah  these,  have  ruined  half  my 

sway, 
Disgraced   my  arms,  and  led  my  slaves 

astray — 
Cursed  be  the  day  when  first  I  saw  the 

sun, 
Cursed  be  the  hour  when  I  these  wars 

begun: 
The  fiends  of  darkness  then  possessed  my 

mind, 
And    powers    unfriendly    to    the    human 

kind. 

To  wasting  grief,  and  sullen  rage  a  prey, 
To  Scotland's  utmost  verge  I'll  take  my 

way, 
There   with   eternal   storms   due  concert 

keep 
And  while  the  billows   rage,   as   fiercely 


weep — 


la 


Ye   highland   lads,   my   rugged    fate   be 
moan, 

Assist  me  with  one  sympathizing  groan, 
For  late  I  find  the  nations  are  my  foes, 
I  must  submit,  and  that  with  bloody  nose, 


Or,  like  our  James,  fly  basely  from  the 

state. 
Or    share,    what    still    is    worse  —  old 

Charles's  fate. 

United  States  Magazine,  May,  1779. 

THE    BRITISH    PRISON    SHIP* 
CANTO  II 

The  various  horrors  of  these  hulks  to 
tell, 

These  Prison  Ships  where  pain  and  hor 
ror  dwell, 

Where  death  in  tenfold  vengeance  holds 
his  reign, 

And  injured  ghosts,  yet  unaveng'd,  com 
plain  ; 

This    be    my    task — ungenerous    Britons, 
you 

Conspire  to  murder  thpse  you  can't  sub 
due. — • 

Weak  as  I  am,  I'll  try  my  strength  to 
day 

And  my  best  arrows  at  these  hell-hounds 
play, 

To  future  years  one  scene  of  death  pro 
long, 

And  hang  them  up  to  infamy,  in  song.    I0 
That    Britain's    rage    should    dye    our 
plains  with  gore, 

And    desolation    spread    through    every 
shore, 

None  e'er  could  doubt,  that  her  ambition 
knew, 

This  was  to  rage  and  disappointment  due ; 

But  that  those  monsters  whom  our  soil 
maintain'd, 

Who   first   drew   breath   in  this   devoted 
land, 

Like    famish'd   wolves,    should    on   their 
country  prey, 

Assist  its  foes,  and  wrest  _our  lives  away, 

This  shocks  belief — and  bids  our  soil  dis 
own 

Such   friends,  subservient  to  a  bankrupt 
crown,  2° 

By  them  the  widow  mourns  her  partner 
dead, 

Her  mangled   sons  to   darksome  prisons 
led, 

»On  May  25,  1780,  Freneau  in  the  ship 
Aurora  started  from  Philadelphia  as  a  pas 
senger  for  Santa  Cruz.  The  next  day,  while 
off  Cape  Henlopin,  the  ship  was  captured  by 
the  British  frigate  Iris,  Capt.  Hawkes,  and  the 
crew  and  passengers  sent  to  New  York  as  pris 
oners.  Canto  I  of  this  poem  deals  with  "The 
Capture"  and  Canto  III  with  "The  Hospital 
Prison  Ship." 


PHILIP    FRENEAU 


97 


By  them — and  hence  my  keenest  sorrows 

rise, 
My    friend,    my    guardian,    my    Orestes 

dies; 

Still  for  that  loss  must  wretched  I  com 
plain, 
And    sad    Ophelia    mourn    her    favourite 

swain. 
Ah!    come    the    day    when    from    this 

bloody  shore 
Fate    shall    remove    them    to    return    no 

more — 

To  scorch'd  Bahama  shall  the  traitors  go 
With    grief    and    rage,    and    unremitting 

woe,  3° 

On  burning  sands  to  walk  their  painful 

round, 

And  sigh  through  all  the  solitary  ground, 
Where  no  gay  flower  their  haggard  eyes 

shall  see, 
And  find  no  shade  but  from  the  cypress 

tree. 
So  much  we  suffered  from  the  tribe  I 

hate, 
So  near  they  shov'd  me  to  the  brink  of 

fate, 
When   two   long   months    in   these    dark 

hulks  we  lay, 
Barr'd  down  by  night,  and   fainting  all 

the  day 

In  the  fierce  fervours  of  the  solar  beam, 
Cool'd  by  no  breeze  on  Hudson's  moun 
tain-stream  ;  *» 
That   not   unsung  these  threescore   days 

shall  fall 

To  black  oblivion  that  would  cover  all! — 
No  masts  or  sails  these  crowded  ships 

adorn, 

Dismal  to  view,  neglected  and  forlorn! 
Here,  mighty  ills  oppress  the  imprison'd 

throng, 
Dull  were  our  slumbers,  and  our  nights 

too  long — 

From  morn  to  eve  along  the  decks  we  lay 
Scorch'd  into  fevers  by  the  solar  ray; 
No  friendly  awning  cast  a  welcome  shade, 
Once   was    it    promis'd,    and    was    never 

made;  so 

No    favours   could   these   sons   of   death 

bestow, 

'Twas  endless  cursing,  and  continual  woe : 
Immortal   hatred   doth   their   breasts   en 
gage, 
And  this  lost  empire   swells  their  souls 

with  rage. 
Two  hulks  on  Hudson's  stormy  bosom 

lie, 
Two,    farther    south,   affront   the   pitying 

eye- 


There,  the  black  Scorpion  at  her  mooring 

rides, 
There,  Strombolo  swings,  yielding  to  the 

tides; 

Here,  bulky  Jersey  fills  a  larger  space, 
And  Hunter,  to  all  hospitals  disgrace —  fc 
Thou,    Scorpion,    fatal    to    thy    crowded 

throng, 

Dire  theme  of  horror  and  Plutonian  song, 
Requir'st  my  lay  —  thy  sultry  decks  I 

know, 

And  all  the  torments  that  exist  below! 
The   briny   waves   that   Hudson's   bosom 

fills 

Drain'd  through  her  bottom  in  a  thou 
sand  rills. 
Rotten   and  old,   replete  with   sighs   and 

groans, 
Scarce  on  the  waters   she  sustain'd  her 

bones; 

Here,  doom'd  to  toil,  or  founder  in  the 

tide,  «9 

At  the  moist  pumps  incessantly  we  ply'd, 

Here,  doom'd  to  starve,  like  famish'd  dogs 

we  tore 
The    scant    allowance,    that    our    tyrants 

bore 
Remembrance    shudders    at   this    scene 

of  fears- 
Still  in  my  view  some  English  brute  ap 
pears,  m^: 
Some  base  -  born  Hessian  slave  walks 

threat'ning  by, 

Some  servile  Scot  with  murder  in  his  eye 
Still  haunts  my  sight,  as  vainly  they  be 
moan 

Rebellions  manag'd  so  unlike  their  own! 
O  may  I  never  feel  the  poignant  pain 
To  live  subjected  to  such  fiends  again.   *> 
Stewards  and  Mates  that  hostile  Britain 

bore, 
Cut    from    the   gallows    on   their   native 

shore ; 

Their  ghastly  looks  and  vengeance-beam 
ing  eyes 

Still  to  my  view  in  dismal  colours  rise — 
O  may  I  ne'er  review  these  dire  abodes, 
These  piles  for  slaughter,  floating  on  the 

floods. — 

And  you,  that  o'er  the  troubled  ocean  go, 
Strike   not   your   standards   to   this    mis 
creant  foe, 

•  Better  the  greedy  wave  should  swallow 

all  * 

Better  to  meet  the  death-conducted  ball, 

Better  to  sleep  on  ocean's  deepest  bed. 

At  once  destroy'd  and  number*d  with  the 

dead, 
Than  thus  to  perish  in  the  face  of  day 


98 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Where    twice    ten    thousand    deaths    one 

death  delay. 

When  to  the  ocean  dives  the  western 
sun, 

And  the  scorch'd  Tories  fire  their  evening 
gun, 

"Down,  rebels,  down !"  the  angry  Scotch 
men  cry, 

"Damn'd  dogs,  descend,  or  by  our  broad 

swords  die !" 

Hail,  dark  abode !  what  can  with  thee 
compare — 

Heat,  sickness,   famine,  death,   and  stag 
nant  air —  I0° 

Pandora's  box,  from  whence  all  mischief 
flew, 

Here     real     found,     torments     mankind 
anew ! — 

Swift  from  the  guarded  decks  we  rush'd 
along, 

And   vainly   sought   repose,    so   vast   our 
throng : 

Three  hundred  wretches  here,  denied  all 
light, 

In    crowded   mansions   pass    the    infernal 
night, 

Some  for  a  bed  their  tatter'd  vestments 
join, 

And  some  on  chests,  and  some  on  floors 
recline ; 

Shut   from  the  bUssings  of  the  evening 
air, 

Pensive    we    lay    with    mingled    corpses 
there,  II0 

Meagre  and  wan,  and  scorch'd  with  heat 
below, 

We    loom'd    like    ghosts,    ere   death    had 
made  us  so — 

How  could  we  else,  where  heat  and  hun 
ger  join'd 

Thus  to  debase  the  body  and  the  mind, 

Where   cruel   thirst   the   parching   throat 
invades, 

Dries  up  the  man,  and  fits  him  for  the 

shades. 

No    waters    laded    from    the    bubbling 
spring 

To  these  dire  ships  the  British  monsters 
bring — 

By    planks    and    ponderous    beams    com 
pletely  wall'd 

In  vain  for  water,  and  in  vain,  I  call'd — 

No    drop    was    granted    to    the    midnight  * 
prayer,  I21 

To  Dives  in  these  regions  of  despair ! — 

The  loathsome  cask  a  deadly  dose  con 
tains, 

Its   poison    circling   through   the    languid 
veins ; 


"Here,  generous  Britain,  generous,  as  you 

say, 
To  my  parch'd  tongue  one  cooling  drop 

convey, 

Hell  has  no  mischief  like  a  thirsty  throat, 
Nor  one  tormenter  like  your  David 

Sproat." 
Dull  flew  the  hours,  till,  from  the  East 

display'd, 
Sweet   morn   dispells  the  horrors   of   the 

shade;  13° 

On  every  side  dire  objects  meet  the  sight, 
And  pallid  forms,  and  murders  of  the 

night, 
The  dead  were  past  their  pain,  the  living 

groan, 
Nor    dare   to    hope    another   morn    their 

own ; 
But   what   to   them    is    morn's    delightful 

ray, 

Sad  and  distressful  as  the  close  of  day, 
O'er  distant  streams  appears  the  dewy 

green, 
And   leafy   trees   on    mountain   tops    are 

seen, 
But  they  no  groves  nor  grassy  mountains 

tread, 

Mark'd  for  a  longer  journey  to  the  dead. 
Black  as  the  clouds  that  shade  St.  Kil- 

da's  shore,  '4' 

Wild  as  the  winds  that  round  her  moun 
tains  roar, 

At  every  post  some  surly  vagrant  stands, 
Pick'd  from  the  British  or  the  Irish  bands, 
Some  slave  from  Hesse,  some  hangman's 

son  at  least 
Sold    and    transported,    like    his    brother 

beast — 
Some  miscreant  Tory,  puff'd  with  upstart 

pride, 

Led  on  by  hell  to  take  the  royal  side; 
Dispensing  death  triumphantly  they  stand, 
Their  musquets  ready  to  obey  command ; 
Wounds  are  their  sport,  as  ruin  is  their 

aim;  151 

On  their  dark  souls  compassion  has  no 

claim, 

And  discord  only  can  their  spirits  please : 
Such  were  our  tyrants  here,  and  such 

were  these. 

Ingratitude !  no  curse  like  thee  is  found 
Throughout  this  jarring  world's  extended 

round, 
Their  hearts  with  malice  to  our  country 

swell 
Because    in    former    days    we    us'd    them 

well  !— 
This  pierces  deep,  too  deeply  wounds  the 

breast ; 


PHILIP    FRENEAU 


99 


We    help'd    them    naked,    friendless,    and 

distrest,  I6° 

Receiv'd    their    vagrants    with    an    open 

hand, 
Bestow'd    them    buildings,    privilege,    and 

land — 
Behold  the  change ! — when  angry  Britain 

rose,' 

These  thankless  tribes  became  our  fierc 
est  foes, 

By  them  devoted,  plunder'd,  and  accurst, 
Stung  by  the  serpents  whom  ourselves 

had  nurs'd. 
But    such    a    train    of    endless    woes 

abound, 
So    many    mischiefs    in    these   hulks    are 

found, 

That  on  them  all  a  poem  to  prolong 
Would  swell  too  high  the  horrors  of  my 

song —  'TO 

Hunger  and  thirst  to  work  our  woe  com 
bine, 
And   mouldy  bread,   and   flesh   of   rotten 

swine, 
The    mangled    carcase,    and    the    batter'd 

brain, 
The    doctor's    poison,    and    the    captain's 

cane, 
The  soldier's  musquet,  and  the  steward's 

debt, 
The   evening   shackle,   and   the   noon-day 

threat. 
That  juice  destructive  to  the  pangs  of 

care 
Which    Rome   of   old,   nor  Athens   could 

prepare, 
Which  gains  the  day  for  many  a  modern 

chief 

When    cool   reflection   yields    a    faint    re 
lief,  180 
That    charm,    whose    virtue    warms    the 

world  beside, 

Was  by  these  tyrants  to  our  use  denied, 
While  yet  they  deign'd  that  healthy  juice 

to  lade 

The  putrid  water  felt  its  powerful  aid; 
But    when    refus'd  —  to    aggravate   our 

pains — 
Then    fevers    rag'd    and    revel'd    through 

our  veins ; 
Throughout   my   frame   I    felt  its   deadly 

heat, 
I    felt    my    pulse    with    quicker    motions 

beat : 

A  pallid  hue  o'er  every  face  was  spread, 
Unusual  pains  attack'd  the  fainting  head, 
No  physic  here,  no  doctor  to  assist,  '91 
My  name  was  enter'd  on  the  sick  man's 

list; 


Twelve    wretches    more    the    same    dark 

symptoms  took, 
And  these   were   enter'd   on  the   doctor's 

book; 
The  loathsome  Hunter  was  our  destin'd 

place, 

The  Hunter,  to  all  hospitals  disgrace; 
With   soldiers   sent  to   guard   us   on   our 

road, 

Joyful  we  left  the  Scorpion's  dire  abode; 
Some   tears   we   shed    for   the  remaining 

crew, 
Then  curs'd  the  hulk,  and  from  her  sides 

withdrew.  2°° 

Separately  published,  Philadelphia,  1781. 


ON    THE    MEMORABLE    VICTORY 
OF   PAUL  JONES 

1 

O'er  the  rough  main  with  flowing  sheet 
The  guardian  of  a  numerous  fleet, 

Seraphis  from  the  Baltic  came ; 
A  ship  of  less  tremendous  force 
Sail'd  by  her  side  the  self-same  course, 

Countess  of  Scarb'ro  was  her  name. 


And  now   their  native  coasts  appear, 
Britannia's  hills  their  summits  rear 

Above  the  German   main; 
Fond  to  suppose  their  dangers  o'er, 
They  southward  coast  along  the  shore, 

Thy  waters,  gentle  Thames,  to  gain. 


Full  forty  guns  Seraphis  bore, 

And  Scarb'ro's  Countess  twenty-four, 

Mann'd    with     Old    England's    boldest 

tars — 

What  flag  that  rides  the  Gallic  seas 
Shall  dare  attack  such  piles  as  these, 

Design'd  for  tumults  and  for  wars ! 


Now  from  the  top-mast's  giddy  height 
A  seaman  cry'd — "Four  sail  in  sight      2° 

"Approach  with  favouring  gales," 
Pearson,  resolv'd  to  save  the  fleet, 
Stood  off  to  sea  these  ships  to  meet. 

And  closely  brac'd  his  shivering  sails. 


With  him  advanc'd  the  Countess  bold, 
Like  a  black  tar  in  wars  grown  old ; 
And  now  these  floating  piles  drew  nigh ; 


100 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


But,  muse,  unfold  what  chief  of  fame 
In  th'  other  warlike  squadron  came, 
Whose  standards  at  his  mast  head  fly. 

30 


"Twas  JONES,  brave  JONES,  to  battle  led 
As  bold  a  crew  as  ever  bled 

Upon  the  sky-surrounded  main ; 
The  standards  of  the  Western  World 
Were  to  the  willing  winds  unfurl'd, 

Denying  Britain's  tyrant  reign. 


The  Good  Man  Richard  led  the  line; 
The  Alliance  next :  with  these  combine 

The  Gallic  ship  they  Pallas  call : 
The    Vengeance,   arm'd    with    sword    and 
flame,  40 

These  to  attack  the  Britons  came — 

But  two  accomplish'd  all. 

8 

Now  Phoebus  sought  his  pearly  bed : 
But  who  can  tell  the  scenes  of  dread, 

The  horrors  of  that   fatal  night! 
Close  up  these  floating  castles  came; 
The  Good  Man  Richard  bursts  in  flame ; 

Seraphis  trembled  at  the  sight. 


She  felt  the  fury  of  her  ball,  49 

Down,  prostrate  down,  the  Britons   fall; 

The  decks  were  strew'd  with  slain: 
Jones  to  the  foe  his  vessel  lash'd ; 
And,  while  the  black  artillery  flash'd, 

Loud  thunders  shook  the  main. 

10 

Alas !  that  mortals  should  employ 
Such  murdering  engines,  to  destroy 

That  frame  by  heav'n  so  nicely  join'd; 
Alas !  that  e'er  the  god  decreed. 
That  brother  should  by  brother  bleed,    59 

And  pour'd  such  madness  in  the  mind. 

11 

But  thou,   brave   JONES,   no   blame    shalt 

bear; 
The  rights  of  men  demand  thy  care: 

For  these  you  dare  the  greedy  waves — 
No  tyrant  on  destruction  bent 
Has  planned   thy  conquests  —  thou   art 

sent 
To  humble  tyrants  and  their  slaves. 


12 

See ! — dread  Seraphis  flames  again — 
And  art  thou,  JONES,  among  the  slain, 

And  sunk  to  Neptune's  caves  below — 
He  lives — though  crowds  around  him  fall, 
Still  he,  unhurt,  survives  them  all;  71 

Almost  alone  he  fights  the  foe.- 

13 

And  can  thy  ship  these  strokes  sustain? 
Behold  thy  brave  companions  slain, 

All  clasp'd  in  ocean's  dark  embrace. 
STRIKE,  OR  BE  SUNK  ! — the  Briton  cries — 
SINK,  IF  YOU  CAN  ! — the  chief  replies, 

Fierce  lightnings  blazing  in  his  face. 

14 

Then  to  the  side  three  guns  he  drew, 
(Almost  deserted  by  his  crew)  8° 

And  charg'd  them  deep  with  woe : 
By  Pearson's  flash  he  aim'd  the  balls ; 
His  main-mast  totters — down  it  falls — 

Tremendous  was  the  blow. 

15 

Pearson  as  yet  disdain'd  to  yield, 
But  scarce  his  secret  fears  conceal'd, 

And  thus  was  heard  to  cry — 
"With  hell,  not  mortals,  I  contend ; 
What  art  thou — human,  or  a  fiend, 

That  dost  my  force  defy?  9° 

16 

"Return,  my  lads,  the  fight  renew !" 
So  call'd  bold  Pearson  to  his  crew ; 

But  call'd,  alas  !  in  vain ; 
Some  on  the  decks  lay  maim'd  and  dead; 
Some  to  their  deep  recesses  fled, 

And  more  were  bury'd  in  the  main. 

17 

Distress'd,  forsaken,  and  alone, 

He  haul'd  his  tatter'd  standard  down, 

And  yielded  to  his  gallant  foe; 
Bold  Pallas  soon  the  Countess  took,       I0° 
Thus  both  their  haughty  colours  struck, 

Confessing  what  the  brave  can  do. 

18 

But  JONES,  too  dearly  didst  thou  buy 
These  ships  possest  so  gloriously, 

Too  many  deaths  disgrac'd  the  fray : 
Thy    barque    that    bore    the    conquering 

flame, 
That  the  proud  Briton  overcame, 

Even  she  forsook  thee  on  thy  way. 


PHILIP    FRENEAU 


101 


19 

For  when  the  morn  began  to  shine, 
Fatal  to  her,  the  ocean  brine  II0 

Pour'd  through   each   spacious  wound; 
Quick  in  the  deep  she  disappear'd, 
But  Jones  to  friendly  Belgia  steer'd, 

With  conquest  and  with  glory  crown'd. 

20 

Go  on,  great  man,  to  daunt  the  foe, 
And  bid  the  haughty  Britons  know 

They  to  our  Thirteen  Stars  shall  bend ; 
The  Stars  that  veil'd  in  dark  attire, 
Long  glimmer'd  with  a  feeble  fire, 

But  radiant  now  ascend;  I2° 

21 

Bend  to  the  Stars  that  flaming  rise 
In  western,  not  in  eastern,  skies, 

Fair  Freedom's  reign  restor'd. 
So  when  the  magi,  come  from  far, 
Beheld  the  God-attending  Star, 

They  trembled  and  ador'd. 

Freeman's  Journal,  Aug.  8,  1781. 


Nor  may  she  ride  on  oceans  more  serene 
Than    Greece,   triumphant,    found    that 
stormy  day, 

When    angry    Pallas    spent   her   rage   no 

more 
On    vanquished    Ilium,    then    in    ashes 

laid, 

But  turned   it   on   the   barque   that   Ajax 

bore,  '9 

Avenging  thus  her  temple  and  the  maid. 

When  tossed  upon  the  vast  Atlantic  main 
Your  groaning  ship  the  southern  gales 

shall  tear, 
How    will   your    sailors    sweat,    and   you 

complain 

And  meanly  howl  to  Jove,  that  will  not 
hear! 

But  if,  at  last,  upon  some  winding  shore 
A  prey  to  hungry  cormorants  you  lie, 

A  wanton  goat  to  every  stormy  power, 
And  a  fat  lamb,  in  sacrifice,  shall  die. 

Freeman's  Journal,  July  10,  1782. 


ARNOLD'S    DEPARTURE  i 

"Mala  soluta  navis  exit  alite 
Per  ens  olentem  Mavium,"  etc. 

With  evil  omens  from  the  harbour  sails 
The  ill-fated  barque  that  worthless  Ar 
nold  bears, — 
God  of  the  southern  winds,  call  up  the 

gales, 

And    whistle    in    rude    fury    round    his 
ears. 

With    horrid    waves    insult    his    vessel's 

sides, 
And  may  the  east  wind  on  a  leeward 

shore 

Her  cables  part  while  she  in  tumult  rides, 
And  shatter  into  shivers  every  oar. 

And  let  the  north  wind  to  her  ruin  haste, 
With  such  a  rage,  as  when  from  moun 
tains  high  I0 
He   rends  the  tall  oak  with  his   weighty 

blast, 
And  ruin  spreads  where'er  his  forces  fly. 

May  not  one  friendly  star  that  night  be 

seen; 

No  moon,  attendant,  dart  one  glimmer 
ing  ray, 

1  Written    in    December,    1781,    upon    the    de 
parture    of    General   Arnold    from    New   York. 


PROLOGUE 

To  A  THEATRICAL  ENTERTAINMENT2  IN 
PHILADELPHIA    • 

Wars,  cruel  wars,  and  hostile  Britain's 

rage 
Have  banished  long  the  pleasures  of  the 

stage ; 
From  the  gay  painted  scene  compelled  to 

part, 
(Forgot    the    melting    language    of    the 

heart) 
Constrained    to    shun    the    bold    theatric 

show, 

To  act  long  tragedies  of  real  woe, 
Heroes,     once     more     attend     the     comic 

muse; 

Forget  our   failings,  and   our   faults   ex 
cuse. 

In  that  fine  language  is  our  fable  drest 
Which  still  unrivall'd,  reigns  o'er  all  the 

rest ;  I0 

Of  foreign  courts  the  study  and  the  pride, 
Who  to  know  this  abandon  all  beside  ; 
Bold,  though  polite,   and  ever  sure  to 

please ; 
Correct  with  grace,  and  elegant  with  ease; 

2  This  was  a  gala  performance  before  Gen 
eral  Washington  and  the  French  Minister, 
January  2,  1782.  The  play  was  Eugenie,  by 
Beaumarchais,  followed  by  a  farce  and  a  spec 
tacular  illumination, 


102 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Soft  from  the  lips  its  easy  accents  roll, 
Form'd  to  delight  and  captivate  the  soul: 
In  this  Eugenia  tells  her  easy  lay, 
The  brilliant  work  of  courtly  Beaumar- 

chais : 
In   this   Racine,   Voltaire,   and   Boileau 

sung,  !9 

The  noblest  poets  in  the  noblest  tongue. 
If  the  soft  story  in  our  play  express'd 
Can   give   a   moment's   pleasure   to   your 

breast, 
To  you,  GREAT  Sm,1  we  must  be  proud  to 

say 
That   moment's  pleasure   shall   our  pains 

repay  : 

Return'd  from  conquest  and  from  glori 
ous  toils, 
From    armies    captur'd    and    unnumber'd 

spoils ; 

Ere  yet  again,  with  generous  France  al 
lied, 
You    rush    to    battle,    humbling    British 

pride; 
While  arts  of  peace  your  kind  protection 

share, 

O  let  the  Muses  claim  an  equal  care.      3° 
You  bade  us   first  our   future   greatness 

see, 

Inspir'd  by  you,  we  languish'd  to  be  free; 
Even  here  where  Freedom  lately  sat  dis- 

trest, 

See,  a  new  Athens  rising  in  the  west! 
Fair   science   blooms,    where    tyrants 

reigned  before, 
Red   war,    reluctant,   leaves    our    ravag'd 

shore — 

Illustrious  heroes,  may  you  live  to  see 
These  new  republics  powerful,  great,  and 

free; 
Peace,  heaven  born  peace,   o'er  spacious 

regions  spread, 
While  discord,  sinking,  veils  her  ghastly 

head.  40 

Freeman's  Journal,  Jan.  9,  1782. 


EPIGRAM 

Occasioned  by  the  title  of  Mr.  Riving- 
ton's  2  New  York  Royal  Gazette,  being 
scarcely  legible. 

Says  Satan  to  Jemmy,  "I  hold  you  a  bet 
That   you    mean    to   abandon   our    Royal 
Gazette, 

1  Addressed  to   his   excellency,    General    Wash 
ington. 

2  Royal   printer  to  his   Britannic   majesty  while 
his    forces    held    the    city    of    New    York,    1776, 
to  November  25,   1783,      (Author's  Note.) 


Or,  between  you  and  me,  you  would  man 
age  things  better 

Than  the  Title  to  print  on  so  sneaking  a 
letter." 

"Now  being  connected  so  long  in  the  art 
It  would  not  be  prudent  at  present  to  part ; 
And  people,  perhaps,  would  be  fright- 

en'd,  and  fret 

If  the  devil  alone  carried  on  the  Ga 
zette." 

Says  Jemmy  to  Satan  (by  the  way  of  a 
wipe), 

"Who  gives  me  the  matter  should  furnish 
the  type)  ;  I0 

And  why  you  find  fault,  I  can  scarcely 
divine, 

For  the  types,  like  the  printer,  are  cer 
tainly  thine. 

"  'Tis  yours  to  deceive  with  the  semblance 
of  truth, 

Thou  friend  of  my  age,  and  thou  guide 
of  my  youth ! 

But,  to  prosper,  pray  send  me  some  fur 
ther  supplies, 

A  sett  of  new  types,  and  a  sett  of  new 
lies." 

Freeman's  Journal,  Feb.  13,  1782. 


A   PROPHECY 

When  a  certain  great  king,  whose  initial 
is  G., 

Shall  force  stamps  upon  paper,  and  folks 
to  drink  tea ; 

When  these  folks  burn  his  tea,  and  stampt 
paper,  like  stubble, 

You  may  guess  that  this  king  is  then 
coming  to  trouble. 

But  when  a  petition  he  treads  under  his 
feet, 

And  sends  over  the  ocean  an  army  and 
fleet; 

When  that  army,  half-starved,  and  fran 
tic  with  rage, 

Shall  be  coop'd  up  with  a  leader  whos; 
name  rhymes  to  cage, 

When  that  leader  goes  home,  dejected 
and  sad, 

You  may  then  be  assur'd  the  king's  pros 
pects  are  bad :  i° 

But  when  B  and  C  with  their  armies  are 
taken, 

This  king  will  do  well  if  he  saves  his 
own  bacon, 


PHILIP    FRENEAU 


103 


In  the  year  seventeen  hundred  and  eighty 

and  two, 
A  stroke  he  shall  get  that  will  make  him 

look  blue ; 
In    the    years    eighty-three,    eighty-four, 

eighty-five, 
You  hardly  shall  know  that  the  king  is 

alive ; 
In  the  year  eighty-six  the  affair  will  be 

over, 
And   he   shall   eat   turnips   that    grow   in 

Hanover. 
The  face  of  the  lion  shall  then    become 

pale, 
He    shall    yield    fifteen    teeth,    and    be 

sheer' d  of  his  tail.  2° 

O  king,  my  dear  king,  you  shall  be  very 

sore, 
The  Stars  and  the  Lilly  shall  run  you  on 

shore, 
And  your  lion  shall  growl,  but  never  bite 

more. 
Freeman's  Journal,  March  27,  1782. 

THE    POLITICAL    BALANCE 

OR,  THE  FATES  OF  BRITAIN  AND  AMERICA 
COMPARED 

A  TALE 

As  Jove  the  Olympian   (who  both  I  and 

you  know, 
Was  brother  to  Neptune,  and  husband  to 

Juno) 

Was  lately  reviewing  his  papers  of  state, 
He  happen'd  to   light  on  the  records  of 

Fate: 

In  Alphabet  order  this  volume  was  writ 
ten— 

So  he  open'd  at  B,  for  the  article  Brit 
ain — 

She  struggles  so  well,  said  the  god,  I  will 
see 

What  the  sisters  in  Pluto's  dominions 
decree. 

And  first,  on  the  top  of  a  column  he  read 
"Of  a  king  with  a  mighty  soft  place  in  his 

head,  10 

Who   should  join   in   his  temper   the  ass 

and  the  mule, 
The  third  of  his   name,  and  by   far  the 

worst  fool : 

"His  reign  shall  be  famous  for  multipli 
cation, 

The  sire  and  the  king  of  a  whelp  genera 
tion  : 


But  such  is  the  will  and  the  purpose  of 

fate, 
For  each  child  he  begets  he  shall  forfeit 

a  State: 

"In  the  course  of  events,  he  shall  find  to 

his  cost 
That  he  cannot  regain  what  he  foolishly 

lost; 
Of   the   nations   around   he  shall   be   the 

derision, 
And    know    by    experience    the    rule    of 

Division."  20 

So  Jupiter  read — a  god  of  first  rank — 
And  still  had  read  on — but  he  came  to  a 

blank : 
For  the  Fates  had  neglected  the  rest  to 

reveal — 
They  either  forgot  it,  or  chose  to  conceal : 

When  a  leaf  is  torn  out,  or  a  blot  on  a 

page 

That  pleases  our  fancy,  we  fly  in  a  rage — 
So,  curious  to  know  what  the  Fates  would 

say  next, 
No    wonder    if    Jove,    disappointed,    was 

vext. 

But   still   as   true   genius   not   frequently 

fails, 
He  glanced  at  the  Virgin,  and  thought  of 

the  Scales;  3° 

And  said,  "To  determine  the  will  of  the 

Fates, 
One  scale  shall  weigh  Britain,  the  other 

the  States." 

Then  turning  to  Vulcan,  his  maker  of 
thunder, 

Said  he,  "My  dear  Vulcan,  I  pray  you 
look  yonder, 

Those  creatures  are  tearing  each  other 
to  pieces, 

And,  instead  of  abating,  the  carnage  in 
creases. 

"Now  as  you  are  blacksmith,  and  lusty- 
stout  ham-eater, 

You  must  make  me  a  globe  of  a  shorter 
diameter; 

The  world  in  abridgment,  and  just  as  it 
stands 

With  all  its  proportions  of  waters  and 
lands ;  40 

"But  its  various  divisions  must  so  be  de 
signed, 

That  I  can  unhinge  it  whene'er  I've  a 
mind — 


104 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


How  else  should  I  know  what  the  por 
tions  will  weigh, 
Or   which    of   the   combatants   carry   the 

day?" 

Old  Vulcan  complied,  (We've  no  reason 
to  doubt  it) 

So  he  put  on  his  apron  and  strait  went 
about  it — 

Made  center,  and  circles-  as  round  as  a 
pancake, 

And  here  the  Pacific,  and  there  the  At 
lantic. 

At  length,  to  discourage  all  stupid  pre 
tensions, 

Jove  looked  at  the  globe,  and  approved 
its  dimensions,  so 

And  cried  in  a  transport — "Why  what 
have  we  here ! 

Friend  Vulcan,  it  is  a.  most  beautiful 
sphere ! 

"Now  while  I  am  busy  in  taking  apart 

This  globe  that  is  formed  with  such  ex 
quisite  art, 

Go,  Hermes,  to  Libra,  (you're  one  of  her 
gallants) 

And  ask,  in  my  name,  for  the  loan  of 
her  balance." 

Away  posted  Hermes,  as  swift  as  the 
gales, 

And  as  swiftly  returned  with  the  ponder 
ous  Scales, 

And  hung  them  aloft  to  a  beam  in  the 
air, 

So  equally  poised,  they  had  turn'd  with 
a  hair.  6° 

Now  Jove  to  Columbia  his  shoulders  ap 
plied, 

But  aiming  to  lift  her,  his  strength  she 
defied— 

Then,  turning  about  to  their  godships,  he 
says — 

"A  body  so  vast  is  not  easy  to  raise; 

"But  if  you  assist  me,  I  still  have  a  notion 
Our  forces,  united,  can  put  her  in  motion, 
And  swing  her  aloft,  (though  alone  I 

might  fail) 
And  place  her,  in  spite  of  her  bulk,  in 

our  scale; 

"If  six  years  together  the  Congress  have 

strove, 

And  more  than  divided  the  empire  with 

Jove;  70 


With  a  Jove  like  myself,  who  am  nine 

times  as  great, 
You  can  join,  like  their  soldiers,  to  heave 

up  this  weight." 

So  to  it  they  went,  with  handspikes  and 
levers, 

And  upward  she  sprung,  with  her  moun 
tains  and  rivers ! 

Rocks,  cities,  and  islands,  deep  waters  and 
shallows, 

Ships,  armies,  and  forests,  high  heads  and 
fine  fellows :  • 

"Stick  to  it !"  cries  Jove,  "now  heave  one 

and  all ! 
At  least  we  are  lifting  'one-eighth  of  the 

ball !' 
If    backward    she    tumbles — then    trouble 

begins, 
And  then  have  a  care,  my  dear  boys,  of 

your  shins !"  8° 

When  gods  are  determined  what  project 

can  fail? 
So    they    gave    a    hard    shove,    and    she 

mounted  the  scale ; 
Suspended    aloft,   Jove   viewed    her   with 

awe — 
And  the  gods,  for  their  pay,  had  a  hearty 

— huzza ! 

But  Neptune  bawled  out — "Why  Jove 
you're  a  noddy, 

Is   Britain  sufficient  to  poise  that  vast 
body? 

'Tis  nonsense  such  castles  to  build  in  the 
air — 

As  well  might  an  oyster  with  Britain  com 
pare." 

"Away    to    your    waters,    you    blustering 

bully." 
Said  Jove,  "Or  I'll  make  you  repent  of 

your  folly,  9° 

Is  Jupiter,  Sir,  to  be  tutored  by  you? — 
Get  out  of  my  sight,  for  I  know  what  to 

do!" 

Then  searching  about  with  his  fingers  for 

Britain, 
Thought  he,   "this   same   island  I   cannot 

well  hit  on  ; 
The  devil  take  him  who  first  called  her 

the  Great : 
If  she  was — she  is   vastly   diminish'd   of 

late !" 


PHILIP    FRENEAU 


105 


Like  a  man  that  is  searching  his  thigh  for 

a  flea, 
He  peep'd   and  he   fumbl'd,   but  nothing 

could  see; 
At  last  he  exclaimed — "I  am  surely  upon 

it— 
"I  think  I   have  hold  of  a  Highlander's 

bonnet."  »°° 

But  finding  his  error,  he  said  with  a  sigh, 
"This  bonnet  is  only  the  island  of  Skie !" 
So  away  to  his  namesake  the  planet  he 

goes, 
And  borrow'd  two  moons  to  hang  on  his 

nose. 

Through    these,    as    through   glasses,   he 

saw  her  quite  clear, 
And  in  raptures  cried  out — "I  have  found 

her — she's  here! 
If  this  be  not   Britain,  then  call  me  an 

ass — 
She  looks  like  a  gem  in  an  ocean  of  glass. 

"But,   faith,  she's  so  small  I  must  mind 

how  I  shake  her ; 
In    a    box    I'll    inclose    her,    for    fear    I 

should  break  her ; 
Though  a  god,  I  must  suffer  for  being 

aggressor,  II0 

Since  scorpions,  and  vipers,  and  hornets 

possess  her; 

"The   white   cliffs   of   Albion   I   think    I 

descry — 
And     the    hills    of     Plinlimmon    appear 

rather  nigh — 
But,  Vulcan,   inform  me  what  creatures 

are  these, 
That  smell  so  of  onions,  and  garlick,  and 

cheese?" 

Old    Vulcan    replied — "Odds    splutter    a 

nails ! 
Why,  these  are  the  Welch,  and  the  country 

is  Wales ! 

When  Taffy  is  vext,  no  devil  is  ruder — 
Take  care  how  you  trouble  the  offspring 

of  Tudor!    "  '» 

"On  the  crags  of  the  mountains  hur  living 

hur  seeks, 
Hur  country  is  planted  with  garlick  and 

leeks ; 
So  great  is  hur  choler,  beware  how  you 

teaze  hur, 
For  these   are  the   Britons — unconquered 

by  Caesar." 


Jove  peep'd  thro'  his  moons,  and  exam- 
in'd  their  features, 

And  said,  "By  my  truth,  they  are  wonder 
ful  creatures, 

"The  beards  are  so  long  that  encircle  their 
throats, 

That  (unless  they  are  Welchmen)  I  swear 

they  are  goats : 

% 

"But  now,  my  dear  Juno,  pray  give  me 

my  mittens, 
(These  insects  I  am  going  to  handle  are 

Britons) 
I'll  draw  up  their  isle  with  a  finger  and 

thumb, 
As  the  doctor  extracts  an  old  tooth  from 

the  gum." 

Then  he  raised  her  aloft — but  to  shorten 

our  tale, 
She   looked   like   a   clod    in   the   opposite 

scale —  J3<> 

Britannia    so    small,    and    Columbia    so 

large— 
A   ship   of   first  rate,    and   a   ferryman's 

barge ! 

Cried  Pallas  to  Vulcan,  "Why,  Jove's  in 

a  dream — 
Observe  how  he  watches  the  turn  of  the 

beam! 
Was  ever  a  mountain  outweighed  by  a 

grain? 
Or  what  is  a  drop  when  compared  to  the 

main  ?" 

But    Mqmus    alledg'd — "In    my    humble 

opinion, 
You    should    add    to    Great-Britain    her 

foreign  dominion, 
When  this  is  appended.,  perhaps  she  will 

rise, 
And   equal   her   rival   in   weight   and   in 

size."  MO 

"Alas!   (said  the  monarch),  your  projeqt 

is  vain, 

But  little  is  left  of  her  foreign  domain ; 
And,  scattered  about  in  the  liquid  expanse. 
That  little  is  left  to  the  mercy  of  France ; 

"However,  we'll  lift  them,  and  give  her 

fair  play" — 
And  soon  in  the  scale  with  their  mistress 

they  lay ; 
But  the  gods  were  confounded  and  struck 

with  surprise, 
And  Vulcan  could  hardly  believe  his  own 

eyes! 


106 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


For  (such  was  the  purpose  and  guidance 
of  fate) 

Her  foreign  dominions  diminished  her 
weight —  '5° 

By  which  it  appeared,  to  Britain's  dis 
aster, 

Her  foreign  possessions  were  changing 
their  master. 

Then,  as  he  replac'd  them,  said  Jove  with 

a  smile — 
"Columbia    shall    never    be    rul'd    by    an 

isle — 
But   vapours    and    darkness    around    her 

may  rise, 
And  \empests   conceal   her   awhile    from 

our  eyes; 

"So  locusts  in  Egypt  their  squadrons  dis 
play, 

And  rising,  disfigure  the  face  of  the  day; 

So  the  moon,  at  her  full,  has  a  frequent 
eclipse,  J59 

And  the  sun  in  the  ocean  diurnally  dips. 

"Then  cease  your  endeavours,  ye  vermin 

of  Britain — 
(And   here,   in   derision,   their  island   he 

spit  on) 
'Tis  madness  to  seek  what  you  never  can 

find, 
Or  to  think  of  uniting  what  nature  dis- 

join'd; 

"But   still   you   may   flutter   awhile   with 

your  wings, 
And  spit  out  your  venom  and  brandish 

your  stings : 
Your  hearts  are  as  black,  and  as  bitter 

as  gall, 
A  curse  to  mankind — and  a  blot  on  the 

Ball." 

Freeman's  Journal,  April  3,  1782. 


A  NEWS-MAN'S  ADDRESS  * 

What  tempests  gloom'd  the  by-past  year — 

What  dismal  prospects  then  arose! 
Scarce  at  your  doors  I  dar'd  appear, 
So  many  were  our  griefs  and  woes : 
But  time  at  length   has  chang'd  the 

scene, 
Our  prospects,  now,  are  more  serene. 

1  Published  as  a  broadside  in  1784  with  the 
title  "New  Year  Verses,"  for  those  who  carry 
the  Pennsylvania  Gazette.  To  the  Customers. 
January  1,  1784. 


Bad  news  we  brought  you  every  day, 

Your  seamen  slain,  your  ships  on  shore, 

The  army   fretting  for  their  pay —  9 

('Twas  well  they  had  not  fretted  more !) 

'Twas  wrong  indeed  to  wear  out  shoes, 

To  bring  you  nothing  but  bad  news. 

Now  let's  be  joyful  for  the  change — 

The  folks  that  guard  the  English  throne 
Have  given  us  ample  room  to  range, 
And  more,  perhaps,  than  was  their  own; 
To   western    lakes    they    stretch    our 

bounds, 
And  yield  the  Indian  hunting  grounds. 

But  pray  read  on  another  year,  "9 

Remain  the  humble  newsman's  friend; 
And  he'll  engage  to  let  you  hear 

What  Europe's  princes  next  intend. — 
Even  now  their  brains  are  all  at  work 
To  rouse  the  Russian  on  the  Turk. 


Well — if  they  fight,  then  fight  they  must, 
They  are  a  strange  contentious  breed ; 
One  good  effect  will  be,  I  trust, 
The   more   are    hill'd,    the   more   you'll 

read; 

The  past  experience  clearly  shews,     *9 
That  Wrangling  is  the  Life  of  News. 

1784. 


A   NEWSMAN'S   ADDRESS2 

Old  Eighty-Five  discharg'd  and  gone, 

Another  year  comes  hastening  on 

To  quit  us  in  its  turn : 

With  outspread  wings  and  running  glass 

Thus  Time's  deluding  seasons  pass, 

And  leave  mankind  to  mourn. 

But  strains  like  this  add  grief  to  grief; — 
We  are  the  lads  that  give  relief 
With  sprightly  wit  and  merry  lay : 
Our  various  page  to  all  imparts  10 

Amusement  fit  for  social  hearts, 
And  drives  the  monster,  spleen,  away. 

Abroad  our  leaves  of  knowledge  fly, 
And  twice  a  week  they  live  and  die; 
Short  seasons  of  repose! 
Fair  to  your  view  our  toils  display 
The  monarch's  aim,  what  patriots  say, 
Or  sons  of  art  disclose : 

2  Written    January    1,    1786,    for    the    carriers 
of  the  Charleston  Columbian  Herald. 


PHILIP    FRENEAU 


107 


Whate'er  the  barque  of  commerce  brings 
From  sister  States,  or  foreign  kings,        *° 
No  atom  we  conceal : 
All  Europe's  prints  we  hourly  drain, 
All  Asia's  news  our  leaves  contain, 
And  round  our  world  we  deal. 

If     falsehoods    sometimes    prompt    your 

fears, 

And  horrid  news  from  proud  Algiers, 
That  gives  our  tars  such  pain ; 
Remember  all  must  have  their  share, 
And  all  the  world  was  made  for  care, 
The  monarch  and  the  swain.  3° 

If  British  isles  (that  once  were  free, 

In  Indian  seas,  to  you  and  me) 

All  entrance  still  restrain, 

Why  let  them  starve  with  all  their  host 

When  British  pride  gives  up  the  ghost, 

And  courts  our  aid  in  vain. 

We  fondly  hope  some  future  year 
Will  all  our  clouded  prospects  clear, 
And  commerce  stretch  her  wings ; 
New    tracks   of    trade   new    wealth    dis 
close,  4° 
While  round  the  globe  our  standard  goes 
In  spite  of  growling  kings. 

Materials  thus  together  drawn 
To  tell  you  how  the  world  goes  on 
,     May  surely  claim  regard; 

One  simple  word  we  mean  to  say, 
This  is  our  jovial  New  Year's  day, 
And  now,  our  toils  reward. 


1786. 


TO  SIR  TOBY 


A  sugar  Planter  in  the  interior  parts  of 

Jamaica,  near  the  City   of  San  Jago 

de  la  Vega,  (Spanish  Town)  1784. 

"The  motions  o/_  his  spirit  are  black  as  night, 
And   his   affections   dark   as  Erebus." 

— SHAKESPEARE. 

If  there  exists  a  hell — the  case  is  clear — 
Sir  Toby's  slaves  enjoy  that  portion  here: 
Here  are  no  blazing  brimstone  lakes — 'tis 

true ; 

But  kindled  Rum  too  often  burns  as  blue; 
In  which  some  fiend,  whom  nature  must 

detest, 
Steeps    Toby's    brand,    and    marks    poor 

Cud  joe's  breast. 
Here  whips  on  whips  excite  perpetual 

fears, 
And  mingled  howlings  vibrate  on  my  ears : 


Here  nature's  plagues  abound  to  fret  and 
teaze, 

Snakes,  scorpions,  despots,  lizards,  centi- 
pees —  '» 

No  art,  no  care  escapes  the  busy  lash ; 

All  have  their  dues — and  all  are  paid  in 
cash — 

The  eternal  driver  keeps  a  steady  eye 

On  a  black  herd,  who  would  his  venge 
ance  fly, 

But   chained,    imprisoned,   on    a   burning 
soil, 

For  the  mean  avarice  of  a  tyrant,  toil ! 

The  lengthy  cart-whip  guards  this  mon 
ster's  reign — 

And  cracks,  like  pistols,   from  the  fields 

of  cane. 

Ye  powers !  who  formed  these  wretched 
tribes,  relate, 

What   had   they   done,   to   merit   such   a 
fate !  » 

Why    were    they    brought    from    Eboe's 
sultry  waste, 

To  see  that  plenty  which  they  must  not 
taste — 

Food,  which   they  cannot  buy,  and   dare 
not  steal ; 

Yams  and  potatoes — many  a  scanty  meal ! 
One,   with  a  gibbet  wakes   his  negro's 
fears, 

One   to   the   windmill    nails    him   by    the 
ears; 

One   keeps    his    slave   in    darkened    dens, 
unfed, 

One   puts   the   wretch   in   pickle   ere   he's 
dead : 

This,    from  a  tree  suspends   him  by  the 
thumbs, 

That,    from   his   table   grudges   even    the 
crumbs !  3° 

O'er  yond'   rough   hills  a   tribe  of    fe 
males  go, 

Each  with  her  gourd,  her  infant,  and  her 
hoe; 

Scorched  by  a  sun  that  has  no  mercy  here, 

Driven  by  a  devil,  whom  men  call  over 
seer — 

In  chains,  twelve  wretches  to  their  labours 
haste ; 

Twice   twelve    I    saw,    with    iron    collars 

graced ! — 

Are   such   the    fruits  that   spring   from 
vast  domains? 

Is  wealth,  thus  got,  Sir  Toby,  worth  your 
pains ! — 

Who  would  your  wealth   on   terms,   like 
these,  possess, 

Where  all  we  see  is  pregnant  with  dis 
tress —  4° 


108 


AMERICAN   POETRY 


Angola's     natives     scourged     by     ruffian 

hands, 
And  toil's  hard  product  shipp'd  to  foreign 

lands. 
Talk  not  of  blossoms,  and  your  endless 

spring ; 

What  joy,  what  smile,  can  scenes  of  mis 
ery  bring? — 
Though  Nature,  here,  has  every  blessing 

spread, 
Poor   is   the   labourer — and   how   meanly 

fed!— 
Here  Stygian  paintings  light  and  shade 

renew, 

Pictures  of  hell,  that  Virgil's  pencil  drew : 
Here,   surly   Charons   make   their   annual 

trip, 

And  ghosts  arrive  in  every  Guinea  ship,  :° 
To  find  what  beasts  these  western  isles 

afford, 

Plutonian  scourges,  and  despotic  lords : — 
Here,  they,  of  stuff  determined  to  be 

free, 
Must  climb  the  rude  cliffs  of  the  Ligu- 

anee; 

Beyond  the  clouds,  in  sculking  haste  re 
pair, 
And    hardly   safe    from    brother    traitors 

there. 


1784. 


National  Gazette,  July  21,  1792. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  BALLOONS 

"Perdomita    tellus,     tumid  a     cesserunt    freta, 
Inferno  nostros  regna  sensere  impetus; 
Immune  ccelu.ni  est,  dignus  Alcidtz  labor, 
In   alta    tnundi   spatia   sublimes   feremur." 

— SENEC.  HERC.  FURENS. 

Assist  me,  ye  muses,   (whose  harps  are 

in  tune) 

To  tell  of  the  flight  of  the  gallant  balloon ! 
As  high  as  my  subject  permit  me  to  soar 
To  heights  unattempted,  unthought  of  be 
fore, 
Ye  grave  learned  Doctors,  whose  trade  is 

to  sigh, 
Who  labour  to  chalk  out  a  road  to  the 

sky, 
Improve  on  your  plans — or  I'll  venture  to 

say, 

A  chymist,  of  Paris,  will  show  us  the  way. 
The  earth  on  its  surface  has  all  been  sur- 

vey'd, 
The  sea  has  been  travell'd — and  deep  in 

the  shade  I0 

The  kingdom  of  Pluto  has  heard  us  at 

work, 
When   we   dig   for  his   metals   wherever 

they  lurk. 


But  who  would  have  thought  that  inven 
tion  could  rise 

To  find  out  a  method  to  soar  to  the  skies, 

And  pierce  the  bright  regions,  which  ages 
assign'd 

To  spirits  unbodied,  and  flights  of  the 
mind. 

Let  the  gods  of  Olympus  their  revels  pre 
pare — 

By  the  aid  of  some  pounds  of  inflammable 
air 

We'll  visit  them  soon — and  forsake  this 
dull  ball 

With  coat,  shoes  and  stockings,  fat  car 
case  and  all !  2° 

How   France   is    distinguish'd    in   Louis's 


reign 


What  cannot  her  genius  and  courage  at 
tain? 

Thro'out  the  wide  world  have  her  arms 
found  the  way, 

And   art   to    the    stars    is    extending    hei 
sway. 

At   sea   let   the    British   their    neighbours 
defy — 

The  French  shall  have   frigates  to  trav 
erse  the  sky, 

In  this  navigation  more  fortunate  prove, 

And  cruise  at  their  ease  in  the  climates 
above. 

If  the  English  should  venture  to  sea  with 
their  fleet, 

A  host  of  balloons  in  a  trice  they  shall 
meet.  3° 

The  French   from  the  zenith  their  wings 
shall  display, 

And   souse   on   these   sea-dogs   and   bear 

them  away. 

Ye   sages,   who   travel   on   mighty   de 
signs, 

To  measure  meridians  and  parallel  lines — 

The  task  being  tedious — take  heed,  if  you 
please — 

Construct  a  balloon — and  you'll  do  it  with 
ease. 

And  ye  who  the  heav'n's  broad  concave 
survey, 

And,  aided  by  glasses,  its  secrets  betray, 

Who  gaze,  the  night  through,  at  the  won 
derful  scene, 

Yet  still  are  complaining  of  vapours  be 
tween.  40 

Ah,  seize  the  conveyance  and  fearlessly  rise 

To  peep  at  the  lanthorns  that  light  up  the 
skies, 

And  floating  above,  on  our  ocean  of  air, 

Inform   us,    by    letter,    what    people    are 
there. 

In  Saturn,  advise  us  if  snow  ever  melts, 


PHILIP    FRENEAU 


109 


And  what  are  the  uses  of  Jupiter's  belts ; 
(Mars  being  willing)  pray  send  us  word, 

greeting, 
If  his  people  are  fonder  of  fighting  than 

eating. 
That  Venus  has  horns  we've  no  reason  to 

doubt, 
(I   forget  what  they  call  him  who  first 

found  it  out)  5° 

And  you'll  find,  I'm  afraid,  if  you  venture 

too  near. 
That  the   spirits  of  cuckolds  inhabit  her 

sphere. 

Our    folks    of    good    morals    it    wofully 
,      grieves, 
That    Mercury's    people   are   villains    and 

thieves, 
You'll  see  how  it  is — but  I'll  venture  to 

shew 
For  a  dozen  among  them,  twelve  dozens 

below. 
From  long  observation  one  proof  may  be 

had 
That  the  men  in  the  moon  are  incurably 

mad ; 

However,  compare  us,  and  if  they  exceed 

They  must  be  surprizingly  crazy  indeed.  6° 

But  now,  to  have  done  with  our  planets 

and  moons — 

Come,  grant  me  a  patent  for  making  bal 
loons — 
For  I  find  that  the  time  is  approaching — 

the  day 
When  horses  shall  fail,  and  the  horsemen 

decay. 

Post  riders,  at  present  (call'd  Centaurs  of 
.      old) 
Who  brave  all  the  seasons,  hot  weather 

and  cold, 

In  future  shall  leave  their  dull  poneys  be 
hind 
And  travel,  like  ghosts,  on  the  wings  of 

the  wind. 
The    stagemen,    whose    gallopers    scarce 

have  the  power 
Through  the  dirt  to  convey  you  ten  miles 

in  an  hour,  7° 

When  advanc'd  to  balloons  shall  so  furi 
ously  drive 
You'll  hardly  know  whether  you're  dead 

or  alive. 
The  man  who  at  Boston  sets  out  with  the 

sun, 
If  the  wind  should  be  fair,  may  be  with 

us  at  one. 
At    Gunpowder   Ferry    drink   whiskey    at 

three 
And  at  six  be  at  Edentown,   ready   for 

tea. 


(The  machine  shall  be  order'd,  we  hardly 

need  say, 

To  travel  in  darkness  as  well  as  by  day) 
At  Charleston  by  ten  he  for  sleep  shall 

prepare, 
And  by  twelve  the  next  day  be  the  devil 

knows  where.  8° 

When  the  ladies  grow  sick  of  the  city  in 

June, 
What  a  jaunt  they  shall  have  in  the  flying 

balloon ! 
Whole  mornings  shall  see  them  at  toilets 

preparing, 
And  forty  miles  high  be  their  afternoon's 

airing. 
Yet  more  with  its  fitness  for  commerce 

I'm  struck; 
What    loads    of   tobacco    shall    fly    from 

Kentuck, 
What  packs  of  best  beaver — bar-iron  and 

pig, 
What  budgets   of   leather   from   Conoco- 

cheague ! 

If  Britain  should  ever  disturb  us  again, 
(As    they    threaten    to    do    in    the    next 

George's  reign)  90 

No  doubt  they  will  play  us  a  set  of  new 

tunes, 
And   pepper  us  well   from  their    fighting 

balloons. 

To  market  the  farmers  shall  shortly  repair 
With  their  hogs  and  potatoes,  wholesale, 

thro'  the  air, 

Skim  over  the  water  as  light  as  a  feather, 
Themselves  and  their  turkies  conversing 

together. 
.  Such    wonders   as  these   from  balloons 

shall  arise — 
And  the  giants  of  old,  that  assaulted  the 

skies 
With  their  Ossa  on   Pelion,   shall   freely 

confess 
That  all  they  attempted  was  nothing  to 

this.  ioo 

Freeman's  Journal,  Dec.  22,  1784. 


LITERARY  IMPORTATION 

However  we  wrangled  with  Britain  awhile 
We  think  of  her  now  in  a  different  stile, 
And   many   fine  things   we   receive    from 

her  isle; 

Among  all  the  rest, 
Some  demon  possessed 
Our  dealers  in  knowledge  and  sellers  of 

sense 

To   have   a  good  bishop   imported    from 
thence. 


110 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


The  words  of  Sam  Chandler  were  thought 

to  be  vain, 
When  he  argued  so  often  and  proved  it 

so  plain 

"That    Satan    must    flourish    till    bishops 
should  reign :"  I0 

Though  he  went  to  the  wall 
With  his  project  and  all. 
Another  bold  Sammy,  in  bishop's  array, 
Has  got  something  more  than  his  pains 
for  his  pay. 

It  seems  we  had  spirit  to  humble  a  throne, 
Have  genius  for  science  inferior  to  none, 
But  hardly  encourage  a  plant  of  our  own : 

If  a  college  be  planned, 

'Tis  all  at  a  stand 

'Till  to  Europe   we  send  at  a   shameful 

expense,  *• 

To  send  us  a  book-worm  to  teach  us  some 


Can  we  never  be  thought  to  have  learning 

or  grace 
Unless  it  be  brought   from  that  horrible 

place 
Where  tyranny  reigns  with  her  impudent 

face; 

And  popes  and  pretenders, 
And  sly  faith-defenders 
Have  ever  been  hostile  to  reason  and  wit, 
Enslaving    a    world    that    shall    conquer 
them  yet. 

'Tis  a  folly  to  fret  at  the  picture  I  draw : 

And   I   say  what  was  said  by  a  Doctor 

Magraw ;  3» 

"If   they   give   us    their   Bishops,    they'll 

give  us  their  law." 
How  that  will  agree 
With  such  people  as  we, 
Let  us  leave  to  the  learned  to  reflect  on 

awhile, 

And  say  what  they  think  in  a  handsomer 
stile. 

In  "Poems,"  1786. 


And  planted  here  the  guardian  shade, 
And  sent  soft  waters  murmuring  by;     I0 
Thus  quietly  thy  summer  goes, 
Thy  days  declining  to  repose. 

Smit  with  those  charms,  that  must  decay, 
I  grieve  to  see  your  future  doom ; 
They  died — nor  were  those  flowers  more 

gay, 

The  flowers  that  did  in  Eden  bloom; 
•     Unpitying  frost,  and  Autumn's  power 
Shall  leave  no  vestige  of  this  flower. 

From  morning  suns  and  evening  dews 
At  first  thy  little  being  came :  2* 

If  nothing  once,  you  nothing  lose, 
For  when  you  die  you  are  the  same; 
The  space  between,  is  but  an  hour, 
The  frail  duration  of  a  flower. 

Freeman's  Journal,  Aug.  2,   1786. 


MAY  TO  APRIL 

Without  your  showers,  I  breed  no  flowers, 
Each  field  a  barren  waste  appears ; 

If  you  don't  weep,  my  blossoms  sleep, 
They  take  such  pleasure  in  your  tears. 

As  your  decay  made  room  for  May, 
So  I  must  part  with  all  that's  mine : 

My  balmy  breeze,  my  blooming  trees 
To  torrid  suns  their  sweets  resign! 

O'er  April  dead,  my  shades  I  spread : 
To  her  I  owe  my  dress  so  gay —  *• 

Of  daughters  three,  it  falls  on  me 
To  close  our  triumphs  on  one  day: 

Thus,  to  repose,  all  Nature  goes; 

Month  after  month  must  find  its  doom : 
Time  on  the  wing,  May  ends  the  Spring, 

And  summer  dances  on  her  tomb ! 

Freeman's  Journal,  April  11,  1787. 


THE  WILD  HONEY  SUCKLE 

Fair  flower,  that  dost  so  comely  grow, 
Hid  in  this  silent,  dull  retreat, 
Untouched  thy  honied  blossoms  blow, 
Unseen  thy  little  branches  greet : 
No  roving  foot  shall  crush  thee  here, 
No  busy  hand  provoke  a  tear. 

By  Nature's  self  in  white  arrayed, 
She  bade  thee  shun  the  vulgar  eye, 


THE  INDIAN  BURYING  GROUND 

In  spite  of  all  the  learned  have  said, 

I  still  my  old  opinion  keep ; 
The  posture,  that  we  give  the  dead, 

Points  out  the  soul's  eternal  sleep. 

Not  so  the  ancients  of  these  lands — 
The  Indian,  when  from  life  released, 

Again  is  seated  with  his  friends, 
And  shares  again  the  joyous  feast. 


PHILIP    FRENEAU 


111 


His  imaged  birds,  and  painted  bowl, 
And  venison,  for  a  journey  dressed,     I0 

Bespeak  the  nature  of  the  soul, 
Activity,  that  knows  no  rest. 

H'IJ  bow,  for  action  ready  bent, 
.  And  arrows,  with  a  head  of  stone, 
Can  only  mean  that  life  is  spent, 
And  not  the  old  ideas  gone. 

Thou,  stranger,  that  shalt  come  this  way, 
No  fraud  upon  the  dead  commit — 

Observe  the  swelling  turf,  and  say 

They  do  not  lie,  but  here  they  sit.        2° 

Here  still  a  lofty  rock  remains, 
On  which  the  curious  eye  may  trace 

(Now  wasted,  half,  by  wearing  rains) 
The  fancies  of  a  ruder  race. 

Here  still  an  aged  elm  aspires, 

Beneath  whose  far-projecting  shade 

{And  which  the  shepherd  still  admires) 
The  children  of  the  forest  played ! 

There  oft  a  restless  Indian  queen 

(Pale  Shebah,  with  her  braided  hair)  3° 

And  many  a  barbarous  form  is  seen 
To  chide  the  man  that  lingers  there. 

By  midnight  moons,  o'er  moistening  dews ; 

In  habit  for  the  chase  arrayed. 
The  hunter  still  the  deer  pursues, 

The  hunter  and  the  deer,  a  shade ! 

And  long  shall  timorous  fancy  see 
The  painted  chief,  and  pointed  spear, 

And  Reason's  self  shall  bow  the  knee 
To  shadows  and  delusions  here.  40 

1788. 

ON   THE   PROSPECT   OF  A   REVO 
LUTION  IN  FRANCE 

"Now,  at  the  feast  they  plan   the  fall  of  Troy; 
The  stern   debate  Atrides  hears  with  joy." 

— HOM.  ODYS. 

Borne  on  the  wings  of  time  another  year 
Sprung   from  the  past,  begins   its   proud 

career : 
From  that  bright  spark  which  first  illumed 

these  lands, 

See  Europe  kindling,  as  the  blaze  expands, 
Each  gloomy  tyrant,  sworn  to  chain  the 

mind, 

Presumes  no  more  to  trample  on  mankind  : 
Even  potent  Louis  trembles  on  his  throne, 
The  generous  prince  who  made  our  cause 

his  own, 


rights   his   injured    subjects 
-that  coun- 

IO 

prizes 


More    equal 

claim, 

No  more  a  country's  strength- 
try's  shame; 
Fame    starts    astonished    at    such 

won, 
And  rashness  wonders  how  the  work  was 

done. 
Flushed  with  new  life,  and  brightening 

at  the  view, 
Genius,    triumphant,    moulds    the    world 

anew; 
To  these   far  climes   in  swift  succession 

moves 

Each  art  that  Reason  owns  and  sense  ap 
proves. 
What   though   his    age   is   bounded   to   a 

span 

Time  sheds  a  conscious  dignity  on  man, 
Some    happier   breath    his    rising   passion 

swells, 

Some  kinder  genius  his  bold  arm  impels,  x 
Dull  superstition  from  the  world  retires. 
Disheartened  zealots  haste  to  quench  their 

fires; 
One   equal   rule   o'er   twelve   vast    States 

extends,1 

Europe  and  Asia  join  to  be  our  friends, 
Our  active  flag  in  every  clime  displayed 
Counts  stars  on  colours  that  shall  never 

fade; 
A  far  famed  chief  o'er  this  vast  whole 

presides 
Whose    motto    Honor    is — whom    Virtue 

guides 

His  walk  forsaken  in  Virginia's  groves 
Applauding  thousands  bow   where'er  He 

moves,  30 

Who  laid  the  basis  of  this  Empire  sure 
Where  public    faith   should   public   peace 

secure. 

Still  may  she  rise,  exalted  in  her  arms, 
And  boast*  to  every  age  her  patriot  names, 
To  distant  climes  extend  her  gentle  sway. 
While  choice — not  force — bids  every  heart 

obey; 

Ne'er  may  she  fail  when  Liberty  implores, 
Now    want    true    valour    to    defend    her 

shores, 
'Till  Europe,  humbled,  greets  our  western 

wave, 
And  owns  an  equal — whom  she  wished  a 

slave.  40 

1788. 

Daily  Advertiser,  New  York,  Mar.  9,  1790. 

1  At  this  time  Rhode-Island  was  not  a  mem 
ber  of  the  general  Confederation  of  the  Ameri 
can  States.  (Author's  Note.) 


112 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


CONGRESS  HALL,  N.  Y. 

With  eager  step  and  wrinkled  brow, 

The  busy  sons  of  care 
(Disgusted  with  less  splendid  scenes) 

To  Congress  Hall  repair. 

In  order  placed,  they  patient  wait 
To  seize  each  word  that  flies, 

From  what  they  hear,  they  sigh  or  smile, 
Look  cheerful,  grave,  or  wise. 

Within  these  walls  the  doctrines  taught 
Are  of  such  vast  concern,  J- 

That  all  the  world,  with  one  consent, 
Here  strives  to  live — and  learn. 

The  timorous  heart,  that  cautious  shuns 

All  churches,  but  its  own, 
No  more  observes  its  wonted  rules; 

But  ventures  here,  alone. 

Four  hours  a  day  each  rank  alike, 
(They  that  can  walk  or  crawl) 

Leave  children,  business,  shop,  and  wife, 
And  steer  for  Congress  Hall.  2* 

From  morning  tasks  of  mending  soals 

The  cobler  hastes  away; 
At  three  returns,  and  tells  to  Kate 

The  business  of  the  day. 

The  debtor,  vext  with  early  duns, 

Avoids  his  hated  home; 
And  here  and  there  dejected  roves 

'Till  hours  of  Congress  come. 

The  barber,  at  the  well-known  time, 
Forsakes  his  bearded  man,  3* 

And  leaves  him  with  his  lathered  jaws, 
To  trim  them  as  he  can. 

The  tailor,  plagued  with  suits  on  suits, 

Neglects  Sir  Fopling's  call, 
Throws    by    his    goose — slips    from    his 
board, 

And  trots  to  Congress  Hall. 

Daily  Advertiser,  New  York,  Mar.  12, 1790. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DR.  BENJAMIN 
FRANKLIN 

Thus,  some  tall  tree  that  long  hath  stood 
The  glory  of  its  native  wood, 
By  storms  destroyed,  or  length  of  years, 
Demands  the  tribute  of  our  tears. 


The  pile,  that  took  long  time  to  raise, 
To  dust  returns  by  slow  decays : 
But,  when  its  destined  years  are  o'er, 
We  must  regret  the  loss  the  more. 

So  long  accustomed  to  your  aid, 
The  world  laments  your  exit  made;        '» 
So  long  befriended  by  your  art, 
Philosopher,  'tis  hard  to  part  I— 
When  monarchs  tumble  to  the  ground, 
Successors  easily  are  found : 
But,  matchless  Franklin !  what  few 
Can  hope  to  rival  such  as  you, 
Who    seized    from    kings    their    sceptred 

pride, 
And  turned  the  lightning's  darts  aside ! 

Daily  Advertiser,  New  York,  Apr.  28, 1790. 


•      THE  AMERICAN  SOLDIER 
(A  Picture  from  the  Life.) 

"To   serve   with    love, 
And   shed  your   blood, 
Approved  may  be  above, 
And   here   below 
(Examples   shew) 
'Tis  dangerous  to  be  good." 

— LORD   OXFORD. 

Deep  in  a  vale,  a  stranger  now  to  arms, 
Too  poor  to  shine  in  courts,  too  proud  to 

beg, 

He,  who  once  warred  on  Saratoga's  plains, 
Sits   musing  o'er  his   scars,   and   wooden 

leg. 

Remembering  still  the  toil  of  former  days. 
To    other    hands    he    sees    his    earnings 

paid ; — 
They  share  the  due  reward — he  feeds  on 

praise, 
Lost  in  the  abyss  of  want,  misfortune's 

shade. 

Far,    far    from    domes    where    splendid 

tapers  glare, 
'Tis  his  from  dear  bought  peace  no  wealth 

to  win,  '• 

Removed     alike     from    courtly    cringing 

'squires, 
The   great-man's    Levee,   and    the    proud 

man's  grin. 

Sold  are  those  arms  which  once  on  Britons 

blazed, 
When,    flushed    with    conquest,     to    the 

charge  they  came; 


PHILIP    FRENEAU 


113 


That     power     repelled,     and     Freedom's 

fabrick  raised, 
She    leaves    her    soldier — famine    and    a 

name! 

1790.  1795. 

TO  THE  PUBLIC 

This  age  is  so  fertile  of  mighty  events, 
That  people  complain,  with  some  reason, 

no  doubt. 

Besides  the  time  lost,  and  besides  the  ex- 
pence, 
With    reading   the    papers    they're    fairly 

worn  out ; 

The  past  is  no  longer  an  object  of  care, 
The  present  consumes  all  the  time  they 
can  spare. 

Thus   grumbles   the   reader,   but   still   he 

reads  on 
With  his  pence  and  his  paper  unwilling 

to  part : 
He  sees  the  world  passing,  men  going  and 

gone, 
Some  riding  in  coaches,  and  some  in  a 

cart :  '• 

For  a   peep  at  the   farce  a   subscription 

he'll  give, — 
Revolutions    must    happen,    and    printers 

must  live : 

For  a  share  of  your  favour  we  aim  with 

the  rest: 
To  enliven  the  scene  we'll  exert  all  our 

skill, 
What  we  have  to  impart  shall  be  some 

of  the  best, 
And  Multum  in  Parvo  our  text,   if  you 

will; 
Since  we  never  admitted  a  clause  in  our 

creed, 
That  the  greatest  employment  of  life  is — 

to  read. 

The  king  of  the  French  and  the  queen 

of  the  North 
At  the  head  of  the  play,  for  the  season 

we  find :  2* 

From  the  spark  that  we  kindled,  a  flame 

has  gone  forth 
To  astonish  the  world  and  enlighten  man- 

'  kind : 
With  a  code  of  new  doctrines  the  universe 

rings, 
And  Paine  is  addressing  strange  sermons 

to  kings. 


Thus  launch'd,  as  we  are,  on  the  ocean 

of  news, 
In   hopes   that   your   pleasure   our   pains 

will  repay, 

All  honest  endeavors  the  author  will  use 
To  furnish  a  feast  for  the  grave  and  the 

gay: 

At  least  he'll  essay  such  a  track  to  pursue 
That   the   world    shall   approve — and   his 

news  shall  be  true.  3» 

National  Gazette,  Phila.,  Oct.  31,  1791. 

SEVENTEEN   HUNDRED  AND 
NINETY-ONE 

Great  things  have  pass'd  the  last  revolving 

year  ; 
France  on  a  curious  jaunt  has  seen  her 

king  go  — 
Hush'd  are  the  growlings  of  the  Russian 

bear, 

Rebellion  has  broke  loose  in  St.  Domin 
go- 
Sorry  we  are  that  Pompeys,  Caesars,  Catos 
Are  mostly  found  with  Negroes  and  Mu- 
lattoes. 

Discord,  we  think,  must  always  be  the  lot 
Of  this  poor  world — nor  is  that  discord 

vain. 
Since,  if  these  feuds  and  fisty-cuffs  were 

not, 
Fall  many  an  honest  Type  would  starve — 

that's  plain ;  '• 

Wars   are  their   gain,  whatever  cause   is 

found — 
Empires — or     Cats-skins     brought     from 

Nootka-sound. 

The  Turks,  poor  fellows !  have  been  sadly 
baisted — 

And  many  a  Christian  despot  stands,  con 
triving 

Who  next  shall  bleed — what  country  next 
be  wasted — 

This  is  the  trade  by  which  they  get  their 
living: 

From  Prussian  Frederick,  this  the  general 
plan 

To  Empress  Kate — that  burns  the  Rights 
of  Man. 

The  Pope  (at  Rome)  is  in  a  sweat,  they 

tell  us ; 
Of    freedom's    pipe   he   cannot    hear   the 

music,  2* 

And  worst  of  all  when  Frenchmen  blow 

the  bellows, 


114 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Enough    almost    (he   thinks)    to    make    a 

Jew  sick : 
His  Priesthood  too,  black,  yellow,  white, 

and  grey, 
All  think  it  best  to  keep — the  good  old 

way. 

Britain,  (fame  whispers)  has  unrigg'd  her 

fleet- 
Now  tell  us  what  the  world  will  do  for 

thunder? — 

Battles,  fire,  murder,  maiming,  and  defeat 
Are  at  an  end  when   Englishmen  knock 

under : 
Sulphur  will  now   in  harmless   squibs  be 

spent, 
Lightning   will    fall — full   twenty-five   per 

cent.  3» 

1795. 
TO  MY  BOOK 

Seven  years  are  now  elaps'd,  dear  ram 
bling  volume, 

Since,  to  all  knavish  wights  a  foe, 
I  sent  you  forth  to  vex  and  gall  'em, 
Or  drive  them  to  the  shades  below : 
With  spirit,  still,  of  Democratic  proof, 
And    still    despising    Shylock's 1    canker'd 

hoof: 
What  doom  the  fates  intend,  is  hard  to 

say, 

Whether  to  live  to  some  far-distant  day, 
Or  sickening  in  your  prime, 
In  this  hard-hitting  clime,  *• 

Take  pet,  make  wings,  say  prayers,  and 
flit  away. 

"Virtue,  order  and  religion. 

Haste,  and  seek  some  other  region; 

Your  plan  is  laid,  to  hunt  them  down, 
Destroy  the  mitre,  rend  the  gown, 
And    that    vile    hag,     Philosophy,    re 
store" — 

Did  ever  volume  plan  so  much  before? 

For  seven  years  past,  a  host  of  busy  foes 

Have  buzz'd  about  your  nose, 

White,    black,    and    grey,    by    night    and 

day ;  * 

Garbling,  lying,  singing,  sighing: 
These   eastern   gales   a   cloud   of   insects 

bring 
That   fluttering,   snivelling,   whimpering — 

on  the  wing — 
And,    wafted    still    as    discord's    demon 

guides, 
Flock  round  the  flame,  and  yet  shall  singe 

their  hides. 

1  Freneau's  nickname  for  his  most  hostile  critic. 


Welll — let  the  fates  decree  whate'er  they 

please : 

Whether   you're   doomed   to   drink  obliv 
ion's  cup, 

Or  Praise-God  Barebones  eats  you  up, 
This  I  can  say,  you've  spread  your  wings 

afar, 
Hostile    to    garter,    ribbon,    crown,    and 

star ;  30 

Still  on  the  people's,   still   on   Freedom's 

side, 
With  full-determin'd  aim,  to  baffle  every 

claim 
Of  well-born  wights,  that  aim  to  mount 

and  ride. 

National  Gazette,  Phila.,  Aug.  4,  1792. 


I  pity  him,  who,  at  no  small  expense, 
Has  studied  sound  instead  of  sense: 
He,  proud  some  antique  gibberish  to  at 
tain  ; 

Of  Hebrew,  Greek,  or  Latin,  vain, 
Devours  the  husk,  and  leaves  the  grain. 

In  his  own  language  Homer  writ  and 
read, 

Nor  spent  his  life  in  poring  on  the  dead: 

Why  then  your  native  language  not  pur 
sue 

In  which  all  ancient  sense  (that's  worth 
review) 

Glows  in  translation,  fresh  and  new?      I0 

He  better  plans,  who  things,  not  words, 
attends, 

And  turns  his  studious  hours  to  active 
ends; 

Who  Art  through  every  secret  maze  ex 
plores, 

Invents,  contrives — and  Nature's  hidden 
stores 

From  mirrours,  to  their  object  true, 

Presents  to   man's  obstructed  view, 

That  dimly  meets  the  light,  and  faintly 
soars : — 

His  strong  capacious  mind 

By  fetters  unconfined 

Of  Latin   lore   and  heathen   Greek,       %a* 

Takes  Science  in  its  way, 

Pursues  the  kindling  ray 

'Till  Reason's  morn  shall  on  him  break! 

1795 


PHILIP    FRENEAU 


115 


ODE 

On   the  Frigate   Constitution ' 

"And  in  those  days  men  settled  themselves  on 
the  waters,  and  lived  there,  not  because  land 
was  wanting,  but  that  they  wished  not  to  be 
slaves  to  such  as  were  great  and  mighty  on  the 
land." — Modern  History. 

Thus  launch'd  at  length  upon  the  main 
And  soon  prepar'd  the  seas  to  roam, 
In  your  capacious  breast  ere  long 
Will  many  an  idler  find  a  home 
That  sells  his  freedom  for  a  song, 
Quits   fields   and   trees 
For  boisterous  seas, 
T-    tread  his  native  soil  no  more, 
And  see — but  not  possess — the  shore. 

Well !  let  them  go — can  there  be  loss    '• 

In  those  who  Nature's  bounty  slight, 
From  rural  vales  and  freedom's  shades 
To  this  dull  cage  who  take  their  flight, 

The  axe,  the  hoe, 

The  plough  forego, 
The  buxom   milk-maid's  simple  treat, 
The  bliss  of  country  life  forget, 

For  tumult  here 

And  toil  severe, 

A  gun  their  pillow  when  they  sleep,          *» 
And  when  they  wake,  are  wak'd  to  weep. 

Dick  Brothers  said,  "The  time  will  come 
When  war  no  more  shall  prowl  the  sea, 

Nor  men  for  pride  or  plunder  roam, 

And  my  millenium  brings  them  home, 
Howe'er    dispers'd    through    each    de 
gree." 

If  Richard  proves  a  prophet  true, 

Why  may  not  we  be  quiet,  too, 

And  turn  our  bulldogs  into  lambs, 
Saw  off  the  horns  of  battering  rams  3« 
As  well  as  Europe's  sons? 

Ye  Quakers !  see  with  pure  delight, 

The  times  approach  when  men  of  might, 
And  squadrons  roving  round  the  ball, 
Shall  fight  each  other  not  at  all, 
Or  fight  with  wooden  guns. 

And  yet  that  Being  you  address, 
Who  shaped  old  Chaos  into  form, 

May  speak — and  with  a  word  suppress 
The  tyrant  and  the  storm.  40 

Time-Piece,  Oct.  31,  1797. 

1  The  Constitution  was  launched  October  23, 
1797,  at  Boston.  See  Holmes's  "Old  Ironsides," 
p.  422. 


TO  THE  AMERICANS  OF  THE 
UNITED  STATES 

Men  of  this  passing  age ! — whose  noble 
deeds 

Honour  will  bear  above  the  scum  of 
Time : 

Ere  this  eventful  century  expire, 

Once  more  we  greet  you  with  our  hum 
ble  rhyme : 

Pleased,  if  we  meet  your  smiles,  but — if 
denied, 

Yet,  with  Your  sentence,  we  are  satisfied. 

Catching  our  subjects   from  the  varying 

scene 
Of    human   things;    a    mingled    work   we 

draw, 
Chequered  with   fancies  odd,  and  figures 

strange, 

Such,  as  no  courtly  poet  ever  saw ;          '• 
Who    writ,    beneath    some    Great    Man's 

ceiling  placed; 
Travelled  no  lands,  nor  roved  the  watery 

waste. 

To  seize  some  features  from  the  faith 
less  past; 

Be  this  our  care  before  the  century  close; 

The  colours  strong! — for,  if  we  deem 
aright, 

The  coming  age  will  be  an  age  of  prose : 

When  sordid  cares  will  break  the  muses' 
dream, 

And  Common  Sense  be  ranked  in  seat 
supreme. 

Go,  now,  dear  book;  once  .more  expand 

your  wings :  '* 

Still  in  the  cause  of  Man  severely  true : 
Untaught   to    flatter    pride,    or    fawn   on 

kings ; — 
Trojan,  or  Tyrian, — give  them  both  their 

due. — 
When  they  are  right,  the  cause  of  both 

we  plead, 
And   both   will   please   us   well, — if   both 

will  read. 

1797 

THE   POLITICAL  WEATHER-COCK 

'Tis  strange  that  things  upon  the  ground 
Are  commonly  most  steady  found 

While  those  in  station  proud 
Are  turned  and  twirled,  or  twist  about, 
Now  here  and  there,  now  in  or  out, 

Mere  playthings  to  a  cloud. 


116 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


See  yonder  influential  man, 
So  late  the  stern  Republican 

While   interest   bore   him   up ; 
See  him  recant,  abjure  the  cause,          '• 
See  him  support  tyrannic  laws, 

The  dregs  of  slavery's  cup ! 

Thus,  on  yon  steeple  towering  high, 
Where  clouds  and  storms  distracted  fly, 

The  weather-cock  is  placed ; 
Which  only  while  the  storm  does  blow 
Is  to  one  point  of  compass  true, 

Then  veers  with  every  blast. 

But  things  are  so  appointed  here 

That  weather-cocks  on  high  appear,       2* 

On  pinnacle  displayed, 
While  Sense,  and  Worth,  and  reasoning 

wights, 

And  they  who  plead  for  Human  Rights, 
•  Sit  humble  in  the  shade. 

In  "Poems,"  1809. 


ON  A  HONEY  BEE 

Drinking  from  a  Glass  of  Wine  and 
Drowned  Therein 

BY  HEZEKIAH   SALEM 

Thou,  born  to  sip  the  lake  or  spring, 
Or  quaff  the  waters  of  the  stream, 
Why  hither  come  on  vagrant  wings? — 
Does  Bacchus  tempting  seem — 
Did  he,  for  you,  this  glass  prepare? — 
Will  I  admit  you  to  a  share? 

Did  storms  harass  or  foes  perplex, 
Die  wasps  or  king-birds  bring  dismay — 
Did  wars  distress,  or  labours  vex, 
Or  did  you  miss  your  way? —  '• 

A  better  seat  you  could  not  take 
Than  on  the  margin  of  this  lake. 

Welcome ! — I  hail  you  to  my  glass  : 

All  welcome,  here,  you  find; 

Here,  let  the  cloud  of  trouble  pass, 

Here,  be  all  care  resigned. — 

This  fluid  never  fails  to  please, 

And  drown  the  griefs  of  men  or  bees. 

What  forced  you  here,  we  cannot  know, 
And  you  will  scarcely  tell —  2* 

But  cheery  we  would  have  you  go 
And  bid  a  glad  farewell: 
On  lighter  wings  we  bid  you  fly, 
Your  dart  will  now  all  foes  defy. 


Yet  take  not,  oh!  too  deep  a  drink, 

And  in  this  ocean  die; 

Here  bigger  bees  than  you  might  sink, 

Even   bees   full  six   feet  high. 

Like   Pharaoh,  then,  you   would  be  said 

To  perish  in  a  sea  of  red.  3» 

Do  as  you  please,  your  will  is  mine; 

Enjoy  it  without  fear — 

And  your  grave  will  be  this  glass  of  wine, 

Your  epitaph — a  tear — 

Go,  take  your  seat  in  Charon's  boat, 

We'll  tell  the  hive,  you  died  afloat. 

In   "Poems,"   1809. 


ON    THE    BRITISH    COMMERCIAL 
DEPREDATIONS 

As  gallant  ships  as  ever  ocean  stemm'd — 
A  thousand  ships  are  captured,  and  con- 

demn'd ! 

Ships  from  our  shores,  with  native  car 
goes  fraught, 

And  sailing  to  the  very  shores  they  ought : 
And    yet   at   peace ! — the   wrong    is    past 

all  bearing; 

The  very  comets  are  the  war  declaring : 
Six  thousand  seamen  groan  beneath  your 

power, 

For  years  immured,  and  prisoners  to  this 
hour: 

Then  England  come !  a  sense  of  wrong 

requires 
To  meet  with  thirteen  stars  your  thousand 

fires ;  I(> 

On  your  own  seas  the  conflict  to  sustain, 
Or  drown  them,  with  your  commerce  in 

the  main ! 

True  djo  we  speak,  and  who  can  well 

deny," 
That  England  claims  all  water,  land,  and 

sky 
Her     power     expands — extends     through 

every  zone, 

Nor  bears  a  rival — but  must  rule  alone. 
To  enforce  her  claims,  a  thousand  sails 

unfurl'd 
Pronounce  their  home  the  cock-pit  of  the 

world ; 
The  modern  Tyre,  whose  fiends  and  lions 

prowl, 

A  tyrant  navy,  which  in  time  must  howl. 
Heaven   send  the  time — the  world  obeys 

her  nod :  2I 


PHILIP    FRENEAU 


117 


Her  nods,  we  hope,  the  sleep  of  death 
f orbode ; 

Some  mighty  change,  when  plunder'd 
thrones  agree, 

And  plunder'd  countries,  to  make  com 
merce  free. 

In  "Poems,"   1809. 


TO  A  CATY-DID 

In  a  branch  of  willow  hid 
Sings  the  evening  Caty-did : 
From  the  lofty  locust  bough 
Feeding  on  a  drop  of  dew, 
In  her  suit  of  green  array'd 
Hear  her  singing  in  the  shade 

Caty-did,  Caty-did,  Caty-did! 

While  upon  a  leaf  you  tread, 
Or  repose  your  little  head, 
On  your  sheet  of  shadows  laid, 
All  the  day  you  nothing  said; 
Half  the  night  your  cheery  tongue 
Revelled  out  its  little  song, 

Nothing  else  but  Caty-did. 

From  your  lodgings  on  the  leaf 
Did  you  utter  joy  or  grief — ? 
Did  you  only  mean  to  say, 
I  have  had  my  summer's  day, 
And  am  passing,  soon,  away 
To  the  grave  of  Caty-did : — 

Poor,  unhappy  Caty-did ! 

But  you  would  have  utter'd  more 
Had  you  known  of  nature's  power — 
From  the  world  when  you  retreat, 
And  a  leaf's  your  winding  sheet, 


Long  before  your  spirit  fled, 
Who  can  tell  but  nature  said, 
Live  again,  my  Caty-did ! 
Live,  and  chatter  Caty-did. 

Tell  me,  what  did  Caty  do?  3» 

Did  she  mean  to  trouble  you? — 
Why  was  Caty  not  forbid 
To   trouble   little   Caty-did  ?— 
Wrong,  indeed,  at  you  to  fling, 
Hurting  no  one  while  you  sing 

Caty-did !     Caty-did !     Caty-did ! 

Why  continue  to  complain? 
Caty  tells  me,  she  again 
Will  not  give  you  plague  or  pain : — 
Caty  says  you  may  be  hid  4« 

Caty  will  not  go  to  bed 
While  you  sing  us  Caty-did. 

Caty-did !     Caty-did !     Caty-did ! 

But,  while  singing,  you  forgot 
To  tell  us  what  did  Caty  not: 
Caty-did  not  think  of  cold, 
Flocks  retiring  to  the  fold, 
Winter,  with  his  wrinkles  old, 
Winter,  that  yourself  foretold 

When  you  gave  us  Caty-did.  "  5» 

Stay  securely  in  your  nest; 
Caty  now  will  do  her  best, 
All  she  can,  to  make  you  blest; 
But,  you  want  no  human  aid — 
Nature,  when  she  form'd  you,  said, 
"Independent  you  are  made, 
My  dear  little  Caty-did : 
Soon  yourself  must  disappear 
With  the  verdure  of  the  year," — 
And  to  go,  we  know  not  where,  6» 

With  your  song  of  Caty-did. 

In  "Poems,"  1815. 


TIMOTHY    DWIGHT 
(1752-1817) 


From  GREENFIELD  HILL 

PART  IV— THE    DESTRUCTION    OF 
THE  PEQUODS * 

(The    text   is    taken    from    the    original 
edition    of   1794.) 

This  selection  begins  with  the  13th  stanza. 

In  yon  small  field,  that  dimly  steals  from 

sight, 
(From  yon  small  field  these  meditations 

grow) 
Turning  the  sluggish  soil,  from  morn  to 

night, 
The  plodding  hind,  laborious,   drives  his 

plough, 
Nor    dreams,    a   nation    sleeps,    his    foot 

below. 

There,  undisturbed  by  the  roaring  wave, 
Releas'd  from  war,  and  far  from  deadly 

foe, 
Lies  down,  in  endless  rest,  a  nation  brave, 

1  The  Pequods  inhabited  the  branches  of  the 
Thames,  which  empties  itself  into  the  Sound, 
at  New  London.  This  nation,  from  the  first 
settlement  o_f  the  English  Colonists,  regarded 
them  with  jealousy;  and  attempted  to  engage 
the  neighboring  tribes  in  a  combination  against 
them.  Several  of  those  tribes  were,  however, 
more  jealous  of  the  Pequods,  than  of  the  En 
glish,  and  rejected  their  solicitations.  Not  dis 
couraged  by  these  disappointments,  they  resolved 
to  attempt  the  destruction  of  the  English,  with 
the  strength  of  their  own  tribes  only;  and  cruelly 
assassinated  Captains  Stone,  Norton,  and  Ola- 
ham,  as  they  were  trading  peaceably  in  their 
neighborhood.  The  English  demanded  the 
murderers;  but  were  answered  with  disdain, 
and  insult.  Upon  this,  Captain  Mason  was 
dispatched  into  their  country  with  a  body  of 
troops;  and  attacking  one  of  their  principal 
forts,  destroyed  it,  together  with  a  large  number 
of  their  warriors.  The  rest  of  the  nation  fled. 
A  large  body  of  them  came  to  a  swamp;  three 
miles  westward  of  Fairfield.  One  of  their 
number  loitering  behind  the  rest,  was  discovered 
by  the  English  troops,  then  commanded  by 
Captain  Stoughton,  of  the  Massachusetts;  and 
was  compelled  to  disclose  their  retreat.  One 
hundred  of  them,  it  is  said,  surrendered.  The 
rest,  bravely  resolving  to  live  and  die  together, 
were  attacked,  and  chiefly  destroyed.  On  this 
piece  of  History,  the  following  part  of  the  Poem 
is  founded.  It  is  introduced  by  reflections  on 
the  changes,  wrought  in  the  world  by  time. 
Ancient  Empires.  Great  Britain.  America. 
Story  related,  with  reflections  on  the  savages. 
Conclusion.  (The  "Argument"  as  supplied  by 
the  Author.) 


118 


And  trains,  in  tempests  born,  there  find 
a  quiet  grave. 

Oft  have  I  heard  the  tale,  when  matron 

sere  10 

Sung  to  my  infant  ear  the  song  of  woe; 
Of  maiden  meek,  consum'd  with  pining 

care, 
Around  whose  tomb  the  wild-rose  lov'd 

to  blow; 
Or  told,  with  swimming  eyes,  how,  long 

ago, 

Remorseless  Indians,  all  in  midnight  dire, 
The  little,  sleeping  village,  did  o'erthrow, 
Bidding  the  cruel  flames  to  heaven  aspire, 
And  scalp'd  the  hoary  head,  and  burn'd 

the  babe  with  fire. 

Then,  fancy-fir'd,  her  memory  wing'd  its 

flight, 
To    long- forgotten   wars,    and    dread 

alarms,'  2° 

To  chiefs  obscure,  but  terrible  in  fight, 
Who    mock'd    each    foe,   and    laugh'd    at 

deadliest  harms, 
Sydneys    in   zeal,   and   Washingtons   in 

arms. 

By  instinct  tender  to  the  woes  of  man, 
My   heart   bewildering   with    sweet   pity's 

charms, 
Thro'  solemn  scenes,  with  Nature's  step, 

she  ran, 
And  hush'd  her  audience  small,  and  thus 

the  tale  began. 

"Thro'  verdant  banks  where  Thames's 

branches   glide, 
Long    held    the     Pequods    an    extensive 

sway; 
Bold,  savage,  fierce,  of  arms  the  glorious 

pride,  30 

And  bidding  all  the  circling  realms  obey. 
Jealous,  they  saw  the  tribes,  beyond  the 

sea, 
Plant    in    their   climes;    and   towns,    and 

cities,  rise  ; 

Ascending  castles  foreign  flags  display; 
Mysterious  art  new  scenes  of  life  devise; 
And  steeds  insult  the  plains,  and  cannon 

rend  the  skies." 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT 


119 


"They  saw,  and  soon  the  strangers'  fate 

decreed, 
And   soon  of  war  disclos'd  the  crimson 

sign; 
First,     hapless     Stone!     they     bade     thy 

bosom  bleed, 

A  guiltless  offering  at  th'  infernal  shrine: 
Then,  gallant  Norton !  the  hard  fate  was 

thine,  41 

By  ruffians  butcher'd,  and  denied  ?.  grave : 
Thee,  generous  Oldham !  next  the  doom 

malign 

Arrested ;  nor  could  all  thy  courage  save ; 
Forsaken,  plunder'd,  cleft,  and  buried  in 

the  wave." 

"Soon  the  sad  tidings  reach'd  the  general 
ear; 

And  prudence,  pity,  vengeance,  all  in 
spire  : 

Invasive  war  their  gallant  friends  pre 
pare; 

And  soon  a  noble  band,  with  purpose  dire, 

And  threatening  arms,  the  murderous 
fiends  require:  so 

Small  was  the  band,  but  never  taught  to 
yield ; 

Breasts  fac'd  with  steel,  and  souls  in 
stinct  with  fire :  . 

Such  souls,  from  Sparta,  Persia's  world 
repell'd, 

When  nations  pav'd  the  ground,  and 
Xerxes  flew  the  field." 

"The  rising  clouds  the  Savage  Chief  de 
scried, 

And,  round  the  forest,  bade  his  heroes 
arm ; 

To  arms  the  painted  warriors  proudly 
hied, 

And  through  surrounding  nations  rung 
the  alarm. 

The  nations  heard ;  but  smil'd,  to  see  the 
storm, 

With  ruin  fraught,  o'er  Pequod  moun 
tains  driven;  60 

And  felt  infernal  joy  the  bosom  warm, 

To  see  their  light  hang  o'er  the  skirts  of 
even, 

And  other  suns  arise,  to  gild  a  kinder 
heaven." 

"Swift  to  the  Pequod  fortress  Mason  sped, 
Far;   in  the  wildering  woods'   impervious 

gloom ; 
A    lonely    castle,    brown    with    twilight 

dread ; 
Where  oft  th'  embowel'd  captive  met  his 

doom, 


And  frequent  heav'd,  around  the  hollow 

tomb; 
Scalps  hung  in  rows,  and  whitening  bones 

were  strew'd ; 
Where,    round   the    broiling   babe,    fresh 

from  the  womb,  7° 

With   howls   the   Powaw   fill'd   the   dark 

abode, 
And   screams,   and  midnight  prayers,   in- 

vok'd  the  Evil  god." 

"There  too,  with  awful  rites,  the  hoary 

priest, 
Without,    beside    the    moss-grown    altar, 

stood, 

His  sable  form  in  magic  cincture  dress'd, 
And   heap'd   the   mingled   offering  to  his 

god, 

What  time,  with  golden  light,  calm  even 
ing  glow'd. 
The    mystic    dust,    the    flower    of    silver 

bloom, 

And  spicy  herb,  his  hand  in  order  strew'd ; 
Bright   rose  the  curling  flame;   and  rich 

perfume  8° 

On  smoky  wings  upflew,  or  settled  round 

the  tomb." 

"Then,  o'er  the  circus,   danc'd  the  mad 
dening  throng, 
As   erst   the   Thyas   roam'd   dread   Nusa 

round, 
And  struck,  to  forest  notes,  the  ecstatic 

song, 
While    slow,    beneath    them,    heav'd    the 

wavy  ground. 
With   a    low,    lingering   groan,   of    dying 

sound, 
The  woodland   rumbled;   murmur'd   deep 

each  stream ; 
Shrill  sung  the   leaves;   all   ether   sigh'd 

profound ; 
Pale    tufts    of    purple    topp'd   the    silver 

flame, 
And    many-colour'd    Forms    on    evening 

breezes  came."  9° 

"Thin,  twilight  Forms;  attir'd  in  chang 
ing  sheen 

Of  plumes,  high-tinctur'd  in  the  western 
ray; 

Bending,  they  peep'd  the  fleecy  folds  be 
tween, 

Their  wings  light-rustling  in  the  breath 
of  May. 

Soft-hovering  round  the  fire,  in  mystic 
play, 

They  snuff'd  the  incense,  wav'd  in  clouds 
afar, 


120 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Then,   silent,   floated   toward   the   setting 

day: 
Eve  redden'd  each  fine  form,  each  misty 

car; 
And  through  them  faintly  gleam'd,  at 

times,  the  Western  Star." 

"Then   (so  tradition  sings),  the  train  be 
hind,  I0° 

In    plumy    zones    of    rainbow'd    beauty 
dress'd, 

Rode    the    Great    Spirit,    in    th'    obedient 
wind, 

In    yellow    clouds    slow-sailing    from   the 
West. 

With   dawning   smiles,   the   God   his   vo 
taries  bless'd, 

And  taught  where  deer  retir'd  to  ivy  dell, 

What  chosen  chief  with  proud  command 
to'  invest; 

Where    crept    th'    approaching    foe,    with 
purpose  fell, 

And  where  to  wind  the  scout,  and  war's 
dark  storm  dispel." 

"There,   on   her  lover's  tomb,   in   silence 

laid, 
While  still,  and  sorrowing,  shower'd  the 

moon's  pale  beam,  no 

At   times,    expectant,    slept    the    widow'd 

maid, 
Her    soul    far-wandering    on    the    sylph- 

wing'd  dream. 
Wafted    from    evening    skies,    on    sunny 

stream, 
Her    darling   Youth    with    silver    pinions 

shone, 
With   voice   of   music,   tun'd   to    sweetest 

theme, 
He   told   of   shell-bright   bowers,   beyond 

the  sun, 
Where  years  of  endless  joy  o'er  Indian 

lovers  run." 

"But  now  no  awful  rites,  nor  potent  spell, 
To  silence  charm'd  the  peals  of  coming 

war; 

Or  told  the  dread  recesses  of  the  dell,    I2° 
Where  glowing  Mason  led  his  bands  from 

far: 

No  spirit,  buoyant  on  his  airy  car, 
Controul'd    the    whirlwind    of    invading 

fight: 
Deep  died  in  blood,  dun  evening's  falling 

star 
Sent  sad,  o'er  western  hills,  it's  parting 

light, 
And  no  returning  morn  dispers'd  the  long, 

dark  night." 


"On  the  drear  walls  a  sudden  splendour 

glow'd, 

There  Mason  shone,  and  there  his  veter 
ans  pour'd. 
Anew    the    Hero    claim'd    the    fiends    of 

blood, 
While  answering  storms  of  arrows  round 

him  shower'd,  '30 

And  the  war-scream  the  ear  with  anguish 

gor'd. 
Alone,   he    burst    the    gate :    the    forest 

round 

Re-echoed  death ;  the  peal  of  onset  roar'd ; 
In  rush'd  the  squadrons ;  earth  in  blood 

was  drown'd ; 
And  gloomy  spirits  fled,  and  corses   hid 

the  ground." 

"Not  long  in  dubious  fight  the  host  had 

striven, 
When,    kindled    by    the    musket's    potent 

flame, 
In    clouds,   and    fire,   the   castle    rose   to 

heaven, 
And  gloom'd  the  world,  with  melancholy 

beam. 
Then  hoarser  groans,  with  deeper  anguish, 

came ;  '40 

And  fiercer  fight  the  keen  assault  repell'd : 
Nor    even    these    ills    the    savage    breast 

could  tame; 
Like  hell's  deep  caves,  the  hideous  region 

yell'd, 
'Till  death,  and  sweeping  fire,  laid  waste 

the  hostile  field." 

"Soon  the  sad  tale  their  friends  surviv 
ing  heard; 

And  Mason,  Mason,  rung  in  every  wind : 
Quick  from  their  rugged  wilds  they  dis- 

appear'd, 
Howl'd  down  the  hills,  and  left  the  blast 

behind. 
Their  fastening  foes,  by  generous  Stough- 

ton  join'd, 
Hung  o'er  the  rear,  and  every  brake  ex- 

plor'd;  'so 

But   such    dire   terror   seiz'd   the   savage 

mind, 
So  swift  and  black  a  storm  behind  them 

lowr'd, 
On  wings  of  raging  fear,  thro'  spacious 

realms  they  scowr'd."1 


1  The  preceding  passage  includes  lines  109-261 
in  Part  IV.  Here  follow  99  lines  of  "reflec 
tions  on  the  savages,"  alluded  to  in  the  Argu 
ment.  Then  comes  the  Conclusion  of  the  Part. 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT 


121 


"Amid  a  circling  marsh,  expanded  wide, 
To  a  lone  hill  the  Pequods  woui.d  their 

way; 
And  none,  but  Heaven,  the  mansion  had 

descried, 
Close-tangled,    wild,    impervious    to    the 

day; 
But   one    poor    wanderer,    loitering    long 

astray,  Js8 

Wilder'd  in  labyrinths  of  pathless  wood, 
In  a  tall  tree  embower'd,  obscurely  lay: 
Strait  summon'd  down,  the  trembling 

suppliant  show'd 
Where  lurk'd  his  vanish'd  friends,  within 

their  drear  abode." 

"To  death,  the  murderers  were  anew  re- 

quir'd, 

A  pardon  proffer'd,  and  a  peace  assur'd; 
And,  though  with  vengeful  heat  their  foes 

were  fir'd, 
Their  lives,  their  freedom,  and  their  lands, 

secur'd. 
Some  yielding  heard.     In  fastness  strong 

immur'd, 
The   rest   the   terms   refus'd,   with   brave 

disdain, 
Near,  and  more  near,  the  peaceful  Herald 

lur'd ; 
Then  bade  a  shower  of  arrows  round  him 

rain,  >7<> 

And  wing'd  him   swift,    from  danger,   to 

the  distant  plain." 

"Through  the  sole,  narrow  way,  to  ven 
geance  led, 

To  final  fight  our  generous  heroes  drew ; 

And  Stoughton  now  had  pass'd  th'  moor's 
black  shade, 

When  hell's  terrific  region  scream'd  anew. 

Undaunted,  on  their  foes  they  fiercely 
flew; 

As  fierce,  the  dusky  warriors  crowd  the 
fight; 

Despair  inspires,  to  combat's  face  they 
glue; 

With  groans,  and  shouts,  they  rage,  un 
knowing  flight, 

And  close  their  sullen  eyes,  in  shades  of 
endless  night."  l8° 

Indulge,  my  native  land !  indulge  the  tear, 
That  steals,  impassion'd,  o'er  a  nation's 

doom : 
To  me  each  twig,  from  Adam's  stock,  is 

near, 

And  sorrows  fall  upon  an  Indian's  tomb. 
And,  O  ye  Chiefs !  in  yonder  starry  home, 
Accept  the  humble  tribute  of  this  rhyme, 


Your  gallant  deeds,  in  Greece,  or  haughty 

Rome, 

By  Maro  sung,  or  Homer's  harp  sublime, 
Had  charm'd  the  world's  wide  round,  and 

triumph'd  over  time. 

1794. 

From  GREENFIELD   HILL 
PART  VI 

THE   FARMER'S   ADVICE   TO   THE 
VILLAGERS  1 

Ye  children  of  my  fondest  care, 
With  tenderest  love,  and  frequent  prayer, 
This  solemn  charge,  my  voice  has  given, 
To   prompt,   and  guide,  your   steps   to 

heaven. 

Your  present  welfare  now  demands 
A  different  tribute,  from  my  hands. 

Not  long  since  liv'd  a  Farmer  plain, 
Intent  to  gather  honest  grain, 
Laborious,  prudent,  thrifty,  neat, 
Of  judgment  strong,  experience  great,    I0 
In  solid  homespun  clad,  and  tidy, 
And  with  no  coxcomb  learning  giddy. 
Daily,  to  hear  his  maxims  sound, 
Th'    approaching    neighbours    flock'd 

around ; 

Daily  they  saw  his  counsels  prove 
The  source  of  union,  peace,  and  love, 
The  means  of  prudence,  and  of  wealth, 
Of  comfort,  cheerfulness,  and  health : 
And  all,  who  follow'd  his  advice,  '9 

Appear'd  more  prosperous,  as  more  wise. 

Wearied,  at  length,  with  many  a  call, 
The  sage  resolv'd  to  summon  all: 
And  gathering,  on  a  pleasant  monday, 
A  crowd  not  always  seen  on  Sunday, 
Curious  to  hear,  while  hard  they  press'd 

him, 
In  friendly  terms,  he  thus  address'd  'em. 

"My     friends,    you    have    my    kindest 

wishes; 

Pray  think  a  neighbour  not  officious, 
While  thus,  to  teach  you  how  to  live, 
My  very  best  advice  I  give."  3° 

1  INTRODUCTION.  Farmer  introduced.  Villagers 
assembled.  He  recommends  to  them  an  indus 
trious  and  economical  life,  the  careful  educa 
tion  and  government  of  their  children,  and 
particularly  the  establishment  of  good  habits  in 
early  life;  enjoins  upon  them  the  offices  of  good 
neighborhood,  the  avoidance  of  litigation,  and 
the  careful  cultivation  of  parochial  harmony. 
Conclusion.  (The  "Argument"  as  sufplied  by 
the  Author.) 


122 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


"And  first,  industrious  be  your  lives; 
Alike  employ' d  yourselves,  and  wives : 
Your  children,  join'd  in  labour  gay, 
With  something  useful  fill  each  day. 
Those  little  times  of  leisure  save, 
Which  most  men  lose,  and  all  men  have; 
The  half  days,  when  a  job  is  done; 
The  whole  days,  when  a  storm  is  on. 
Few  know,  without  a  strict  account, 
To  what  these  little  times  amount :         4° 
If  wasted,  while  the  same  your  cost, 
The  sums,  you  might  have  earn'd,  are  lost. 

"Learn  small  things  never  to  despise: 
You  little  think  how  fast  they  rise. 
A  rich  reward  the  mill  obtains, 
'Tho'  but  two  quarts  a  bushel  gains : 
Still  rolling  on  it's  steady  rounds, 
The  farthings  soon  are  turn'd  to  pounds." 

"Nor  think  a  life  of  toil  severe: 
No  life  has  blessings  so  sincere.  5° 

It's  meals  so  luscious,  sleep  so  sweet, 
Such  vigorous  limbs,  such  health  complete, 
A  mind  so  active,  brisk,  and  gay, 
As  his,  who  toils  the  livelong  day. 
A  life  of  sloth  drags  hardly  on; 
Suns  set  too  late,  and  rise  too  soon; 
Youth,  manhood,  age,  all  linger  slow, 
To  him,  who  nothing  has  to  do. 
The  drone,  a  nuisance  to  the  hive, 
Stays,  but  can  scarce  be  said  to  live ;      &> 
And  well  the  bees,  those  judges  wise, 
Plague,  chase,  and  sting  him,  'till  he  dies. 
Lawrence,  like  him,  tho'  sav'd  from  hang 
ing, 
Yet  every  day  deserves  a  banging." 

"Let  order  o'er  your  time  preside, 
And  method  all  your  business  guide. 
Early  begin,  and  end,  your  toil; 
Nor  let  great  tasks  your  hands  embroil. 
One  thing  at  once,  be  still  begun, 
Contriv'd,  resolv'd,  pursued,  and  done.    7° 
Hire  not,  for  what  yourselves  can  do ; 
And  send  not,  when  yourselves  can  go; 
Nor,  'till  to-morrow's  light,  delay 
What  might  as  well  be  done  today. 
By  steady  efforts  all  men  thrive, 
And  long  by  moderate  labour  live ; 
While  eager  toil,  and  anxious  care, 
Health,    strength,   and   peac°    and   life, 
impair." 

"What  thus  your  hands  with  labour  earn, 
To  save,  be  now  your  next  concern.        8° 
Whate'er  to  health,  or  real  use, 
Or  true  enjoyment,  will  conduce, 
Use  freely,  and  with  pleasure  use; 


But  ne'er  the  gifts  of  HEAVEN  abuse: 
I  joy  to  see  your  treasur'd  stores, 
Which  smiling  Plenty  copious  pours; 
Your  cattle  sleek,  your  poultry  fine, 
Your  cider  in  the  tumbler  shine, 
Your  tables,  smoking  from  the  hoard, 
And  children  smiling  round  the  board.    9° 
All  rights  to  use  in  you  conspire ; 
The  labourer's  worthy  'of  his  hire. 
Ne'er  may  that  hated  day  arrive, 
WThen  worse  yourselves,  or  yours  shall  live  ; 
Your  dress,  your  lodging,  or  your  food, 
Be  less  abundant,  neat,  or  good ; 
Your  dainties  all  to  market  go, 
To  feast  the  epicure,  and  beau; 
But  ever  on  your  tables  stand, 
Proofs  of  a  free  and  happy  land."1        I0° 


"In    this    new    World,    life's    changing 

round, 

In  three  descents,  is  often  found. 
The  first,  firm,  busy,  plodding  poor, 
Earns,  saves,  and  daily  swells,  his  store: 
By  farthings  first,  and  pence,  it  grows; 
In  shillings  next,  and  pounds,  it  flows; 
Then  spread  his  widening  farms,  abroad: 
His  forests  wave;  his  harvests  nod; 
Fattening,  his  numerous  cattle  play, 
And  debtors  dread  his  reckoning  day.    "o 
Ambitious  then  t'  adorn  with  knowledge 
His  son,  he  places  him  at  college  ; 
And  sends,  in  smart  attire,  and  neat, 
To  travel,  thro'  each  neighbouring  state; 
Builds  him  a  handsome  house,  or  buys, 
Sees  him  a  gentleman,  and  dies." 

'The  second  born  to  wealth  £»nd  ease, 
And  taught  to  think,  converse,  and  please, 
Ambitious,  with  his  lady-wife, 
Aims  at  a  higher  walk  of  life.  I2° 

Yet,  in  those  wholesome  habits  train'd, 
By  which   his   wealth,   and  weight,   were 

gain'd, 

Bids  care  in  hand  with  pleasure  go, 
And  blends  economy  with  show, 
His  houses,  fences,  garden,  dress. 
The  neat  and  thrifty  man  confess. 
Improv'd,  but  with  improvement  plain, 
Intent  on  office,  as  on  gain, 
Exploring,  useful  sweets  to  spy, 
To  public  life  he  turns  his  eye.  '30 

A  townsman  first;  a  justice  soon; 
A  member  of  the  house  anon; 
Perhaps  to  board,  or  bench,  invited, 
He  sees  the  state,  and  subjects,  righted; 

1  The  preceding  passage  includes  lines  1-100 
in  Part  VI.  The  passage  which  follows  is  from 
the  Conclusion  of  the  Book,  lines  596-682. 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT 


123 


And,  raptur'd  with  politic  life, 
Consigns  his  children  to  his  wife. 
Of  household  cares  amid  the  round, 
For  her,  too  hard  the  task  is  found. 
At  first  she  struggles,  and  contends; 
Then    doubts,    desponds,    laments,    and 
bends ;  ' 

Her  sons  pursue  the  sad  defeat, 
And  shout  their  victory  complete; 
Rejoicing,  see  their  father  roam, 
And  riot,  rake,  and  reign,  at  home. 
Too  late  he  sees,  and  sees  to  mourn, 
His  race  of  every  hope  forlorn, 
Abroad,  for  comfort,  turns  his  eyes, 
Bewails  his  dire  mistakes,  and  dies." 

"His  heir,  train'd  only  to  enjoy, 
Untaught  his  mind,  or  hands,  t'  employ,  X5o 
Conscious  of  wealth  enough  for  life, 
With  business,  care,  and  worth,  at  strife, 
By  prudence,  conscience,  unrestrain'd, 
And  none,  but  pleasure's  habits  gain'd, 
Whirls  on  the  wild  career  of  sense, 
Nor  danger  marks,  nor  heeds  expense. 
Soon  ended  is  the  giddy  round; 
And  soon  the  fatal  goal  is  found. 
His  lands  secur'd  for  borrow'd  gold, 
His  houses,  horses,  herds,  are  sold.         l6° 
And  now,  no  more  for  wealth  respected, 
He  sinks,  by  all  his  friends  neglected ; 
Friends,  who,  before,  his  vices  flatter'd, 
And  liv'd  upon  the  loives  he  scatter'd. 
Unacted  every  worthy  part, 
And  pining  with  a  broken  heart, 
To  dirtiest  company  he  flies, 
Whores,  gambles,  turns  a  sot,  and  dies. 
His  children,  born  to  fairer  doom, 
In  rags,  pursue  him  to  the  tomb."  '7° 

"Apprentic'd  then  to  masters  stern, 
Some  real  good  the  orphans  learn ; 
Are  bred  to  toil,  and  hardy  fare, 
And  grow  to  usefulness,  and  care; 
And,    following   their    great-grandsire's 

plan, 
Each  slow  becomes  a  useful  man." 

"Such  here  is  life's  swift-circling  round; 
So  soon  are  all  its  changes  found. 
Would  you  prevent  th'  allotment  hard, 
And  fortune's  rapid  whirl  retard,  '80 

In  all  your  race,  industrious  care 
Attentive  plant,  and  faithful  rear; 
With  life,  th'  important  task  begin, 
Nor  but  with  life,  the  task  resign; 
To  habit,  bid  the  blessing  grow, 
Habits  alone  yield  good  below." 

1794. 


COLUMBIA 

Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise, 

The  queen  of  the  world,  and  child  of  the 

skies ! 
Thy  genius  command  thee;  with  rapture 

behold,  / 

While  ages  on  ages  thy  splendors  unfold;' 
Thy  reign  is  the  last,  and  the  noblest  oA 

time, 
Most  fruitful  thy  soil,  most  inviting  thy 

clime ; 
Let  the  crimes  of  the  east  ne'er  encrim- 

son  thy  name, 
Be  freedom,  and  science,  and  virtue,  thy 

fame. 

To  conquest,   and   slaughter,   let   Europe 

aspire; 
Whelm  nations  in  blood,  and  wrap  cities 

in  fire;  10 

Thy  heroes  the  rights  of  mankind  shall 

defend, 

And  triumph  pursue  them,  and  glory  at 
tend. 
A  world  is  thy  realm:/ for  a  world  be 

thy  laws,  f 

Enlarged  as  thine  empire,  and  just  as  thy 

cause ; ) 
On   Freedom's   broad   basis,   that   empire 

shall,  rise, 
Extend  with  the  main,  and  dissolve  with 

the  skies. 

Fair  science  her  gates  to  thy  sons  shall 

unbar, 
And  the  east  see  thy  morn  hide  the  beams 

of  her  star. 
New  bards,  and  new  sages,  unrival'd  shall 

soar 
To  fame,  unextinguish'd,  when  time  is  no 

more ;  20 

To  thee,  the  last  refuge  of  virtue  designed, 
Shall  fly  from  all  nations  the  best  of  man 
kind; 
Here,  grateful  to  heaven,  with  transport 

shall  bring 
Their  incense,  more  fragrant  than  odors 

of  spring. 

Nor  less  shall  thy  fair  ones  to  glory 
ascend, 

And  Genius  and  Beauty  in  harmony  blend ; 

The  graces  of  form  shall  awake  pure  de 
sire, 

And  the  charms  of  the  soul  ever  cherish 
the  fire; 

Their  sweetness  unmingled,  their  manners 
refin'd 


124 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


And  virtue's  bright  image,  instamp'd  on 
the  mind,  3° 

With  peace,  and  soft  rapture,  shall  teach 
life  to  glow, 

And  light  up  a  smile  in  the  aspect  of  woe. 

Thy  fleets  to  all  regions  thy  pow'r  shall 
display, 

The  nations  admire,  and  the  ocean  obey ; 

Each  shore  to  thy  glory  its  tribute  unfold. 

And  the  east  and  the  south  yield  their 
spices  and  gold, 

As  the  day-spring  unbounded,  thy  splen 
dor  shall  flow, 

And  earth's  little  kingdoms  before  thee 
shall  bow, 

While  the  ensigns  of  union,  in  triumph 
unfurl'd, 

Hush  the  tumult  of  war,  and  give  peace 
to  the  world.  40 

Thus,  as  down  a  lone  valley,  with  cedars 

o'erspread, 
From  war's  dread  confusion  I  pensively 

stray' d — 
The  gloom  from  the  face  of  fair  heav'n 

retir'd ; 

The  winds  ceased  to  murmur;  the  thun 
ders  expir'd ; 
Perfumes,    as    of    Eden,    flow'd    sweetly 

along, 
And  a  voice,  as  of  angels,  enchantingly 

sung: 

"Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise, 
The  queen  of  the  world,   and  the  child 

of  the  skies." 


LOVE  TO  THE  CHURCH 

I  love  thy  kingdom,  Lord, 
The  house  of  thine  abode, 

The  church  our  blest  Redeemer  saved 
With  his  own  precious  blood. 

I  love  thy  church,  O  God! 

Her  walls  before  thee  stand, 
Dear  as  the  apple  of  thine  eye, 

And  graven  on  thy  hand. 

If  e'er  to  bless  thy  sons 

My  voice  or  hands  deny, 
These  hands  let  useful  skill  forsake, 

This  voice  in  silence  die. 

For  her  my  tears  shall  fall, 
For  her  my  prayers  ascend ; 

To  her  my  cares  and  toils  be  given 
Till  toils  and  cares  shall  end. 

Beyond  my  highest  joy 
I  prize  her  heavenly  ways, 

Her  sweet  communion,  solemn  vows, 
Her    hymns  of  love  and  praise. 

Jesus,  thou  friend  divine, 
Our  Saviour  and  our  King, 

Thy  hand  from  every  snare  and  foe 
Shall  great  deliverance  bring. 

Sure  as  thy  truth  shall  last, 

To  Zion  shall  be  given 
The  brightest  glories  earth  can  yield, 

And  brighter  bliss  of  heaven. 


JOEL    BARLOW 

(1754-1813) 


THE  VISION  OF  COLUMBUS 
FROM  BOOK  VII1 

(The   text   is    taken   from    the    original 
edition    of   /787.) 

In  youthful  minds  to  wake  the  ardent 

flame, 
To  nurse  the  arts,  and  point   the  paths 

of  fame, 
Behold   their  liberal  fires,  with  guardian 

care, 
Thro'  all  the  realms  their  feats  of  science 

rear. 
Great  without  pomp  the  modest  mansions 

rise; 
Harvard   and   Yale   and    Princeton    greet 

the  skies; 
Penn's  ample  walls  o'er  Del'ware's  margin 

bend, 

On  James's  bank  the  royal  spires  ascend, 
Thy    turrets,     York,     Columbia's     walks, 

command, 

Bosom'd    in    groves,    see   growing    Dart 
mouth  stand ;  I0 
While,  o'er  the  realm  reflecting  solar  fires, 
On  yon  tall  hill   Rhode-Island's   seat  as 
pires. 
O'er  all  the  shore,  with  sails  and  cities 

gay, 
And    where    rude    hamlets    stretch    their 

inland  sway, 
With  humbler  walls  unnumber'd  schools 

arise, 
And   youths   unnumber'd    sieze   the    solid 

prize. 
In  no  blest  land  has   Science  rear'd  her 

fane, 
And    fix'd    so    firm    her    wide-extended 

reign ; 
Each  rustic  here,  that  turns  the  furrow'd 

soil, 
The  maid,  the  youth,   that  ply  mechanic 

toil,  2° 

In  freedom  nurst,  in  useful  arts  inured, 
Know    their    just    claims,    and   see   their 

rights  secured. 

1  Hymn  to  Peace.  Progress  of  Arts  in  Amer 
ica.  Furtrade.  Fisheries.  Productions  and 
Commerce.  Education.  Philosophical  inven 
tions.  Painting.  Poetry.  (The  "Argument"  as 
supplied  by  the  Author.)  This  selection  is  the 
latter  two-thirds  of  the  Book. 


125 


And  lo,  descending  from  the  seats  of 

art, 
The    growing   throngs    for    active    scenes 

depart, 
In  various  garbs  they  tread  the  welcome 

land, 
Swords  at  their  side  or  sceptres  in  their 

hand, 
With    healing   powers    bid    dire    diseases 

cease, 
Or  sound  the  tidings  of  eternal  peace.' 

In  no  blest  land  has  fair  Religion  shone, 
And  fix'd  so  firm  her  everlasting  throne.  3° 
Where,  o'er  the  realms  those  spacious 

temples  shine, 
Frequent  and  full  the  throng'd  assemblies 

join ; 

There,  fired  with  virtue's  animating  flame, 
The  sacred  task  unnumber'd  sages  claim ; 
The  task,  for  angels  great;  in  early  youth. 
To  lead  whole  nations  in  the  walks  of 

truth, 
Shed  the  bright  beams  of  knowledge  on 

the  mind, 

For  social  compact  harmonize  mankind, 
To  life,  to  happiness,  to  joys  above, 
The    soften'd    soul    with    ardent    zeal    to 

move ;  40 

For  this  the  voice  of   Heaven,   in   early 

years, 
Tuned    the    glad    songs    of    life-inspiring 

seers, 
For    this    consenting    seraphs    leave    the 

skies, 
The    God    compassionates,    the    Saviour 

dies. 

Tho'   different   faiths  their  various  or 
ders  show,  . 

That  seem  discordant  to  the  train  below ; 
Yet  one  blest  cause,  one  universal  flame, 
Wakes  all   their  joys  and  centres   every 

aim; 
They   tread   the   same   bright   steps,   and 

smoothe  the  road, 
Lights  of  the  world  and  messengers  of 

God.  so 

So  the  galaxy  broad  o'er  heaven  displays 
Of  various  stars  the  same  unbounded 

blaze ; 
Where   great    and    small   their    mingling 

rays  unite, 
And  earth  and  skies   repay  the   friendly 

light. 


126 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


While  thus  the  hero  view'd  the  sacred 

band, 
Moved  by  one  voice  and  guided  by  one 

hand, 

He  saw  the  heavens  unfold,  a  form  de 
scend, 
Down   the    dim   skies   his    arm   of   light 

extend, 

From  God's  own  altar  lift  a  living  coal, 
Touch  their  glad  lips  and  brighten  every 

soul ;  6° 

Then,  with  accordant  voice  and  heavenly 

tongue, 
O'er  the  wide  clime  these  welcome  accents 

rung. 

Ye  darkling  race  of  poor  distrest  man- 
t  kind, 

For  bliss  still  groping  and  to  virtue  blind, 
Hear  from  on  high  th'  Almighty's  voice 

descend ; 

Ye  heavens,  be  silent,  and  thou  earth,  at 
tend. 

I  reign  the  Lord  of  life;  I  fill  the  round, 
Where  stars  and  skies  and  angels  know 

their  bound ; 
Before   all   years,   beyond   all   thought   I 

live, 
Light,  form  and  motion,  time  and  space 

I  give;  7° 

Touch'd  by  this  hand,  all  worlds  within 

me  roll, 
Mine  eye  their  splendor  and  my  breath 

their  soul. 
Earth,  with  her  lands  and  seas,  my  power 

proclaims, 
There  moves  my  spirit,  there  descend  my 

flames ; 
Graced  with  the  semblance  of  the  Maker's 

mind, 

Rose   from   the   darksome   dust  the   rea 
soning  kind, 
With    powers    of    thought    to    trace    the 

eternal  Cause, 
That  all  his  works  to  one  great  system 

draws, 
View  the  full  chain  of  love,  the  all-ruling 

plan, 
That  binds  the  God,  the  angel  and  the 

man,  80 

That  gives  all  hearts  to  feel,  all  minds  to 

know 

The  bliss  of  harmony,  of  strife  the  woe. 
This  heaven  of  concord,  who  of  mortal 

strain 
Shall    dare   oppose — he   lifts   his   arm   in 

vain ; 

The  avenging  universe  shall  on  him  roll 
The  intended  wrong,  and  whelm  his  guilty 

soul. 


Then  lend  your  audience;  hear,  ye  sons 
of  earth, 

Rise  into  life,  behold  the  promised  birth; 

From  pain  to  joy,  from  guilt  to  glory  rise, 

Be    babes    on    earth,    be    seraphs    in   the 
skies.  9° 

Lo,  to  the  cries  of  grief  mild  mercy  bends, 

Stern  vengeance  softens  and  the  God  de 
scends, 

The  atoning  God,  the  pardoning  grace  to 
seal, 

The  dead  to  quicken  and  the  sick  to  heal. 

See   from  his   sacred  side  the  life-blood 
flow, 

Hear  in  his  groans  unutterable  woe; 

While,   fixt  in  one   strong  pang,   the   all 
suffering  Mind 

Bears  and  bewails  the  tortures  of  man 
kind. 

But  lo,  the  ascending  pomp !  around  him 
move 

His  rising  saints,  the  first-born   sons  of 
love;  I0° 

View  the  glad   throng,  the  glorious  tri 
umph  join, 

His    paths    pursue    and    in    his    splendor 
shine; 

Purged   from  your  stains  in  his  atoning 
blood, 

Assume  his  spotless  robes  and  reign  be 
side  your  God. 

Thus  heard  the  hero — while  his  roving 
view 

Traced  other  crouds  that  liberal  arts  pur 
sue; 

When  thus  the   Seraph — Lo,  a  favourite 
band, 

The   torch    of    science    flaming    in    their 
hand! 

Thro'   nature's   range   their   ardent   souls 
aspire, 

Or  wake  to  life  the  canvass  and  the  lyre. 

Fixt   in   sublimest  thought,   behold   them 
rise,  1IJ 

Superior  worlds  unfolding  to  their  eyes; 

Heaven  in  their  view  unveils  the  eternal 
plan, 

And  gives  new  guidance  to  the  paths  of 

man. 

See    on    yon     darkening    height    bold 
Franklin  tread, 

Heaven's  awful  thunders  rolling  o'er  his 
head; 

Convolving  clouds  the  billowy  skies  de 
form, 

And  forky  flames  emblaze  the  blackening 
storm. 


JOEL   BARLOW 


127 


See  the  descending  streams  around  him 

burn, 
Glance  on  his  rod  and  with  his  guidance 

turn ;  I2° 

He  bids   conflicting  heavens   their  blasts 

expire, 
Curbs  the  fierce  blaze  and  holds  the  im- 

prison'd  fire. 
No  more,  when  folding  storms  the  vault 

o'er-spread, 
The  livid  glare  shall  strike  thy  race  with 

dread ; 
Nor  towers  nor  temples,  shuddering  with 

the  sound; 
Sink  in  the  flames  and  spread  destruction 

round. 
His    daring   toils,    the    threatening    blast 

that  wait, 
Shall   teach   mankind  to   ward   the  bolts 

of  fate; 
The  pointed  steel  o'er-top  the  ascending 

spire,  . 

And  lead  o'er  trembling  walls  the  harm 
less  fire ;  :3° 
In  his  glad  fame  while  distant  worlds  re 
joice, 
Far  as  the  lightnings  shine  or  thunders 

raise  their  voice. 
See  the  sage  Rittenhouse,  with  ardent 

eye, 

Lift  the  long  tube  and  pierce  the  starry  sky ; 
Clear  in  his  view  the  circling  systems  roll, 
And  broader  splendors  gild  the  central 

pole. 

He  marks  what  laws  the  eccentric  wan 
derers  bind, 

Copies  creation  in  his  forming  mind, 
And  bids,  beneath  his  hand,  in  semblance 

rise,  J39 

With  mimic  orbs,  the  labours  of  the  skies. 
There  wondering  crouds  with  raptured 

eye  behold 
The  spangled  heavens  their  mystic  maze 

unfold; 
While   each   glad   sage   his   splendid   hall 

shall  grace, 
With    all    the    spheres    that    cleave    the 

etherial  space. 
To  guide  the   sailor  in  his  wandering 

way, 
See  Godfrey's  toils  reverse  the  beams  of 

day. 

His  lifted  quadrant  to  the  eye  displays 
From    adverse    skies    the    counteracting 

rays; 
And   marks,   as    devious    sails   bewilder'd 

roll, 
Each   nice   gradation    from   the    stedfast 

pole.  150 


See,  West  with  glowing  life  the  canvass 
warms; 

His   sovereign   hand   creates    impassion'd 
forms, 

Spurns  the  cold  critic  rules,  to  sieze  the 
heart, 

And  boldly  bursts  the  former  bounds  of 
Art. 

No   more   her  powers   to   ancient  scenes 
confined, 

He  opes  her  liberal  aid  to  all  mankind; 

She   calls   to   life   each   patriot,   chief  or 
sage, 

Garb'd  in  the  •  dress  and  drapery  of  his 
age; 

Again  bold  Regulus  to  death  returns, 

Again    her     falling    Wolfe     Britannia 
mourns;  I<5° 

Warriors    in    arms    to    frowning   combat 
move, 

And  youths  and  virgins  melt  the  soul  to 
love; 

Grief,   rage  and   fear  beneath  his  pencil 
start, 

Roll  the  wild  eye  and  pour  the  flowing 
heart ; 

While  slumbering  heroes  wait  his  waken 
ing  call, 

And  distant  ages  fill  the  storied  wall. 
With   rival    force,    see   Copley's   pencil 
trace 

The  air  of  action  and  the  charms  of  face ; 

Fair   in   his   tints   unfold   the    scenes   of 
state, 

The  Senate  listens  and  the  peers  debate ; 

Pale  consternation  every  heart  appalls,   l?1 

In  act  to  speak,  while  death-struck  Chat 
ham  falls. 

His  strong,  deep  shades  a  bold  expression 
give, 

Raised  into  light  the  starting  figures  live : 

With  polish'd  pride  the  finish'd   features 
boast, 

The  master's  art  in  nature's  softness  lost. 
Fired  with  the  martial  toils,  that  bathed 
in  gore 

His  brave  companions  on  his  native  shore 

Trumbull  with  daring  hand  the  scene  re 
calls, 

He  shades  with  night  Quebec's  beleagur'd 
walls,  l8° 

Mid  flashing  flames,  that  round  the  tur 
rets  rise, 

Blind    carnage    raves    and    great    Mont 
gomery  dies. 

On  Charlestown's  height,  thro'  floods  of 
rolling  fire, 

Brave  Warren  falls,  and  sullen  hosts  re 
tire; 


128 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


While  other  plains  of  death,  that  gloom 

the  skies, 
And  chiefs  immortal  o'er  his  canvass  rise. 

See  rural  seats  of  innocence  and  ease, 
High  tufted  towers  and  walks  of  waving 

trees, 
The  white  waves  dashing  on  the  craggy 

shores, 

Meandering  streams  and  meads  of  span 
gled  flowers, 
Where  nature's  sons  their  wild  excursions 

lead, 
In     just     design,     from     Taylor's     pencil 

spread. 

Steward   and   Brown   the  moving  por 
trait  raise, 

Each  rival  stroke  the   force  of  life  con 
veys; 
See  circling  Beauties  round  their  tablets 

stand, 
And    rise    immortal     from    their    plastic 

hand; 
Each  breathing  form  preserves  its  wonted 

grace, 
And  all  the  soul  stands  speaking  in  the 

face. 
Two  kindred   arts   the   swelling   statue 

heave, 
Wake  the  dead  wax  and  teach  the  stone 

to  live.  20° 

While  the  bold  chissel  claims  the  rugged 

strife, 

To  rouse  the  sceptred  marble  into  life; 
While  Latian  shrines  their  figured  patriots 

boast, 
And  gods  and  heroes  croud  each  orient 

coast, 
See   Wright's   fair  hands  the  livlier  fire 

controul, 
In  waxen  forms  she  breathes  the  impas- 

sion'd  soul; 
The  pencil'd  tint  o'er  moulded  substance 

glows, 
And   different  powers   the   unrivall'd   art 

compose. 
To    equal    fame    ascends    thy    tuneful 

throng, 
The   boast   of   genius   and    the   pride   of 

song;  2I° 

Warm'd  with  the  scenes  that  grace  their 

various  clime, 
Their  lays  shall  triumph  o'er  the  lapse  of 

time. 
With   keen-eyed    glance    thro'    nature's 

walks  to  pierce, 
With  all  the  powers  and  every  charm  of 

verse, 


Each  science  opening  in  his  ample  mind, 
His  fancy  glowing  and  his  taste  refined, 
See  Trumbull  lead  the  train.  His  skillful 

Hurls  the  keen  darts  of  Satire  thro'  the 

land ; 
Pride,  knavery,   dullness,   feel  his  mortal 

stings, 
And   listening   virtue   triumphs   while    he 

sings ;  22° 

Proud  Albion's   sons,   victorious  now   no 

more, 

In  guilt  retiring  from  the  wasted  shore, 
Strive    their    curst    cruelties    to    hide    in 

vain — 
The    world    shall    learn    them    from    his 

deathless  strain. 
On  glory's  wing  to   raise  the  ravish'd 

soul, 
Beyond  the  bounds  of  earth's  benighted 

pole, 

For  daring  Dwight  the  Epic  Muse  sublime 
Hails    her   new    empire    on    the    western 

clime. 
Fired  with  the  themes  by  seers  seraphic 

sung, 
Heaven   in  his   eye,   and   rapture   on   his 

tongue,  23° 

His  voice  divine  revives  the  promised  land, 
The  Heaven-taught  Leader  and  the  chosen 

band. 
In  Hanniel's  fate,  proud  faction  finds  her 

doom, 
Ai's  midnight  flames  light  nations  to  their 

tomb, 

In  visions  bright  supernal  joys  are  given, 
And  all  the  dread  futurities  of  heaven. 
While  freedom's  cause  his  patriot  bosom 

warms, 

In  counsel  sage,  nor  inexpert  in  arms, 
See   Humphreys   glorious    from   the   field 

retire, 
Sheathe   the   glad   sword   and   string   the 

sounding  lyre ;  24° 

That  lyre  which,  erst,   in  hours  of  dark 

despair, 
Roused  the  sad  realms  to  urge  the  un- 

finish'd  war. 
O'er  fallen  friends,  with  all  the  strength 

of  woe, 
His   heart-felt   sighs   in   moving  numbers 

flow; 
His  country's  wrongs,  her  duties,  dangers, 

praise, 

Fire  his  full  soul  and  animate  his  lays ; 
Immortal  Washington  with  joy  shall  own 
So  fond  a  favourite  and  so  great  a  son. 

1787. 


JOEL   BARLOW 


129 


FROM  BOOK  IX1 

.     .     .     Now,    fair  beneath  his  view,  the 

important  age 

Leads  the  bold  actors  on  a  broader  stage; 
When,  clothed   majestic  in  the  robes  of 

state, 
Moved  by  one  voice,  in  general  council 

meet 
The    fathers    of    all    empires:    'twas    the 

place, 
Near   the   first    footsteps   of    the   human 

race; 
Where    wretched    men,    first    wandering 

from  their  God, 
Began   their    feuds   and   led   their   tribes 

abroad. 

In  this  mid  region,  this  delightful  clime, 
Hear'd    by    whole    realms,    to    brave    the 

wrecks  of  time,  I0 

A  spacious  structure  rose,  sublimely  great, 
The  last  resort,  the  unchanging  scene  of 

state. 

'    On  rocks  of  adamant  the  walls  ascend, 
'Tall   columns   heave,   and   Parian   arches 

bend; 
High   o'er   the   golden   roofs,   the   rising 

spires, 

Far  in  the  concave  meet  the  solar  fires; 
Four  blazing  fronts,  with  gates  unfolding 

high, 
Look,  with  immortal  splendor,  round  the 

sky : 

Hither  the  delegated  sires  ascend, 
And  all  the  cares  of  every  clime  attend.  2° 
As  the  fair  first-born  messengers  of  hea 
ven, 
To  whom  the  care  of  stars  and  suns  is 

given, 
When   the   last   circuit   of   their   winding 

spheres 
Hath  finish'd  time  and  mark'd  their  sum 

of  years, 

From  all  the  bounds  of  space    (their  la 
bours  done) 
Shall  wing  their  triumphs  to  the  eternal 

throne ; 
Each,  from  his   far  dim  sky,  illumes  the 

road, 

1  The  Vision  resumed  and  extended  over  the 
whole  earth.  Present  character  of  different 
nations.  Future  progress  of  society  with  respect 
to  commerce,  discoveries,  the  opening  of  canals, 
philosophical,  medical  and  political  knowledge, 
the  assimilation  and  final  harmony  of  all  lan 
guages.  Cause  of  the  first  confusion  of  tongues 
explained,  and  the  effect  of  their  union  described. 
View  of  a  general  Council  of  all  nations  as 
sembled  to  establish  the  political  harmony  of 
mankind.  Conclusion.  (The  "Argument"  as 
supplied  by  the  Author.)  The  Conclusion  is 
here  quoted. 


And  sails  and  centres  tow'rd  the  mount 
of  God ; 

There,  in  mid  heaven,  their  honour'd 
seats  to  spread, 

And  ope  the  untarnish'd  volumes  of  the 
dead :  3° 

So,  from  all  climes  of  earth,  where  na 
tions  rise, 

Or  lands  or  oceans  bound  the  incumbent 
skies, 

Wing'd  with  unwonted  speed,  the  gather 
ing  throng 

In  ships  and  chariots,  shape  their  course 
along ; 

Till,  wide  o'er  earth  and  sea,  they  win 
their  way, 

Where  the  bold  structure  flames  against 
the  day; 

There,  hail  the  splendid  seat  by  Heaven 
assign'd, 

To  hear  and  give  the  counsels  of  man 
kind. 

Now  the  dread  concourse,  in  the  ample 
dome, 

Pour  thro'  the  arches  and  their  seats  as 
sume  ;  40 

Far  as  the  extended  eye  can  range  around, 

Or  the  deep  trumpet's  solemn  voice  re 
sound, 

Long  rows  of  reverend  sires,  sublime, 
extend, 

And  cares  of  worlds  on  every  brow 
suspend. 

High  in  the  front,  for  manlier  virtues 
known, 

A  sire  elect,  in  peerless  grandeur,  shone; 

And  rising  oped  the  universal  cause, 

To  give  each  realm  its  limit  and  its  laws; 

Bid  the  last  breath  of  dire  contention 
cease, 

And  bind  all  regions  in  the  leagues  of 
peace,  s° 

Bid  one  great  empire,  with  extensive 
sway, 

Spread  with  the  sun  and  bound  the  walks 
of  day, 

One  centred  system,  one  all-ruling  soul, 

Live    thro'    the    parts,    and    regulate   the 

I        whole. 
Here,    said   the   Angel   with   a   blissful 

smile, 

Behold  the  fruits  of  thy  unwearied  toil. 
To  yon  far  regions  of  descending  day. 
Thy  swelling  pinions  led  the  untrodden 

way, 
And  taught   mankind  adventurous   deeds 

to  dare, 
To  trace  new  seas  and  peaceful  empires 

rear ;  60 


130 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Hence,  round  the  globe,  their  rival  sails, 

unfurl'd, 
Have  waved,   at  last,  in   union   o'er  the 

world. 

Let  thy  delighted  soul  no  more  complain, 
Of  dangers  braved  and  griefs  endured  in 

vain, 

Of  courts  insidious,  envy's  poison'd  stings, 
The   loss   of   empire   and   the    frown   of 

kings ; 
While    these    bright    scenes    thy    glowing 

thoughts  compose, 

To  spurn  the  vengeance  of  insulting  foes; 
And  all  the  joys,  descending  ages  gain, 
Repay  thy  labours  and  remove  thy  pain.  7° 

1787. 


THE  HASTY  PUDDING 
CANTO  I 

Ye  Alps  audacious,  through  the  heavens 

that  rise, 
To  cramp  the  day  and  hide  me   from 

the  skies ; 
Ye   Gallic   flags,   that   o'er   their   heights 

unfurled, 
Bear  death  to  kings,  and  freedom  to  the 

world, 

I  sing  not  you.     A  softer  theme  I  choose, 
A  virgin  theme,  unconscious  of  the  Muse, 
But  fruitful,  rich,  well  suited  to  inspire 
The  purest  frenzy  of  poetic  fire. 

Despise  it  not,  ye  bards  to  terror  steel'd, 
Who  hurl  your  thunders  round  the  epic 

field ;     '  10 

Nor  ye  who  strain  your  midnight  throats 

to  sing 
Joys  that  the  vineyard  and  the  still-house 

bring ; 

Or  on  some  distant  fair  your  notes  em 
ploy, 

And  speak  of  raptures  that  you  ne'er  en 
joy. 
I   sing  the  sweets  I  know,  the  charms  I 

feel, 
My    morning    incense,    and    my    evening 

meal. 
The    sweets    of    Hasty    Pudding.     Come, 

dear  bowl, 

Glide  o'er  my  palate,  and  inspire  my  soul. 
The  milk  beside  thee,  smoking  from  the 

kine, 
Its    substance    mingle,    married    in    with 

thine,  2° 

Shall  cool  and  temper  thy  superior  heat, 
And  save  the  pains  of  blowing  while  I  eat. 


Oh!  could  the  smooth,  the  emblematic 

song 
Flow    like    thy    genial    juices    o'er    my 

tongue, 
Could  those  mild  morsels  in  my  numbers 

chime, 
And,   as   they   roll    in   substance,    roll   in 

rhyme, 

No  more  thy  awkward  unpoetic  name 
Should  shun  the  muse,  or  prejudice  thy 

fame; 

But  rising  grateful  to  the  accustom' d  ear, 
All  bards  should  catch  it,  and  all  realms 

revere !  30 

Assist  me  first  with  pious  toil  to  trace 
Through  wrecks  of  time,  thy  lineage  and 

thy  race; 
Declare   what   lovely   squaw,   in   days   of 

yore, 
(Ere  great   Columbus  sought  thy  native 

shore) 
First  gave  thee  to  the  world;  her  works 

of  fame 
Have   lived    indeed,   but   lived   without   a 

name. 

Some  tawny  Ceres,  goddess  of  her  days, 
First  learn' d  with  stones  to  crack  the  well 

dried  maize, 
Through    the    rough    sieve    to    shake   the 

golden  shower, 

In  boiling  water  stir  the  yellow  flour :  4° 
The  yellow  flour,  bestrew'd  and  stirr'd 

with  haste, 

Swells  in  the  flood  and  thickens  to  a  paste, 
Then  puffs  and  wallops,  rises  to  the  brim, 
Drinks  the  dry  knobs  that  on  the  surface 

swim; 

The  knobs  at  last  the  busy  ladle  breaks, 
And  the  whole  mass  its  true  consistence 

takes. 
Could  but  her  sacred  name,   unknown 

so  long, 

Rise,  like  her  labors,  to  the  son  of  song, 
To  her,  to  them,  I'd  consecrate  my  lays, 
And  blow  her  pudding  with  the  breath  of 

praise.  s° 

If  'twas  Oella  whom  I  sang  before 
I  here  ascribe  her  one  great  virtue  more. 
Not    through    the    rich    Peruvian    realms 

alone 
The  fame  of  Sol's  sweet  daughter  should 

be  known, 
But  o'er   the  world's   wide   clime   should 

live  secure, 
Far  as  his  rays  extend,  as  long  as  they 

endure. 
Dear  Hasty  Pudding,  what  unpromised 

joy 
Expands  my  heart,  to  meet  thee  in  Savoy ! 


JOEL   BARLOW 


131 


Doom'd  o'er  the  world  through  devious 

paths  to  roam, 
Each  clime  my  country,  and  each  house 

my  home,  6° 

My  soul  is  soothed,  my  cares  have  found 

an  end, 

I  greet  my  long  lost,  unforgotten  friend. 
For  thee  through  Paris,  that  corrupted 

town, 
How   long   in   vain   I   wandered   up   and 

down, 
Where     shameless     Bacchus,     with     his 

drenching  hoard, 
Cold   from  his  cave  usurps  the  morning 

board. 

London  is  lost  in  smoke  and  steep'd  in  tea ; 
No  Yankee  there  can  lisp  the  name  of 

thee; 

?The  uncouth  word,  a  libel  on  the  town, 
Would    call    a    proclamation     from    the 

crown.  70 

From  climes  oblique,  that  fear  the  sun's 

full  rays, 
Chill'd  in  their  fogs,  exclude  the  generous 

maize : 
A   grain,    whose   rich,    luxuriant   growth 

requires 
Short  gentle  showers,  and  bright  ethereal 

fires. 

But  here,  though  distant  from  our  na 
tive  shore, 
With    mutual   glee,   we   meet   and    laugh 

once  more, 
The  same !    I  know  thee  by  that  yellow 

face, 
That   strong  complexion   of   true    Indian 

trace, 
Which   time   can   never   change,   nor   soil 

impair, 
Nor  Alpine  snows,  nor  Turkey's  morbid 

air;  8° 

For   endless    years,    through    every    mild 

domain, 
Where  grows  the   maize,  there  thou  art 

sure  to  reign. 
But  man,  more  fickle,  the  bold  license 

claims, 
In  different  realms  to  give  thee  different 

names. 
Thee   the   soft   nations   round   the   warm 

Levant 

Polenta  call,  the  French  of  course  Polente. 
E'en  in  thy  native  regions,  how  I  blush 
To    hear    the    Pennsylvanians    call    thee 

Mush ! 
On  Hudson's  banks,  while  men  of  Belgic 

spawn 

Insult  and   eat  thee  by  the  name  Sup- 
pawn.  9° 


All  spurious  appellations,  void  of  truth; 
I've  better  known  thee  from  my  earliest 

youth, 

Thy  name  is  Hasty  Pudding!  thus  my  sire 
Was  wont  to  greet  thee  fuming  from  his 

fire; 

And  while  he  argued  in  thy  just  defence 
With   logic   clear   he   thus   explain'd   the 

sense : — 
"In   haste  the   boiling  cauldron   o'er  the 

blaze, 
Receives   and  cooks   the   ready  powder'd 

maize; 
In   haste  'tis   served,   and   then   in   equal 

haste, 
With   cooling   milk,   we   make   the   sweet 

repast.  I0° 

No  carving  to  be  done,  no  knife  to  grate 
The    tender    ear,    and    wound    the    stony 

plate ; 

But  the  smooth  spoon,  just  fitted  to  the  lip, 
And  taught  with  art  the  yielding  mass  to 

dip, 
By    frequent   journeys   to   the   bowl   well 

stored, 

Perform  the  hasty  honors  of  the  board." 
Such  is  thy  name,  significant  and  clear, 
A  name,  a  sound  to  every  Yankee  dear, 
But  most  to  me,  whose  heart  and  palate 

chaste 

Preserve  my  pure  hereditary  taste.         110 
There   are   who   strive   to   stamp   with 

disrepute 
The  luscious   food,  because   it   feeds  the 

brute ; 
In    tropes    of    high-strain'd    wit,    while 

gaudy  prigs 
Compare  thy  nursling,  man,  to  pamper'd 

pigs; 
With  sovereign  scorn  I  treat  the  vulgar 

jest, 
Nor  fear  to  share  thy  bounties  with  the 

beast. 
What  though  the  generous  cow  gives  me 

to  quaff 

The  milk  nutritious:  am  I  then  a  calf? 
Or  can  the  genius  of  the  noisy  swine, 
Though  nursed  on  pudding,  claim  a  kin 

to  mine?  120 

Sure   the   sweet   song,   I    fashion   to   thy 

praise, 
Runs  more  melodious  than  the  notes  they 

raise. 

My  song  resounding  in  its  grateful  glee, 
No  merit  claims :  I  praise  myself  in  thee. 
My  father  loved  thee  through  his  length 

of  days ! 
For  thee  his  fields  were  shaded  o'er  with 

maize ; 


132 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


From   thee   what   health,   what   vigor   he 

possess'd, 

Ten  sturdy  freemen  from  his  loins  attest; 
Thy  constellation  ruled  my  natal  morn, 
And  all  my  bones  were  made  of  Indian 

corn.  '3° 

Delicious  grain !  whatever  form  it  take, 
To  roast  or  boil,  to  smother  or  to  bake, 
In  every  dish  'tis  welcome  still  to  me, 
But   most,    my   Hasty   Pudding,   most   in 

thee. 

Let  the  green  succotash  with  thee  con 
tend, 
Let  beans  and  corn  their  sweetest  juices 

blend, 

Let  butter  drench  them  in  its  yellow  tide, 
And   a   long   slice    of    bacon   grace   their 

side; 

Not  all  the  plate,  how  famed  soe'er  it  be, 
Can    please    my    palate    like    a    bowl    of 

thee. 
Some  talk  of  Hoc-Cake,   fair   Virginia's 

pride,  '4i 

Rich  Johnny-Cake,  this  mouth  has  often 

tried ; 
Both  please  me  well,  their  virtues  much 

the  same, 

Alike  their  fabric,  as  allied  their  fame, 
Except  in  dear  New  England,  where  the 

last 

Receives  a  dash  of  pumpkin  in  the  paste, 
To    give    it    sweetness    and    improve    the 

taste. 
But  place  them   all   before   me,    smoking 

hot, 
The   big,    round    dumpling,    rolling    from 

the  pot, 
The  pudding  of  the  bag,  whose  quivering 

breast,  J5° 

With  suet  lined,  leads  on  the  Yankee  feast, 
The  Charlotte  brown,  within  whose  crusty 

sides 

A  belly  soft  the  pulpy  apple  hides; 
The  yellow  bread  whose  face  like  amber 

glows, 
And    all    of    Indian    that    the    bake-pan 

knows, — 
You    tempt    me   not — my    fav'rite    greets 

my  eyes, 
To  that  loved  bowl  my  spoon  by  instinct 

flies. 

CANTO  II 

To   mix  the    food   by  vicious   rules   of 

art, 

To    kill    the    stomach,    and    to    sink    the 
heart 


To  make  mankind  to  social  virtue  sour,  l6° 

Cram  o'er   each   dish,  and  be  what  they 
devour;. 

For  this  the  kitchen  muse  first  fram'd  her 
book, 

Commanding  sweats  to  stream  from  every 
cook; 

Children    no    more    their    antic    gambols 
tried, 

And  friends  to  physic  wonder'd  why  they 

died. 
Not  so  the  Yankee — his  abundant  feast, 

With    simples    furnish'd   and   with   plain 
ness  drest, 

A  numerous  offspring  gathers  round  the 
board, 

And  cheers  alike  the  servant  and  the  lord ; 

Whose   well-bought   hunger    prompts   the 
joyous  taste  J7° 

And  health  attends  them  from  the  short 

repast. 

While  the   full  pail  rewards  the  milk 
maid's  toil, 

The  mother  sees  the  morning  caldron  boil ; 

To  stir  the  pudding  next  demands  their 
care  ; 

To  spread  the  table  and  the  bowls  pre 
pare; 

To   feed  the  household  as  their  portions 
cool 

And  send  them  all  to  labor  or  to  school. 
Yet  may  the  simplest  dish  some  rules 
impart, 

For  nature  scorns  not  all  the  aids  of  art. 

E'en  Hasty  Pudding,  purest  of  all  food,  l8° 

May  still  be  bad,  indifferent,  or  goo'l, 

As    sage    experience    the    short    process 
guides, 

Or  want  of  skill,  or  want  of  care  presides. 

Whoe'er  would  form  it  on  the  surest  plan, 

To  rear   the   child   and   long    sustain   the 
man; 

To  shield  the  morals  while  it  mends  the 
size, 

And  all  the  powers  of  every  food  supplies, 

Attend    the    lesson    that    the    muse    shall 
bring, 

Suspend  your  spoons,  and  listen  while  I 

sing. 

But  since,  O  man !  thy  life  and  health 
demand  '9° 

Not  food  alone  but  labor  from  thy  hand, 

First  in  the  field,  beneath  the  sun's  strong 
rays, 

Ask    of    thy    mother    earth    the    needful 
maize ; 

She  loves  the  race  that  courts  her  yield 
ing  soil, 

And  gives  her  bounties  to  the  sons  of  toil. 


JOEL   BARLOW 


133 


When  now  the  ox,  obedient  to  thy  call, 

Repays  the  loan  that  fill'd  the  winter  stall, 

Pursue  his  traces  o'er  the  furrow'd  plain, 

And   plant   in    measur'd   hills    the  golden 
grain. 

But    when    the    tender    germ    begins    to 
shoot,  2°° 

And  the  green  spire  declares  the  sprout 
ing  root, 

Then    guard    your    nursling    from    each 
greedy  foe, 

The    insidious    worm,    the    all-devouring 
crow. 

A  little  ashes,  sprinkled  round  the  spire, 

Soon  steep'd  in  rain,  will  bid  the  worm 
retire ; 

The  feather' d  robber  with  his  hungry  maw 

Swift  flies  the  field  before  your  man  of 
straw, 

A    frightful    image,    such    as    school-boys 
bring, 

When  met  to  burn  the  pope  or  hang  the 

king. 

Thrice  in  the  season,  through  each  ver 
dant  row 

Wield    the    strong    ploughshare    and    the 
faithful  hoe: 

The  faithful  hoe,  a  double  task  that  takes, 

To  till  the   summer  corn,  and  roast  the 

winter  cakes. 

Slow   springs   the  blade,   while  check'd 
by  chilling  rains, 

Ere  yet  the  sun  the  seat  of  Cancer  gains; 

But  when  his  fiercest  fires  emblaze  the  land, 

Then  start  the  juices,  then  the  roots  ex 
pand  ; 

Then,  like  a  column  of  Corinthian  mould, 

The   stalk  struts  upward  and  the  leaves 
unfold ; 

The  busy  branches  all  the  ridges  fill,      22° 

Entwine   their   arms,   and   kiss    from  hill 
to  hill. 

Here  cease  to  vex  them,  all  your  cares 
are  done : 

Leave  the  last  labors  to  the  parent  sun; 

Beneath  his  genial  smiles,  the  well-drest 
field, 

When  autumn  calls,  a  plenteous  crop  shall 

yield. 

Now  the  strong  foliage  bears  the  stand 
ards  high, 

And  shoots  the  tall  top-gallants  to  the  sky ; 

The  suckling  ears  their  silky  fringes  bend, 

And  pregnant  grown,  their  swelling  coats 
distend; 

The  loaded  stalk,  while  still  the  burthen 
grows,  23° 

O'erhangs  the  space  that  runs  between  the 
rows; 


High    as    a    hop-field    waves    the    silent 

grove, 

A  safe  retreat  for  little  thefts  of  love, 
When    the    pledged    roasting-ears    invite 

the  maid, 
To    meet    her    swain    beneath    the    new- 

form'd  shade ; 
His  generous  hand  unloads  the  cumbrous 

hill, 
And   the   green   spoils   her   ready  basket 

bill; 

Small  compensation  for  the  twofold  bliss, 
The   promised  wedding,   and  the  present 

kiss. 
Slight  depredations  these;  but  now  the 

moon  240 

Calls  from  his  hallow  tree  the  sly  racoon; 
And   while   by   night   he   bears   his   prize 

away, 
The   bolder   squirrel   labors   through   the 

day. 

Both  thieves  alike,  but  provident  of  time, 
A    virtue    rare,    that    almost    hides    their 

crime. 
Then  let  them  steal  the  little  stores  they 

can, 
And  fill  their  gran'ries  from  the  toils  of 

man; 
We've  one  advantage,  where  they  take  no 

part, — 
With  all  their  wiles  they  ne'er  have  found 

the  art 
To    boil    the    Hasty    Pudding;    here    we 

shine  25« 

Superior  far  to  tenants  of  the  pine; 
This  envied  boon  to  man  shall  still  belong, 
Unshared    by    them,    in    substance    or    in 

song. 
At  last  the  closing  season  browns  the 

plain, 

And  ripe  October  gathers  in  the  grain ; 
Deep  loaded  carts  the  spacious  corn-house 

fill. 

The  sack  distended  marches  to  the  mill; 
The  lab'ring  mill  beneath   the  burthen 

groans 
And  showers  the  future  pudding  from 

the  stones  ; 
Till  the  glad  housewife  greets  the  pow- 

der'd  gold,  26° 

And  the  new  crop  exterminates  the  old. 
Ah,  who  can  sing  what  every  wight  must 

feel, 

The  joy  that  enters  with  the  bag  of  meal, 
A  general  jubilee  pervades  the  house, 
Wakes    every   child   and   gladdens    every 


134 


AMERICAN 
p 


CANTO  III 


The  days  grow  short;  but  though  the 
falling  sun 

To    the   glad    swain    proclaims    his    day's 
work  done, 

Night's  pleasing  shades  his  various  tasks 
prolong, 

And   yield    new    subjects    to    my    various 
song. 

For  now,  the  corn-house  fill'd,  the  harvest 
home,  27o 

The    invited    neighbors    to    the    husking 
come; 

A   frolic  scene,   where  work,   and   mirth, 
and  play, 

Unite   their    charms    to    chase   the    hours 

away. 

Where  the  huge  heap  lies  centred  in  the 
hall, 

The   lamp   suspended    from   the   cheerful 
wall, 

Brown  corn-fed  nymphs,  and  strong  hard- 
handed  beaux, 

Alternate  ranged,  extend  in  circling  rows, 

Assume  their  seats,  the  solid  mass  attack; 

The  dry  husks  rustle,  and  the  corn-cobs 
crack ; 

The  song,  the  laugh,  alternate  notes  re 
sound,  28° 

And  the  sweet  cider  trips  in  silence  round. 
The  laws  of  husking  every  wight  can 
tell; 

And  sure  no  laws  he  ever  keeps  so  well : 

For  each  red  ear  a  general  kiss  he  gains, 

With  each  smut  ear  he  smuts  the  luckless 
swains ; 

But  when  to  some  sweet  maid  a  prize  is 
cast, 

Red  as  her  lips,  and  taper  as  her  waist, 

She  walks  the  round,  and  culls  one   fa 
vored  beau, 

Who  leaps,  the  luscious  tribute  to  bestow. 

Various   the   sport,  as   are  the  wits   and 
brains  29° 

Of    well-pleased    lassies    and    contending 
swains ; 

Till  the  vast  mound  of  corn  is  swept  away, 

And  he  that  gets  the   last  ear  wins  the 

day. 

Meanwhile  the  housewife  urges  all  her 
care, 

The  well-earn'd  feast  to  hasten  and  pre 
pare. 

The  sifted  meal  already  waits  her  hand, 

The  milk  is  strained,  the  bowls  in  order 
stand, 


POETRY 

The  fire  flames  high ;  and,  as  a  pool  (that 

takes 
The  headlong  stream  that  o'er  the  mill- 

•  dam  breaks) 
Foams,   roars,   and   rages   with   incessant 

toils,  3°o 

So   the   vex'd   caldron    rages,   roars    and 

boils. 
First  with  clean  salt,  she  seasons  well 

the   food, 
Then   strews   the  flour,   and  thickens   all 

the  flood, 
Long  o'er  the  simmering  fire  she  lets  it 

stand; 

To  stir  it  well  demands  a  stronger  hand ; 
The  husband  takes   his  turn :   and  round 

and  round 

The  ladle  flies ;  at  last  the  toil  is  crown'd ; 
When  to  the  board  the  thronging  huskers 

pour, ' 

And  take  their  seats  as  at  the  corn  before. 
I  leave  them  to  their  feast.    There  still 

belong  310 

More  useful  matters  to  my  faithful  song. 
For  rules  there  are,  though  ne'er  unfolded 

yet, 
Nice  rules  and  wise,  how  pudding  should 

be  ate. 
Some  with  molasses  grace  the  luscious 

treat, 
And  mix,  like  bards,  the  useful  and  the 

sweet, 
A   wholesome    dish,    and   well    deserving 

praise, 
A  great   resource   in  those   bleak  wintry 

days, 
When  the   chill'd   earth  lies   buried   deep 

in  snow, 
And    raging   Boreas    dries   the    shivering 

cow. 
Blest    cow !    thy    praise    shall    still    my 

notes  employ,  320 

Great  source  of  health,  the  only  source  of 

joy; 

Mother  of  Egypt's  god, — but  sure,  for  me, 
Were    I    to    leave   my    God,    I'd    worship 

thee. 
How  oft  thy  teats  these  pious  hands  have 

press'd ! 
How    oft    thy    bounties    prove    my    only 

feast ! 
How  oft  I've  fed  thee  with  my  favourite 

grain ! 
And  roar'd,  like  thee,  to  see  thy  children 

slain ! 
Ye  swains  who  know  her  various  worth 

to  prize, 
Ah !  house  her  well  from  winter's  angry 

skies. 


JOEL   BARLOW 


135 


Potatoes,   pumpkins,   should   her   sadness 

cheer,  33° 

Corn  from  your  crib,  and  mashes   from 

your  beer; 
When  spring  returns,  she'll  well  acquit  the 

loan, 
And  nurse  at  once  your  infants  and  her 

own. 

Milk   then    with    pudding   I    should   al 
ways  choose ; 

To  this  in  future  I  confine  my  muse. 
Will    she    in    haste    some    further    hints 

unfold, 
Good   for  the  young,  nor  useless  to  the 

old. 

First  in  your  bowl  the  milk  abundant  take, 
Then  drop  with  care  along  the  silver  lake 
Your  flakes  of  pudding;  these  at  first  will 

hide  34» 

Their    little    bulk    beneath    the    swelling 

tide; 
But  when   their  growing  mass  no  more 

can  sink, 
When   the   soft   island   looms   above   the 

brink, 
Then  check   your  hand;   you've  got  the 

portion  due, 
So  taught  my  sire,  and  what  he  taught  is 

true. 
There  is  a  choice  in  spoons.     Though 

small  appear 

The  nice  distinction,  yet  to  me  'tis  clear. 
The  deep  bowl'd  Gallic  spoon,  contrived 

to   scoop 

In  ample  draughts  the  thin  diluted  soup, 
Performs  not  well  in  those  substantial 

things,  350 


Those  mass  adhesive  to  the  metal  clings; 
Where  the  strong  labial  muscles  must  em 
brace, 
The  gentle  curve,  and  sweep  the  hollow 

space. 
With    ease    to    enter    and    discharge    the 

freight, 

A  bowl  less  concave,  but  still  more  dilate, 
Becomes  the  pudding  best.     The   shape, 

the  size, 

A  secret  rests,  unknown  to  vulgar  eyes. 
Experienced  feeders  can  alone  impart 
A  rule  so  much  above  the  lore  of  art. 
These  tuneful  lips  that  thousand  spoons 
have  tried,  360 

With   just  precision   could  the  point   de 
cide. 
Though  not  in  song  the  muse  but  poorly 

shines 

In  cones,  and  cubes,  and  geometric  lines; 
Yet  the  true   form,   as   near  as   she  can 

tell, 

Is  that  small  section  of  a  goose  egg  shell, 
Which  in  two  equal  portions  shall  divide 
The  distance  from  the  centre  to  the  side. 
Fear  not  to  slaver ;  'tis  no  deadly  sin : — 
Like  the  free  Frenchman,  from  your  joy 
ous  chin 

Suspend  the  ready  napkin ;  or  like  me, 
Poise  with  one  hand  your  bowl  upon  your 
knee ;  371 

Just  in  the  zenith  your  wise  head  project, 
Your  full  spoon,  rising  in  a  line  direct, 
Bold  as  a  bucket,  heed  no  drops  that  fall, 
The  wide-mouth'd  bowl  will  surely  catch 
them  all! 


JOSEPH    RODMAN    DRAKE 
(1795-1820) 


(The  text  is  taken  from  "The  Culprit  Fay  and 
Other  Poems,"  New  York,  1836.) 

THE   AMERICAN    FLAG 


When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 
And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there. 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white, 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light; 
Then   from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  called  her  eagle  bearer  down,  I0 

And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand, 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 


Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud, 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest  trumpings  loud 

And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 
When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 

And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven, 
Child  of  the  sun !  to  thee  'tis  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free,      2° 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle  stroke, 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory ! 

in 
Flag  of  the  brave!  thy  folds  shall  fly, 

The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 

And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on. 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet,    3<> 

Has  dimm'd  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 

To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn ; 
And  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 

Catch    war    and    vengeance    from    the 

glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 

Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle  shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall ; 

Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow,   4° 


And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  beneath 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

IV 

Flag  of  the  seas !  on  ocean  wave 

Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 

Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 

Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea  so 

Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  ^smile  to  see  thy  splendours  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 


Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home ! 

By  angel  hands  to  valour  given ; 
The  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
For  ever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before 

us, 

With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet     6° 
And   Freedom's   banner  streaming  o'er 
us? 

The  New  York  Evening  Post,  May 
29,  1819. 

TO   A   FRIEND 

"You  damn  me  with  faint  praise." 
I 

Yes,    faint  was   my   applause  and  cold 
my  praise, 

Though  soul  was  glowing  in  each  pol 
ished  line; 

But  nobler  subjects  claim  the  poet's  lays, 

A  brighter  glory  waits  a  muse  like  thine. 

Let  amorous    fools   in   love-sick   meas 
ure  pine; 

Let  Strangford  whimpei*  on,  in  fancied 
pain, 

And  leave  to  Moore  his  rose  leaves  and 
his  vine; 

Be   thine  the  task  a  higher   crown  to 

gain, 

The  envied  wreath  that  decks  the  patriot's 
holy  strain.  9 


136 


JOSEPH    RODMAN    DRAKE 


137 


Yet  not  in  proud  triumphal  song  alone, 
Or  martial  ode,  or  sad  sepulchral  dirge, 
There  needs  no  voice  to  make  our 

glories  known; 
There  needs  no  voice  the  warrior's  soul 

to  urge 
To  tread  the  bounds  of  nature's  stormy 

verge ; 
Columbia    still    shall    win    the    battle's 

prize, 

But  be  it  thine  to  bid  her  mind  emerge 

To  strike  her  harp,  until  its  soul  arise 

From  the  neglected  shade,  where  low  in 

dust  it  lies. 


Are  there  no  scenes  to  touch  the  poet's 

soul? 
No  deeds  of  arms  to  wake  the  lordly 

strain?  2° 

Shall  Hudson's  billows  unregarded  roll? 
Has  Warren  fought,  Montgomery  died 

in  vain? 
Shame !     that     while     every     mountain 

stream  and  plain 
Hath  theme  for  truth's  proud  voice  or 

fancy's  wand, 
No  native  bard  the  patriot  harp  hath 

ta'en, 

But  left  to  minstrels  of  a  foreign  strand 
To  sing  the  beauteous  scenes  of  nature's 

loveliest  land. 

rv 

Oh !   for  a  seat  on  Appalachia's  brow, 
That  I  might  scan  the  glorious  prospect 

round, 
Wild  waving  woods,  and  rolling  floods 

below,  3<> 

Smooth    level    glades    and    fields    with 

grain  embrqwn'd, 
High  heaving  hills,  with  tufted  forests 

crown'd, 
Rearing  their  tall  tops  to  the  heaven's 

blue  dome, 
And  emerald  isles,  like  banners  green 

unwound, 
Floating   along    the    lake,    while    round 

them  roam 
Bright  helms  of  billowy  blue  and  plumes 

of  dancing  foam. 


Beneath  the  kelpie's   fang  no  traveller 

bleeds, 

Nor  gory  vampyre  taints  our  holy  earth, 
Nor  spectres  stalk  to  frighten  harmless 

mirth, 
Nor  tortured  demon  howls  adown  the 

gale; 
Fair   reason   checks   these   monsters    in 

their  birth. 

Yet  have  we  lay  of  love  and  horrid  tale 
Would   dim   the   manliest   eye   and   make 

the  bravest  pale. 

VI 

Where  is  the  stony  eye  that  hath  not 

shed 
Compassion's  heart-drops  o'er  the  sweet 

McRea? 
Through    midnight's    wilds    by    savage 

bandits  led, 
"Her    heart    is    sad — her    love    is    far 

away !" 

Elate    that    lover    waits    the    promised 

•    day  so 

When  he  shall  clasp  his  blooming  bride 

again — 

Shine  on,  sweet  visions !  dreams  of  rap 
ture,   play ! 
Soon   the   cold  corse   of  her  he  loved 

in  vain 
Shall  blight  his  withered  heart  and  fire 

his    frenzied  brain. 

VII 

Romantic    Wyoming!    could    none    be 

found 
Of    all    that    rove    thy    Eden    groves 

among, 
To    wake    a    native    harp's    untutored 

sound, 
And  give  thy  tale  of  wo  the  voice  of 

song? 
Oh !  if  description's  cold  and  nerveless 

tongue 
From    stranger    harps    such    hallowed 

strains  could  call,  6° 

How  doubly  sweet  the  descant  wild  had 

rung, 
From    one    who,    lingering    round    thy 

ruined  wau\ 
Had   plucked   thy   mourning  flowers  and 

wept  thy  timeless  fall. 


'Tis  true  no  fairies  haunt  our  verdant 

meads, 
No  grinning  imps  deform  our  blazing 

hearth ; 


The  Huron  chief  escaped  from  foemen 

nigh, 
His    frail  bark   launches   on   Niagara's 

tides, 


138 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


"Pride  in  his  port,  defiance  in  his  eye," 
Singing  his  song  of  death  the  warrior 

glides ; 

In  vain  they  yell  along  the  river  sides, 
In  vain  the  arrow  from  its  sheaf  is  torn, 
Calm  to  his  doom  the  willing  victim 

rides,  7° 

And,    till    adown    the    roaring    torrent 

borne, 
Mocks    them    with    gesture    proud,    and 

laughs  their  rage  to  scorn. 

IX 

But  if  the  charms  of  daisied  hill  and 

vale, 
And   rolling  flood,   and   towering  rock 

sublime, 

If  warrior  deed  or  peasant's  lowly  tale 
Of  love  or  wo  should  fail  to  wake  the 

rhyme, 
If  to  the  wildest  heights  of  song  you 

climb, 
(Tho'  some  who  know  you  less,  might 

cry,   beware ! ) 

Onward !  I  say — your  strains  shall  con 
quer  time; 
Give  your  bright  genius  wing,  and  hope 

to  share  8° 

Imagination's  worlds — the  ocean,  earth, 

and  air. 


Arouse,  my  friend — let  vivid  fancy  soar, 
Look  with  creative  eye  on  nature's  face, 
Bid  airy  sprites  in  wild  Niagara  roar, 
And  view  in  every  field  a  fairy  race. 
Spur  thy  good  Pacolet  to  speed  apace, 
And  spread  a  train  of  nymphs  on  every 

shore ; 
Or   if   thy   muse   would   woo    a   ruder 

grace, 

The  Indian's  evil  Manitou's  explore, 
And  rear  the  wondrous  tale  of  legendary 

lore.  9° 

XI 

Away !     to     Susquehannah's     utmost 
springs, 

Where,  throned  in  mountain  mist,  Are- 
ouski   reigns, 

Shrouding  in  lurid  clouds  his  plumeless 
wings, 

And  sternly  sorrowing  o'er  his  tribes  re 
mains  ; 

His    was    the    arm,   like    comet'   ere   it 
wanes 

That  tore  the  streamy  lightnings  from 
the  skies, 


And  smote  the  mammoth  of  the  south 
ern  plains; 

Wild  with  dismay  the  Creek  affrighted 

flies, 

While     in     triumphant     pride     Kanawa's 
eagles  rise. 

XII 

Or   westward    far,   where    dark   Miami 
wends,  «» 

Seek    that    fair    spot    as    yet    to    fame 
unknown ; 

Where,  when  the  vesper  dew  of  heaven 
descends, 

Soft  music  breathes  in  many  a  melting 
tone, 

At  times   so   sadly  sweet   it   seems  the 
moan 

Of  some   poor   Ariel   penanced   in   the 
rock; 

Anon    a    louder    burst — a    scream!    a 
groan ! 

And   now    amid    the    tempest's    reeling 

shock, 

Gibber,  and  shriek,  and  wail — and  fiend- 
like  laugh  and  mock. 


Or  climb  the  Pallisado's  lofty  brows, 

Where  dark  Omana  waged  the  war  of 
hell,  no 

Till,  waked  to  wrath,  the  mighty  spirit 
rose 

And   pent  the    demons   in   their  prison 
cell; 

Full  on  their  head  the  uprooted  moun 
tain   fell, 

Enclosing  all  within  its  horrid  womb 

Straight    from    the    teeming    earth    the 
waters   swell, 

And   pillared   rocks   arise   in   cheerless 

gloom 

Around  the  drear  abode — their  last  eter 
nal  tomb ! 

XIV 

Be  these  your  future  themes — no  more 

resign 
The   soul  of  song  to  laud  your  lady's 

eyes; 
Go !    kneel    a    worshipper    at    nature's 

shrine !  120 

For  you  her  fields  are  green,  and  fair 

her  skies ! 

For  you  her  rivers  flow,  her  hills  arise ! 
And  will  you  scorn  them  all,  to  pour 

forth  tame 
And  heartless  lays  of  feigned  or  fancied  . 

sighs? 


JOSEPH    RODMAN    DRAKE 


139 


Still  will  you  cloud  the  muse?  nor  blush 

for  shame 

To  cast  away  renown,  and  hide  your  head 
from  fame? 

In  "Culprit  Fay,  etc.,"  1836. 


THE  CULPRIT   FAY 

"My  visual  orbs  are   purged   from  film,  and   lo! 

Instead    of    Anster  s    turnip-bearing   vales 
I   see  old   fairy  land's  miraculous  show! 

Her  trees   of  tinsel  kissed  by   freakish  gales, 
Her  Ouphs  that,  cloaked  in  leaf-gold,  skim  the 

breeze, 
And    fairies,    swarming     .     .     ." 

TENNANT'S  Anster  Fair. 


Tis    the    middle    watch    of    a   summer's 

night — 
The  earth  is  dark,  but  the  heavens  are 

bright ; 

Nought  is  seen  in  the  vault  on  high 
But    the    moon,    and    the    stars,    and    the 

cloudless  sky, 

And  the  flood  which  rolls  its  milky  hue, 
A  river  of  light  on  the  welkin  blue. 
The  moon  looks  down  on  old  Cronest, 
She    mellows   the   shades   on   his    shaggy 

breast, 

And  seems  his  huge  gray  form  to  throw 
In  a  silver  cone  on  the  wave  below;  10 
His  sides  are  broken  by  spots  of  shade, 
By  the  walnut  bough  and  the  cedar  made, 
And  through  their  clustering  branches 

dark 

Glimmers  and  dies  the  firefly's  spark— 
Like  starry  twinkles  that  momently  break 
Through   the  rifts  of  the  gathering  tem 
pest's  rack. 


The  stars  are  on  the  moving  stream, 

And  fling,  as  its  ripples  gently  flow, 
A  burnished  length  of  wavy  beam 

In  an  eel-like,  spiral  line  below ; 
The  winds  are  whist,  and  the  owl  is  still, 

The  bat  in  the  shelvy  rock  is  hid, 
And  nought  is  heard  on  the  lonely  hill 
But  the  cricket's  chirp,  and   the  answer 
shrill 

Of  the  gauze-winged  katy-did; 
And  the  plaint  of  the  wailing  whip-poor- 
will, 

Who  moans  unseen,  and  ceaseless  sings, 
Ever  a  note  of  wail  and  wo, 

Till  morning  spreads  her  rosy  wings, 
And  earth  and  sky  in  her  glances  glow. 


in 

'Tis  the  hour  of  fairy  ban  and  spell:  3» 
The  wood-tick  has  kept  the  minutes  well ; 
He  has  counted  them  all  with  click  and 

stroke, 

Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  mountain  oak, 
And  he  has  awakened  the  sentry  elve 

Who  sleeps  with  him  in  the  haunted  tree, 
To  bid  him  ring  the  hour  of  twelve, 
And  call  the  fays  to  their  revelry, 
Twelve     small    strokes    on    his    tinkling 

bell— 

('Twas  made  of  the  white  snail's  pearly 
shell ;— )  40 

"Midnight  comes,  and  all  is  well! 
Hither,  hither,  wing  your  way. 
'Tis  the  dawn  of  the  fairy  day." 

IV 

They  come  from,  beds  of  lichen  green, 
They    creep    from    the    mullen's    velvet 

screen ; 

Some  on  the  backs  of  beetles  fly 
From    the    silver   tops   of   moon-touched 

trees, 
Where    they    swung    in    their    cobweb 

hammocks  high, 

And  rock'd  about  in  the  evening  breeze; 
Some     from     the     hum-bird's     downy 
nest —  so 

They  had  driven  him  out  by  elfin  power, 
And   pillowed   on  .plumes   of  his    rain 
bow  breast, 
Had    slumbered    there    till    the    charmed 

hour  ; 

Some  had  lain  in  the  scoop  of  the  rock, 
With  glittering  ising-stars  inlaid ; 

And  some  had  opened  the  four-o'clock, 
And  stole  within  its  purple  shade. 
And   now   they   throng   the   moonlight 

glade, 
Above — below — on   every  side, 

Their  little  minim  forms  arrayed        6° 
In  the  tricksy  pomp  of  fairy  pride ! 


They  come  not  now  to  print  the  lea, 
In  freak  and  dance  around  the  tree, 
Or  at  the  mushroom  board  to  sup, 
And  drink  the  dew  from  the  buttercup ; — 
A  scene  of  sorrow  waits  them  now, 
For  an  Ouphe  has  broken  his  vestal  vow ; 
He  has  loved   an   earthly  maid, 
And  left  for  her  his  woodland  shade; 
He  has  lain  upon  her  lip  of  dew,          7° 
And  sunned  him  in  her  eye  of  blue, 
Fann'd  her  cheek  with  his  wing  of  air, 
Played  in  the  ringlets  of  her  hair, 


140 


AMERICAN   POETRY 


And,  nestling  on  her  snowy  breast, 
Forgot  the  lily-king's  behest. 
For  this  the  shadowy  tribes  of  air 

To  the  elfin  court  must  haste  away: — 
And  now  they  stand  expectant  there, 

To  hear  the  doom  of  the  Culprit  Fay. 


VI 

The  throne  was  reared  upon  the  grass    8° 
Of  spice-wood  and  of  sassafras; 
On  pillars  of  mottled  tortoise-shell 

Hung  the  burnished  canopy — 
And  o'er  it  gorgeous  curtains  fell 

Of  the  tulip's  crimson  drapery. 
The   monarch   sat  on   his   judgment-seat, 

On  his  brow  the  crown  imperial  shone, 
The  prisoner  Fay  was  at  his   feet, 

And  his  peers  were  ranged  around  the 

throne. 
He  waved  his  sceptre  in  the  air,  9° 

He  looked  around  and  calmly  spoke; 
His  brow  was  grave  and  his  eye  severe, 

But   his   voice   in   a   softened   accent 
broke : 

VII 

"Fairy !   Fairy !  list  and  mark, 

Thou  hast   broke   thine   elfin  chain, 
Thy   flame-wood   lamp   is    quenched   and 

dark, 
And  thy  wings  are  dyed  with  a  deadly 

stain — 
Thou  hast  sullied  thine  elfin  purity 

In  the  glance  of  a  mortal  maiden's  eye 
Thou  has  scorned  our  dread  decree,  _  10° 
And  thou  shouldst  pay  the  forfeit  high, 
But  well  I  know  her  sinless  mind 
Is  pure  as  the  angel  forms  above, 
Gentle  and  meek,  and  chaste  and  kind, 
Such  as  a  spirit  well  might  love; 
Fairy!   had  she  spot  or  taint, 
Bitter  had  been   thy  punishment. 
Tied  to  the  hornet's  shardy  wings; 
Tossed  on  the  pricks  of  nettles'  stings; 
Or  seven  long  ages  doomed  to  dwell      n° 
With  the  lazy  worm  in  the  walnut-shell; 
Or  every  night  to  writhe  and  bleed 
Beneath  the  tread  of  the  centipede; 
Or  bound  in  a  cobweb  dungeon  dim, 
Your  jailer  a  spider  huge  and  grim, 
Amid  the  carrion  bodies  to  lie, 
Of  the  worm,  and  the  bug,  and  the  mur 
dered  fly: 

These  it  had  been  your  lot  to  bear, 
Had  a  stain  been   found  on  the  earthly 

fair. 

Now  list,  and  mark  our  mild  decree —  I2° 
Fairy,  this  your  doom  must  be: 


VIII 

"Thou  shalt  seek  the  beach  of  sand 
Where,  the  water  bounds  the  elfin  land, 
Thou  shalt  watch  the  oozy  brine 
Till    the    sturgeon    leaps    in    the    bright 

moonshine, 

Then  dart  the  glistening  arch  below, 
And  catch  a  drop  from  his  silver  bow. 
The   water-sprites   will   wield  their   arms 

And  dash  around,  with  roar  and  rave, 
And   vain    are   the   woodland    spirits' 
charms,  J3° 

They  are  the  imps  that  rule  the  wave. 
Yet  trust  thee  in  thy  single  might, 
If  thy  heart  be  pure  and  thy  spirit  right, 
Thou  shalt  win  the  warlock  fight. 


IX 

"If  the  spray-bead  gem  be  won, 

The  stain  of  thy  wing  is  washed  away, 
But  another  errand  must  be  done 
Ere  thy  crime  be  lost  for  aye ; 
Thy   flame-wood    lamp   is   quenched   and 

dark, 

Thou  must  re-illumine  its  spark.  J4° 

Mount  thy  steed  and  spur  him  high 
To  the  heaven's  blue  canopy; 
And  when  thou  seest  a  shooting  star, 
Follow  it  fast,  and  follow  it  far — 
The  last  faint  spark  of  its  burning  train 
Shall  light   the   elfin   lamp   again. 
Thou  hast  heard  our  sentence,  Fay; 
Hence!  to  the  water-side,  away!" 


The  goblin  marked  his  monarch  well; 

He  spake  not,  but  he  bowed  him  low, 
Then  plucked  a  crimson  colen-bell,         J5i 

And  turned  him  round  in  act  to  go. 
The  way  is  long,  he  cannot  fly, 

His  soiled  wing  has   lost  its  power, 
And  he  winds  adown  the  mountain  high, 

For  many  a  sore  and  weary  hour. 
Through   dreary  beds  of  tangled   fern, 
Through  groves  of  nightshade  dark  and 

dern, 

Over  the  grass  arid  through  the  brake, 
Where  toils  the  ant  and  sleeps  the  snake ; 

Now  o'er  the  violet's  azure  flush         l61 
He  skips  along  in  lightsome  mood; 

And  now  he  thrids  the  bramble  bush, 
Till  its  points  are  dyed  in  fairy  blood. 
He  has  leapt  the  bog,  he  has  pierced  the 

briar, 

He  has  swum  the  brook,  and  waded  the 
mire, 


JOSEPH    RODMAN    DRAKE 


141 


Till  his  spirits  sank,  and  his  limbs  grew 

weak, 

And  the  red  waxed  fainter  in  his  cheek. 
He  had  fallen  to  the  ground  outright, 
For  rugged  and   dim   was  his  onward 
track,  i?o 

But  there  came  a  spotted  toad  in  sight, 
And  he  laughed  as  he  jumped  upon  her 

back; 
He  bridled  her  mouth  with  a  silk-weed 

twist; 
He    lashed    her    sides    with    an    osier 

thong ; 
And  now  through  evening's  dewy  mist, 

With  leap  and  spring  they  bound  along, 
Till  the  mountain's  magic  verge  is  past, 
And  the  beach  of  sand  is  reached  at  last. 

XI 

Soft  and  pale  is  the  moony  beam, 
Moveless  still  the  glassy  stream,  '80 

The  wave  is  clear,  the  beach  is  bright 

With  snowy  shells  and  sparkling  stones ; 
The  shore-surge  comes  in  ripples  light, 

In  murmurings  faint  and  distant  moans ; 
And  ever  afar  in  the  silence  deep 
Is    heard    the    splash    of    the    sturgeon's 

leap, 
And   the    bend   of   his   graceful   bow    is 

seen — 

A  glittering  arch  of  silver  sheen, 
Spanning  the  wave  of  burnished  blue, 
And    dripping    with    gems    of    the    river 
dew.  190 

xn 

The  elfin  cast  a  glance  around, 
As  he  lighted  down   from  his  courser 

toad, 
Then    round    his    breast    his    wings    he 

wound, 
And    close    to    the     river's     brink    he 

strode ; 
He    sprang    on    a    rock,    he    breathed    a 

prayer, 

Above  his  head  his  arms  he  threw, 
Then  tossed  a  tiny  curve  in  air, 

And  headlong  plunged  in  the  waters  blue. 


Up  sprung  the  spirits  of  the  waves,        J99 
From  sea-silk  beds  in  their  coral  caves, 
With  snail-plate  armour  snatched  in  haste. 
They  speed  their  way  through  the  liquid 

waste ; 

Some  are  rapidly  borne  along 
On    the    mailed    shrimp    or    the    prickly 

prong, 

Some  on  the  blood-red  leeches  glide, 
Some  on  the  stony  star-fish  ride, 


Some  on  the  back  of  the  lancing  squab, 
Some  on  the   sideling  soldier-crab; 
And  some  on  the  jellied  quarl,  that  flings 
At  once  a  thousand  streamy  stings —    2I° 
They  cut  the  wave  with  the  living  oar 
And  hurry  on  to  the  moonlight  shore, 
To  guard  their  realms  and  chase  away 
The  footsteps  of  the  invading  Fay. 

XIV 

Fearlessly  he  skims  along, 

His  hope  is  high,  and  his  limbs  are  strong, 

He  spreads  his  arms   like  the  swallow's 

wing, 

And  throws  his  feet  with  a  f roglike  fling ; 
His  locks  of  gold  on  the  waters  shine,        2I9 

At  his  breast  the  tiny  foam-beads  rise, 
His  back  gleams  bright  above  the  brine, 

And  the  wake-line  foam  behind  him  lies. 
But  the  water-sprites  are  gathering  near 

To  check  his  course  along  the  tide ; 
Their  warriors  come  in  swift  career 

And  hem  him  round  on  every  side ; 
On  his  thigh  the  leech  has  fixed  his  hold, 
The   quad's    long    arms    are    round    him 

roll'd, 

The  prickly  prong  has  pierced  his  skin, 
And  the  squab  has  thrown  his  javelin,   23° 
The  gritty  star  has  rubbed  him  taw, 
And  the  crab  has  struck  with  his  giant 

claw; 
He  howls  with  rage,  and  he  shrieks  with 

pain, 

He  strikes  around,  but  his  blows  are  vain ; 
Hopeless   is   the  unequal   fight, 
Fairy !  nought  is  left  but  flight. 

XV 

He  turned  him  round  and  fled  amain 
With  hurry  and  dash  to  the  beach  again ; 
He  twisted  over  from  side  to  side, 
And  laid  his  cheek  to  the  cleaving  tide.  24° 
The    strokes    of    his    plunging    arms    are 

fleet, 

And  with  all  his  might  he  flings  his  feet, 
But  the  water-sprites  are  round  him  still, 
To  cross  his  path  and  work  him  ill. 
They  bade  the  wave  before  him  rise; 
They  flung  the  sea-fire  in  his  eyes, 
And  they  stunned  his  ears  with  the  scal 
lop  stroke, 

With  the  porpoise  heave  and  the  drum- 
fish  croak. 

Oh !  but  a  weary  wight  was  he 
When  he   reached  the   foot   of  the  dog 
wood   tree ;  25° 
Gashed  and  wounded,  and  stiff  and  sore, 
He  laid  him  down  on  the  sandy  shore; 


142 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


He  blessed  the  force  of  the  charmed  line, 
And  he  banned  the  water-goblins'  spite, 

For  he  saw  around  in  the  sweet  moon 
shine, 

Their  little  wee  faces  above  the  brine, 

Giggling   and    laughing   with    all   ther 
might 

At  the  piteous  hap  of  the  Fairy  wight. 

XVI 

Soon  he  gathered  the  balsam  dew 
From  the  sorrel  leaf  and  the  henbane 
bud ;  260 

Over  each  wound  the  balm  he  drew, 
And  with  cobweb  lint  he  stanched  the 

blood. 

The  mild  west  wind  was  soft  and  low, 
It  cooled  the  heat  of  his  burning  brow, 
And  he  felt  new  life  in  his  sinews  shoot, 
As  he  drank  the  juice  of  the  cal'mus  root; 
And  now  he  treads  the  fatal  shore, 
As  fresh  and  vigorous  as  before. 

XVII 

Wrapped  in  musing  stands  the  sprite: 
'Tis  the  middle  wane  of  night,  *7° 

His  task  is  hard,  his  way  is  far, 
But  he  must  do  his  errand  right 

Ere  dawning  mounts  her  beamy  car, 
And  rolls  her  chariot  wheels  of  light; 
And  vain  are  the  spells  of  fairy-land, 
He  must  work  with  a  human  hand. 

XVIII 

He  cast  a  saddened  look  around, 

But  he  felt  new  joy  his  bosom  swell, 

When,  glittering  on  the  shadowed  ground, 

'He  saw  a  purple  muscle  shell;          ^° 

Thither  he  ran,  and  he  bent  him  low, 

He  heaved  at  the  stern  and  he  heaved  at 

the  bow, 

And  he  pushed  her  over  the  yielding  sand, 
Till  he  came  to  the  verge  of  the  haunted 

land. 
She  was  as  lovely  a  pleasure  boat 

As  ever  fairy  had  paddled  in, 
For  she  glowed  with  purple  paint  without, 

And  shone  with  silvery  pearl  within ; 
A  sculler's  notch  in  the  stern  he  made, 
An  oar  he  shaped  of  the  bootle  blade; 
Then  sprung  to  his  seat  with  a  lightsome 
leap,  291 

And  launched  afar  on  the  calm  blue  deep. 

XIX 

The  imps  of  the  river  yell  and  rave; 
They  had  no  power  above  the  wave, 
But   they   heaved  the   billow   before   the 
prow, 


And  they  dashed  the  surge  against  her 

side, 
And  they  struck  her  keel  with  jerk  and 

blow, 
Till  the  gunwale  bent  to  the   rocking 

tide. 

She   wimpled    about   in   the    pale   moon 
beam, 

Like   a    feather   that   floats    on    a   wind- 
tossed  stream ;  300 
And  momently  athwart  her  track 
The  quarl  upreared  his  island  back, 
And  the  fluttering  scallop  behind  would 

float, 

And  patter  the  water  about  the  boat; 
But  he  bailed  her  out  with  his  colen-bell. 
And  he  kept  her  trimmed  with  a  wary 

tread, 

While  on  every  side  like  lightning  fell 
The  heavy  strokes  of  his  bootle-blade. 

xx 

Onward  still  he  held  his  way, 
Till  he  came  where  the  column  of  moon 
shine  lay,  .  310 
And  saw  beneath  the  surface  dim 
The  brown-backed  sturgeon  slowly  swim : 
Around  him  were  the  goblin  train — 
But   he   sculled   with    all   his   might   and 

main, 

And  followed  wherever  the  sturgeon  led, 
Till  he  saw  him  upward  point  his  head; 
Then  he  dropped  his   paddle  blade, 
And  held  his  colen  goblet  up  320 

To  catch  the  drop  in  its  crimson  cup. 


With  sweeping  tail  and  quivering  fin, 

Through   the   wave   the   sturgeon   flew, 
And,  like  the  heaven-shot  javelin, 

He  sprung  above  the  waters  blue. 
Instant  as  the  star-fall  light, 

He  plunged  him  in  the  deep  again, 
But  left  an  arch  of  silver  bright 

The  rainbow  of  the  moony  main. 
It  was  a  strange  and  lovely  sight          33° 

To  see  the  puny  goblin  there; 
He  seemed  an  angel  form  of  light, 

With  azure  wing  and  sunny  hair, 
Throned  on  a  cloud  of  purple  fair, 
Circled  with  blue  and  edged  with  white, 
And  sitting  at  the  fall  of  even 
Beneath  the  bow  of  summer  heaven. 

XXII 

A  moment  and  its  lustre  fell, 
But  ere  it  met  the  billow  blue, 

He  caught  within  his  crimson  bell,        34° 
A  droplet  of  its  sparkling  dew — 


JOSEPH    RODMAN    DRAKE 


143 


Joy  to  thee,  Fay !  thy  task  is  done, 
Thy  wings  are  pure,  for  the  gem  is  won — 
Cheerily  ply  thy  dripping  oar, 
And  haste  away  to  the  elfin  shore. 


He  turns,  and  lo !  on  either  side 

The  ripples  on  his  path  divide; 

And  the  track  o'er  which  his  boat  must 

pass 

Is  smooth  as  a  sheet  of  polished  glass.       349 
Around,  their  limbs  the  sea-nymphs  lave, 

With  snowy  arms  half  swelling  out, 
While  on  the  glossed  and  gleamy  wave 

Their   sea-green    ringlets   loosely   float ; 
They  swim  around  with  smile  and  song; 

They  press  the  bark  with  pearly  hand, 
And  gently  urge  her  course  along, 

Toward  the  beach  of  speckled  sand; 

And,  as  he  lightly  leapt  to  land. 
They  bade  adieu  with  nod  and  bow, 
Then  gayly  kissed  each  little  hand,          360 
And  dropped  in  the  crystal  deep  below. 

XXIV 

A  moment  staied  the  fairy  there; 

He    kissed    the    beach    and    breathed    a 

prayer, 

Then  he  spread  his  wings  of  gilded  blue, 
And  on  to  the  elfin  court  he  flew ; 
As  ever  ye  saw  a  bubble  rise, 
And  shine  with  a  thousand  changing  dyes, 
Till   lessening   far   through   ether   driven, 
It  mingles  with  the  hues  of  heaven : 
As,  at  the  glimpse  of  morning  pale,    370 
The  lance-fly  spreads  his  silken  sail, 
And    gleams    with    blendings    soft    and 

bright, 

Till  lost  in  the  shades  of  fading  night; 
So  rose  from  earth  the  lovely  Fay — 
So  vanished,  far  in  heaven  away ! 

Up,  Fairy!  quit  thy  chick-weed  bower, 
The  cricket  has  called  the  second  hour, 
Twice  again,  and  the  lark  will  rise 
To  kiss  the  streaking  of  the  skies — 
Up !  thy  charmed  armour  don,  380 

Thou'lt  need  it  ere  the  night  be  gone. 

xxv 

He  put  his  acorn  helmet  on; 
It  was  plumed  of  the  silk  of  the  thistle 

down : 

The  corslet  plate  that  guarded  his  breast 
Was  once  the  wild  bee's  golden  vest; 
His  cloak*  of  a  thousand  mingled  dyes, 
Was  formed  of  the  wings  of  butterflies; 


His  shield  was  the  shell  of  a  lady-bug 
queen, 

Studs  of  gold  on  a  ground  of  green ; 

And  the  quivering  lance  which  he  bran 
dished  bright,  390 

Was  the  sting  of  a  wasp  he  had  slain  in 

fight. 
Swift  he  bestrode  his  fire-fly  steed ; 

He  bared  his  blade  of  the  bent  grass  blue; 

He  drove  his  spurs  of  the  cockle  seed, 
And  away  like  a  glance  of  thought  he 
flew, 

To  skim  the  heavens  and  follow  far. 

The  fiery  trail  of  the  rocket-star. 

XXVI 

The  moth-fly,  as  he  shot  in  air, 
Crept  under  the  leaf,  and  hid  her  there ; 
The  Katy-did  forgot  its  lay,  4°o 

The  prowling  gnat  fled  fast  away, 
The  fell  mosqueto  checked  his  drone 
And   folded   his   wings   till   the   Fay   was 

gone, 

And  the  wily  beetle  dropped  his  head, 
And   fell   on   the  ground  as   if  he  were 

dead; 

They  crouched  them   close   in  the   dark 
some  shade, 

They  quaked  all  o'er  with  awe  and  fear, 
For  they  had  felt  the  blue-bent  blade, 
And  writhed  at  the  prick  of  the  elfin 

spear ; 

Many  a  time  on  a  summer's  night,          410 
When  the   sky  was  clear  and  the  moon 

was  bright, 
They  had  been  roused  from  the  haunted 

ground, 

By  the  yelp  and  bay  of  the  fairy  hound; 
They  had  heard  the  tiny  bugle  horn, 
They  had  heard  the  twang  of  the  maize- 
silk  string, 
When   the   vine-twig   bows   were   tightly 

drawn, 
And    the   nettle    shaft    through    air    was 

borne, 
Feathered  with   down  of  the  hum-bird's 

wing. 

And  now  they  deemed  the  courier  ouphe, 
Some  hunter  sprite  of  the  elfin  ground; 
And  they  watched  till  they  saw  him  mount 
the  roof  421 

That  canopies  the  world  around ; 
Then  glad  they  left  their  covert  lair, 
And  freaked  about  in  the  midnight  air. 

XXVII 

Up  to  the  vaulted  firmament 

His  path  the  fire-fly  courser  bent, 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


And  at  every  gallop  on  the  wind, 
He  flung  a  glittering  spark  behind ; 
He  flies  like  a  feather  in  the  blast 
Till  the  first  light  cloud  in  heaven  is  past, 

But  the  shapes  of  air  have  begun  their 
work,  43° 

And  a  drizzly  mist  is  round  him  cast, 

He  cannot  see  through  the  mantle  murk, 
He  shivers  with  cold,  but  he  urges   fast, 

Through  storm  and  darkness,  sleet  and 

shade, 

He  lashes  his  steed  and  spurs  amain, 
For  shadowy  hands  have  twitched  the  rein, 

And    flame-shot    tongues    around    him 

played, 

And  near  him  many  a  fiendish  eye 
Glared  with  a  fell  malignity, 
And  yells  of  rage,  and  shrieks  of  fear, 
Came  screaming  on  his  startled  ear.      441 

XXVIII 

His  wings  are  wet  around  his  breast, 
The  plume  hangs  dripping  from  his  crest, 
His  eyes  are  blur'd  with  the  lightning's 

glare, 

And  his  ears  are  stunned  with  the  thun 
der's  blare, 
But  he  gave  a  shout,  and  his  blade  he 

drew, 

He  thrust  before  and  he  struck  behind, 
Till    he    pierced    their    cloudy    bodies 

through, 
And    gashed    their    shadowy    limbs    of 

wind; 
Howling  the  misty  spectres  flew,  45° 

They  rend  the  air  with  frightful  cries, 
For  he  has  gained  the  welkin  blue, 
And   the  land   of   clouds   beneath   him 
lies. 


xxx 

Sudden  along  the  snbwy  tide  470 

That  swelled   to   meet   their   footsteps' 

fall, 
The  sylphs  of  heaven  were  seen  to  glide, 

Attired  in   sunset's   crimson  pall ; 
Around  the  Fay  they  weave  the  dance, 

They  skip  before  him  on  the  plain, 
And  one  has  taken  his  wasp-sting  lance, 

And  one  upholds   his  bridle-rein ; 
With  warbling  wild  they  lead  him  on 

To  where  through  clouds  of  amber  seen, 
Studded  with   stars,   resplendent  shone 

The  palace  of  the  sylphid  queen.          481 
Its   spiral   columns  gleaming   bright 
Were  streamers  of  the  northern  light; 
Its   curtain's   light   and  lovely  flush 
Was   of  the   morning's   rosy   blush, 
And  the  ceiling  fair  that  rose  aboon 

The  white  and  feathery  fleece  of  noon. 

\^_J 

XXXI 

But  oh !  how  fair  the  shape  that  lay 

Beneath  a  rainbow  bending  bright, 
She  seemed  to  the  entranced  Fay         49° 

The  loveliest  of  the  forms  of  light; 
Her  mantle  was  the  purple  rolled 

At  twilight  in  the  west  afar; 
'Twas  tied  with  threads  of  dawning  gold, 

And  buttoned  with  a  sparkling  star. 
Her  face  was  like  the  lily  roon 

That  veils  the  vested  planet's  hue; 
Her  eyes,  two  beamlets  from  the  moon, 

Set  floating  in  the  welkin  blue. 
Her  hair  is  like  the  sunny  beam,  soo 

And  the   diamond  gems   which   round  it 

gleam 

Are  the  pure  drops  of  dewy  even 
That  ne'er  have  left  their  native  heaven. 


Up  to  the  cope  careering  swift 

In  breathless  motion  fast, 
Fleet   as  the   swallow    cuts  the   drift, 

Or  the  sea-roc  rides  the  blast, 
The  sapphire  sheet  of  eve  is  shot, 

The  sphered  moon  is  past, 
The  earth  but  seems  a  tiny  blot  460 

On  a  sheet  of  azure  cast. 
O !  it  was  sweet  in  the  clear  moonlight, 

To  tread  the  starry  plain  of  even, 
To  meet  the  thousand  eyes  of  night, 

And  feel  the  cooling  breath  of  heaven ! 
But  the  Elfin  made  no  stop  or  stay 
Till  he  came  to  the  bank  of  the  milky- 
way, 

Then  he  checked  his  courser's  foot, 
And    watched    for    the    glimpse    of    the 
planet-shoot. 


She   raised   her    eyes   to    the   wondering 

sprite, 
And  they  leapt  with  smiles,  for  well  I 

ween 

Never  before  in  the  bowers  of  light 
Had  the  form  of  an  earthly  Fay  been 

seen. 
Long  she  looked  in  his  tiny  face; 

Long     with     his     butterfly     cloak     she 
played ;  s°9 

She  smoothed  his  wings  of  azure  lace, 
And  handled  the  tassel  of  his  blade; 
And  as  he  told  in  accents  low 
The  story  of  his  love  and  wo, 
She  felt  new  pains  in  her  bosom  rise, 

And  the  tear-drop  started  in  her  eyes. 
And  "O  sweet  spirit  of  earth,"  she  cried, 


JOSEPH    RODMAN    DRAKE 


145 


"Return    no    more    to    your    woodland 

height, 
But  ever  here  with  me-  abide 

In  the   land  of  everlasting  light! 
Within  the  fleecv  drift  we'll  lie,  5*> 

We'll  hang  upon  the  rainbow's  rim; 
And  all  the  jewels  of  the  sky 
Around  thy  brow  shall  brightly  beam ! 
And  thou  shalt  bathe  thee  in  the  stream 

That  rolls  its  whitening  foam  aboon 
And  ride  upon  the  lightning's  gleam, 

And  dance  upon  the  orbed  moon ! 
We'll  sit  within  the  Pleiad  ring, 

We'll  rest  on  Orion's  starry  belt, 
And  I  will  bid  my  sylphs  to  sing  53° 

The    song    that    makes    the    dew-mist 

melt; 
Their  harps  are  of  the  umber  shade, 

That  hides  the  blush  of  waking  day, 
And  every  gleamy  string  is  made 

Of  silvery  moonshine's  lengthened  ray; 
And  thou  shalt  pillow  on  my  breast, 

While  heavenly  breathings  float  around, 
And,  with  the  sylphs  of  ether  blest, 

Forget  the  joys  of   fairy  ground." 

xxxni 

She  was  lovely  and  fair  to  see  54° 

And  the  elfin's   heart  beat   fitfully; 
But  lovelier  far,  and  still  more  fair, 
The  earthly   form  imprinted  there; 
Nought  he  saw  in  the  heavens  above 
Was  half  so  dear  as  his  mortal  love, 
For  he  thought  upon  her  looks  so  meek, 
And  he  thought  of  the  light  flush  on  her 

cheek ; 

Never  again  might  he  bask  and  lie 
On  that  sweet  cheek  and  moonlight  eye, 
But  in  his  dreams  her  form  to  see,       55° 
To  clasp  her  in  his  reverie, 
To  think  upon  his  virgin  bride, 
Was  worth  all  heaven  and  earth  beside. 

xxxiv 

"Lady,"  he  cried,  "I  have  sworn  to-night, 
On  the  word  of  a  fairy  knight, 
To  do  my  sentence-task  aright; 
My  honour  scarce  is  free  from  stain, 
I  may  not  soil  its  snows  again; 
Betide  me  weal,  betide  me  wo, 
Its  mandate  must  be  answered  now."    56° 
Her  bosom  heaved  with  many  a  sigh, 
The  tear  was  in  her  drooping  eye ; 

But  she  led  him  to  the  palace  gate, 
And  called  the  sylphs  who  hovered  there, 

And    bade   them    fly    and   bring   him 

straight 
Of  clouds  condensed  a  sable  car. 


With  charm  and  spell  she  blessed  it  there, 
From  all   the   fiends   of   upper   air; 
Then    round    him    cast    the    shadowy 

shroud, 

And  tied  his  steed  behind  the  cloud ;      57° 
And  pressed  his  hand  as  she  bade  him  fly 
Far  to  the  verge  of  the  northern  sky, 
For  by  its  wane  and  wavering  light 
There  was  a  star  would  fall  to-night. 

xxxv 

Borne  afar  on  the  wings  of  the  blast, 
Northward  away,  he  speeds  him  fast, 
And  his  courser  follows  the  cloudy  wain 
Till   the   hoof-strokes    fall   like  pattering 

rain. 

The  clouds  roll  backward  as  he  flies, 
Each  flickering  star  behind  him  lies,      s8o 
And  he  has  reached  the  northern  plain, 
And  backed  his  fire-fly  steed  again, 
Ready  to  follow  in  its  flight 
The  streaming  of  the  rocket-light. 


The  star  is  yet  in  the  vault  of  heaven, 

But  it  rocks  in  the  summer  gale; 
And  now  'tis  fitful  and  uneven, 

And  now  'tis  deadly  pale ; 
And  now  'tis  wrapp'd  in  sulphur  smoke, 

And  quenched  is  its  rayless  beam,      59° 
And  now  with  a  rattling  thunder-stroke 

It  bursts  in  flash  and  flame. 
As  swift  as  the  glance  of  the  arrowy  lance 

That  the  storm-spirit  flings  from  high, 
The  star-shot  flew  o'er  the  welkin  blue, 

As  it  fell  from  the  sheeted  sky. 
As  swift  as  the  wind  in  its  trail  behind 

The  elfin  gallops  along, 
The   fiends   of   the  clouds   are  bellowing 
loud, 

But  the  sylphid  charm  is  strong;        600 
He  gallops  unhurt  in  the  shower  of  fire, 

While    the    cloud-fiends    fly    from    the 

blaze ; 

He  watches  each  flake  till  its  sparks  ex 
pire, 

And  rides  in  the  light  of  its  rays. 
But  he  drove  his  steed  to  the  lightning's 
speed, 

And  caught  a  glimmering  spark; 
Then  wheeled  around  to  the  fairy  ground, 

And  sped  through  the  midnight  dark. 

Ouphe  and  goblin !  imp  and  sprite ! 

Elf  of  eve  !  and  starry  Fay !  6l° 

Ye  that  love  the  moon's  soft  light, 

Hither — hither  wend  your  way; 
Twine  ye  in  a  jocund  ring, 


146 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Sing  and  trip  it  merrily, 
Hand  to  hand,  and  wing  to  wing, 
Round  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

Hail  the  wanderer  again, 

^With  dance  and  song,  and  lute  and  lyre, 

Pure  his  wing  and  strong  his  chain, 

And  doubly  bright  his  fairy  fire.        62° 
Twine  ye  in  an  airy  round, 

Brush  the  dew  and  print  the  lea; 
Skip  and  gambol,  hop  and  bound, 

Round  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

The  beetle  guards  our  holy  ground, 

He  flies  about  the  haunted  place, 
And  if  mortal  there  be  found, 

He  hums  in  his  ears  and  flaps  his  face;      1816. 


The  leaf-harp  sounds  our  roundelay, 
The  owlet's  eyes  our  lanterns  be;       630 

Thus  we  sing,  and  dance,  and  play, 
Round  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

But  hark !  from  tower  on  tree-top  high, 

The  sentry  elf  his  call  has  made, 
A  streak  is  in  the  eastern  sky, 

Shapes  of  moonlight!  flit  and  fade! 
The  hill-tops  gleam  in  morning's  spring, 
The  sky-lark  shakes  his  dappled  wing, 
The  day-glimpse  glimmers  on  the  lawn, 
The  cock  has  crowed,  and  the  Fays  are 
gone.  640 


1819. 


FROM  THE  "CROAKER  PAPERS,"  l 
BY  DRAKE  AND  HALLECK 


(The  text  and  notes  for  these  and  the  follow 
ing  poems  of  Halleck  are  taken  from  "The 
Poetical  Writings  of  Fits-Greene  Halleck,"  ed. 
J.  G.  Wilson,  1869.) 

TO  MR.  SIMPSON 

Manager  of  the  Park  Theater 

FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK 

I'm  a  friend  to  your  theatre,  oft  have  I 

told  you, 

And  a  still  warmer  friend,  Mr.   Simp 
son,  to  you; 
And  it  gives  me  great  pain,  be  assured, 

to  behold  you 

Go  fast  to  the  devil,  as  lately  you  do. 
We  scarcely  should  know  you  were  still 

in  existence, 
Were  it  not  for  the  play-bills  one  sees 

in  Broadway ; 
The   newspapers   all   seem   to  keep   at   a 

distance ; 

Have  your  puffers  deserted  for  want  of 
their  pay? 

Poor    Woodworth  !2    his    Chronicle    died 

broken-hearted ; 

What  a  loss  to  the  drama,  the  world, 
and  the  age !  I0 

And  Coleman3  is  silent  since  Phillips  de 
parted, 
And  Noah's  too  busy  to  think  of  the 

stage. 
Now,  the  aim  of  this  letter  is  merely  to 

mention 
That,  since  all  your  critics  are  laid  on 

the  shelf, 
Out  of  pure  love  for  you,  it  is  my  kind 

intention 

To  take  box  No.  3,  and  turn  critic  my 
self. 

Your  ladies  are  safe — if  you  please  you 

may  say  it, 

Perhaps   they   have    faults,   but   I'll   let 
them  alone ; 

1  For  statement  on  the  "Croaker  Papers,"  see 
pages  626  to  628. 

J  "Woodworth's  Chronicle." — A  periodical  con 
ducted  by  that  popular  poet  for  a  brief  period. 

3  William  Coleman. — The  editor  of  the  New- 
York  Evening  Post.  He  died  during  the  sum 
mer  of  1829. 


Yet  I  owe  two  a  debt — 'tis  my  duty  to 

pay  it — 
Of  them  I  must  speak  in  a  kind,  friendly 

tone. 
Mrs.  Barnes4 — Shakespeare's  heart  would 

have  beat  had  he  seen  her — 
Her  magic  has  drawn  from  me  many  a 

tear, 
And    ne'er    shall    my    pen    or    its    satire 

chagrin  her, 

While  pathos,  and  genius,  and   feeling 
are  dear. 

And  there's  sweet  Miss  Leesugg,5  by-the- 

by,  she's  not  pretty, 
She's  a  little  too  large,  and  has  not  too 

much  grace, 

Yet,  there's  something  about  her  so  witch 
ing  and  witty, 

'Tis    pleasure    to    gaze    on    her    good- 
humored  face. 
But  as  for  your  men — I  don't  mean  to  be 

surly, 

Of  praise  that  they  merit  they'll  each 

have  his  share;  3° 

For  the  present,  there's  Olliff,6  a  famous 

Lord  Burleigh, 

And  Hopper  and  Maywood,  a  promis 
ing  pair. 

H. 

The  New  York  Evening  Post,  Mar.  15, 
1819. 

TO  CROAKER,  JUNIOR 

Your  hand,  my  dear  Junior !  we're  all  in 

a  flame 

To  see  a  few  more  of  your  flashes; 
The  Croakers  forever!    I'm  proud  of  the 

name — 
But,   brother,   I    fear,   though   our   cause 

is  the  same, 
We  shall  quarrel  like  Brutus  and  Cassius. 

*  Mrs.  John  Barnes  appeared  for  the  last  time 
in  Philadelphia,  July  25,  1851,  as  Lady  Randolph, 
which  character  she  sustained  with  almost  un- 
diminished  excellence. 

5  Miss  Catherine  Leesugg,  afterward  Mrs. 
James  H.  Hackett,  and  Mrs.  Barnes.  As  ladies 
and  actresses,  well  meriting  the  poet's  eulogiums, 
and  highly  estimated  in  public  and  private  life. 

8  Olliff,  etc. — Actors  of  merit  in  various  de 
partments  of  their  profession. 


147 


148 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


But  why  should  we  do  so?  'tis  false  what 

they  tell 

That  poets  can  never  be  cronies; 
Unbuckle  your   harness,   in   peace   let  us 

dwell ; 
Our  goose-quills  will  canter  together  as 

well 

As    a    pair    of    Prime1    mouse-colored 
ponies.  I0 

Once  blended   in   spirit,   we'll   make   our 

appeal, 

And  by  law  be  incorporate  too; 
Apply  for  a  charter  in  crackers  to  deal; 
A  fly-flapper  rampant  shall  shine  on  our 

seal, 
And  the  firm  shall  be  "Croaker  &  Co." 

Fun !   prosper  the   union-smile,    Fate,   on 

its  birth! 

Miss  Atropos,  shut  up  your  scissors ; 
Together  we'll  range  through  the  regions 

of  mirth, 
A  pair  of  bright  gemini  dropped  on  the 

earth, 

The  Castor  and  Pollux  of  quizzers.    2° 

D. 

The  New  York  Evening  Post,  Mar.  16, 
1819. 

THE   NATIONAL   PAINTING2 

Awake !  ye  forms  of  verse  divine ; 

Painting!  descend  on  canvas  wing, 
And  hover  o'er  my  head,  Desing ! 

Your  son,  your  glorious  son,  I  sing! 
At  Trumbull's  name,  I  break  my  sloth, 

To  load  him  with  poetic  riches ; 
The  Titian  of  a  table-cloth! 

The  Guido  of  a  pair  of  breeches! 

Come,  star-eyed  maid,  Equality! 

In  thine  adorer's  praise  I  revel;  I0 
Who  brings,  so  fierce  his  love  to  thee, 

All  forms  and  faces  to  a  level : 
Old,  young,  great,   small,  the  grave,  the 
gay, 

Each    man    might    swear    the    next   his 

brother, 
And  there  they  stand  in  dread  array, 

To  fire  their  votes  at  one  another. 

How    bright    their    buttons    shine !    how 

straight 
Their  coat-flaps  fall  in  plaited  grace ! 

1  Nathaniel  Prime. — A  wealthy  and  worthy 
banker  of  the  house  of  Prime,  Ward  &  Sands, 
in  Wall  Street. 

»The  National  Painting,  "The  Declaration  of 
Independence,"  by  Colonel  Trumbull. 


How  smooth  the  hair  on  every  pate! 

How  vacant  each  immortal  face !         20 
And  then  the  tints,  the  shade,  the  flush, 
(I    wrong    them    with    a    strain    too 

humble,) 

Not  mighty  Sherred's3  strength  of  brush 
Can  match  thy  glowing  hues,  my  Trum 
bull! 

Go  on,  great  painter !  dare  be  dull — 

No  longer  after  Nature  dangle; 
Call  rectilinear  beautiful; 

Fine  grace  and  freedom  in  an  angle : 
Pour  on  the  red,  the  green,  the  yellow, 

"Paint  till  a  horse  may  mire  upon  it,"  30 
And  while  I've  strength  to  write  or  bel 
low, 
I'll  sound  your  praises  in  a  sonnet. 

D. 

The  New  York  Evening  Post.  Mar.  15, 
1819. 

THE  MAN  WHO  FRETS  AT 
WORLDLY  STRIFE 

"A  merry    heart    goes    all    the    way 
A  sad  one  tires  in  a  mile-a." 

Winter's  Tale. 

The  man  who  frets  at  worldly  strife, 

Grows  sallow,  sour,  and  thin; 
Give  us  the  lad  whose  happy  life 

Is  one  perpetual  grin; 
He,  Midas-like,  turns  all  to  gold, 

He  smiles  when  others  sigh, 
Enjoys  alike  the  hot  and  cold, 

And  laughs  through  wet  and  dry. 

There's   fun  in  every  thing  we  meet, 

The  greatest,  worst,  and  best,  J° 

Existence  is  a  merry  treat, 

And  every  speech  a  jest; 
Be't  ours  to  watch  the  crowds  that  pass 

Where  Mirth's  gay  banner  waves; 
To  show  fools  through  a  quizzing-glass, 

And  bastinade  the  knaves. 

The  serious  world  will  scold  and  ban, 

In  clamor  loud  and  hard, 
To  hear  Meigs  called  a  Congressman, 

And  Paulding  styled  a  bard;  20 

But,  come  what  may,  the  man's  in  luck 

Who  turns  it  all  to  glee, 
And  laughing,  cries,  with  honest  Puck, 

"Great  Lord !  what  fools  ye  be." 

D. 

The  New  York  Evening  Post,  Mar.  19, 
1819. 

3  Jacob     Sherred.  —  A     wealthy     painter     and 
glazier. 


DRAKE   AND    HALLECK 


149 


TO  E.  SIMPSON,  ESQ. 

On  witnessing   the  representation  of  the 
New  Tragedy  of  Brutus 

I  have  been  every  night,  whether  empty 

or  crowded, 

And  taken  my  seat  in  your  Box  No.  3 ; 
In  a  sort  of  poetical  Scotch  mist  I'm 

shrouded, 

As   the   far-famed   Invisible   Girl    used 
to  be. 

As  a  critic  professed,  'tis  my  province  to 

flout  you, 
And  hiss  as  they  did  at  poor  Charley's1 

Macheath ; 
But  all  is  so  right  and  so  proper  about 

you, 

That  I'm  forced  to  be  civil  in  spite  of 
my  teeth. 

In  your  dresses  and  scenery,  classic  and 

clever; 

Such   invention !    such  blending  of   old 

things  and  new !  I0 

Let   Kemble's  proud   laurels   be  withered 

forever ! 

Wear  the  wreath,  my  dear  Simpson,  'tis 
fairly  your  due. 

How  apropos^  now  was  that  street  scene 

in  Brutus, 
Where  the  sign  "Coffee-House"  in  plain 

English  was  writ ! 
By-the-way,  "Billy  Niblo's"2  "would  much 

better  suit  us, 

And  box,  pit,  and  gallery,  roar  at  the 
wit. 

How   sparkled  the  eyes  of  the   raptured 

beholders, 
To  see  Kilner,3  a  Roman,  in  robes  "a 

la  Grec!" 

How  graceful  they  flowed  o'er  his  neatly- 
turned  shoulders ! 

How  completely  they  set  off  his  Johnny- 
Bull  neck!  » 

1  "Charley  Macheath." — In  which  character  in 
the  Beggars'  Opera  the  celebrated  English  singer, 
Mr.  Charles  Incledon,  during  his  engagement 
some  time  previous  at  the  Park  Theatre,  had 
been  favorably  received. 

1  William  Niblo. — The  proprietor  of  the  then 
most  popular  hotel  and  restaurant  in  New  York, 
on  the  corner  of  William  and  Pine  Streets,  and 
still  a  highly-respected  resident  of  this  city. 

3  Thomas  Kilner,  etc.,  etc. — Comedians  at  the 
theatre.  The  three  latter  had  been  recently 
engaged  in  England  by  Mr.  Simpson  during  a 
professional  visit  there. 


But  to  hint  at  a  thousand  fine  things  that 

amuse  me, 
Would  take  me  a  month — so  adieu  till 

my  next. 
And  your  actors,  they  must  for  the  present 

excuse  me; 

One  word  though,  en  passant,  for  fear 
they'll  be  vexed. 

Moreland,  Howard,  and  Garner,  the  last 

importation ! 
Three  feathers  as  bright  as  the  Prince 

Regent's  Plume ! 

Though  puffing  is,  certainly,  not  my  voca 
tion, 

I   always    shall   praise    them,   whenever 
I've  room. 

With  manners  so  formed  to  persuade  and 

to  win  you, 

With  faces  one  need  but  to  look  on  to 

love,  3° 

They're  like  Jefferson's  "Natural  Bridge" 

in  Virginia — 

"Worth  a  voyage  across  the  Atlantic," 
by  Jove ! 

H. 

The  New  York  Evening  Post,  Mar.  20, 
1819. 


TO  CAPTAIN  SEAMAN  WEEKS 

Chairman  of  the   Tenth   Ward  Indepen 
dent  Electors* 

CAPTAIN  WEEKS,  your  right  hand — though 

I  never  have  seen  it, 
I   shake  it  on   paper,    full  ten  times  a 

day; 
I  love  your  Tenth  Ward,  and  I  wish  I 

lived  in  it; 
Do  you  know   any  house  there   to   let 

against  May? 
I  don't  mind  what  the  rent  is,  so  long  as 

I  get  off 
From    these    party-mad    beings,    these 

tongues  without  heads ! 
I'm  ashamed  to  be  seen,  sir,  among  such 

a  set  of 

Clintonians,    Tammanies,    Goodies,    and 
Feds! 

Besides,  I  am  nervous,  and  can't  bear  the 

racket 

These    gentlemen    make    when    they're 
begging  for  votes ;  10 

4  Tenth-Ward  Electors. — Those  composing  a 
party  in  opposition  for  a  short  time  to  the  regu 
lar  nominees  at  Tammany  Hall. 


150 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


There's  John  Haff,  and  Ben  Bailly,  and 

Christian,  and  Bracket, 
Only  think  what  fine  music  must  come 

from  their  throats ! 
Colonel  Warner  calls   Clinton  a  "star  in 

the  banner," 
Mapes   swears  by  his  sword-knot  he'll 

ruin  us  all; 
While  Meigs  flashes  out  in  his  fine  classic 

manner, 

"The   meteor  Gorgon  of  Clinton  must 
fall !" 


In  vain  I  endeavor  to  give  them  a  hint  on 
Sense,    reason,    or    temper — they    laugh 

at  it  all; 
For    sense    is    nonsense    when    it    makes 

against  Clinton, 

And    reason    is    treason    in    Tammany 

Hall.  2° 

So  I  mean   (though  I  fear  I  shall  seem 

unto  some  a 
Strange,  obstinate,  odd-headed  kind  of 

an  elf) 
To  strike  my  old  tent  in  the  Fourth,  and 

become  a 

"Tenth  Ward  independent  elector"  my 
self. 

D. 

The  New  York  Evening  Post,  Apr.  8, 
1819. 


ABSTRACT  OF  THE  SURGEON- 
GENERAL'S  REPORT i 

The  Surgeon-General  by  brevet, 

With  zeal  for  public  service  burning, 
Thinks  this  a  happy  time  to  get 

Another  chance  to  show  his  learning; 
He  has  in  consequence  collected 

His  wits,  and  stewed  them  in  retorts; 
By  distillation  thus  perfected, 

He  hopes  to  shine,  and  so  reports. 

That  he  has  searched  authorities 

From    Johnson    down    to    Ashe    and 
Shelley,  I0 

And  finds  that  a  militia  is 

What  he  is  now  about  to  tell  ye: 
Militia  means — such  citizens 

As  e'en  in  peace  are  kept  campaigning — 
The  gallant  souls  that  shoulder  guns 

And,  twice  a  year,  go  out  a-training ! 

1  The    Surgeon-General,    Dr.    Samuel    L.    Mit- 
chill. 


This  point  being  fixed,  we  must,  I  think 
sir, 

Proceed  unto  the  second  part, 
Entitled  Grog — a  kind  of   drink,  sir, 

Which,  by  its  action  on  the  heart,       2° 
Makes  men  so  brave,  they  dare  attack 

A  bastion  at  its  angle  salient; 
This  is  a  well-established  fact — 

The  very  proverb  says — pot-valiant. 

Grog — I'll  define  it  in  a  minute — 

Take    gin,    rum,   -whiskey,    or    peach- 
brandy, 
Put  but  a  little  water  in  it, 

And  that  is  Grog — now  understand  me, 
I  mean  to  say,  that  should  the  spirit 

Be  left  out  by  some  careless  dog,        3° 
It  is — I  wish  the  world  may  hear  it ! 

It  is  plain  water,  and  not  Grog. 

Having  precisely  fixed  what  Grog  is 
(My  reasoning,   sir,   that  question   set 
tles!) 

We  next  must  ascertain  what  Prog  is — 
Now  Prog,  in  vulgar  phrase,  is  victuals : 

This  will  embrace  all  kinds  of  food, 
Which  on  the  smoking  board  can  charm 

ye, 

And  by  digestion  furnish  blood, 

A  thing  essential  in  an  army !  4° 

These    things    should    all    be    swallowed 
warm, 

For  heat,  digestion  much  facilitates ; 
Cold  is  a  tonic,  and  does  harm ; 

A  tonic  always,  sir,  debilitates. 
My  plan  then  is  to  raise,  as  fast 

As  possible,  a  corps  of  cooks, 
And  drill  them  daily  from  the  last 

Editions  of  your  cookery-books ! 

Done  into  English  and  likewise  into 
verse  by  H.  and  D. 

The  New  York  Evening  Post,  Apr.  10, 
1819. 

TO  XXXX,  ESQUIRE 

Come,    shut    up    your    Blackstone,    and 

sparkle  again 
The   leader   and   light   of  our   classical 

revels ; 
While    statues    and    cases    bewilder    your 

brain, 
No  wonder  you're  vexed  and  beset  with 

blue  devils. 
But  a  change  in  your  diet  will  banish  the 

blues ; 


DRAKE    AND    HALLECK 


151 


Then  come,  my  old  chum,  to  our  ban 
quet  sublime ; 

Our  wine  shall  be  caught   from  the  lips 
of  the  Muse, 

And  each  plate  and  tureen  shall  be  hal 
lowed  in  rhyme. 

Scott,   from  old  Albin,  shall  furnish  the 

dishes 

With  wild-fowl  and  ven'son  that  none 

can  surpass ;  I0 

And  Mitchill,  who  sung  the  amours  of  the 

fishes, 
Shall   fetch  his   most  exquisite  tomcod 

and  bass. 
Leigh  Hunt  shall  select,  at  his  Hampstead 

Parnassus, 
Fine  greens,  from  the  hot-bed,  the  table 

to  cheer; 
And    Wordsworth    shall   bring  us    whole 

bowls  of  molasses 

Diluted  with  water  from  sweet  Winder- 
mere. 

To  rouse  the  dull  fancy  and  give  us  an 

appetite, 
Black    wormwood    bitters    Lord    Byron 

shall  bear, 
And  Montgomery  bring  (to  consumptives 

a  happy  sight) 

Tepid    soup-meagre    and    'Teau    capil- 
laire ;"  2° 

George  Coleman  shall  sparkle  in  old  bot 
tled  cider, 
Roast-beef  and  potatoes  friend  Crabbe 

will  supply; 

Rogers  shall  hash  us  an  "olla  podrida," 
And  the  best  of  fresh  "cabbage"  from 
Paulding  we'll  buy. 

Mr.  Tennant — free,  fanciful,  laughing,  and 

lofty, 
Shall     pour    out    Tokay    and     Scotch 

whiskey  like  rain; 

Southey  shall  sober  our  spirits  with  coffee, 
And    Horace    in    London    "flash   up   in 

champagne." 
Tom  Campbell  shall  cheer  us  with  rosy 

Madeira, 

Refined   by   long  keeping,   rich,   spark 
ling,  and  pure ;  30 
And  Moore,  "pour  chasse  cafe,"  to  each 

one  shall  bear  a 
Sip- witching  bumper  of  par j ait  amour. 

Then  come  to  our  banquet — oh !  how  can 

you  pause 

A   moment  between  merry   rhyme  and 
dull  reason? 


Preferring    the    wit-blighting    "Spirit    of 

Laws" 

To  the  spirit  of  verse,  is  poetical  trea 
son  ! 

Judge  Phoebus  will  certainly  issue  his  writ, 
No   quirk    or    evasion   your   cause    can 

make  good,  man ; 

Only  think  what  you'll  suffer,  when  sen 
tenced  to  sit 

And   be  kept   broad   awake   till  you've 
read  the  Backwoodsman !  4° 

D. 

The  New  York  Evening  Post,  Apr.  16, 
1819. 

TO  MRS.  BARNES 
The  Actress 

Dear  Ma'am — we  seldom  take  the  pen 
To  praise,  for  whim  and  jest  our  trade 

is; 

We're  used  to  deal  with  gentlemen, 
To  spatter  folly's  skirts,  and  then 
We're  somewhat  bashful  with  the  ladies. 

Nor  is  it  meant  to  give  advice; 

We  dare  not  take  so  much  upon  us; 
But  merely  wish,  in  phrase  concise, 
To  beg  you,  Ma'am,  and  Mr.  Price, 

For  God's  sake,  to  have  mercy  on  us !  10 

Oh !  wave  again  thy  wand  of  power, 

No  more  in  melodramas  whine, 
Nor  toil  Aladdin's  lamp  to  scour, 
Nor  dance  fandangoes  by  the  hour 
To  Morgiana's  tambourine ! 

Think,  Lady,  what  we're  doomed  to  feel — 
By   Heaven !    'twould    rouse   the   wrath 

of  Stoics, 

To  see  the  queen  of  sorrows  deal 
In  thundering  "lofty-low"  by  Shiell, 
Or  mad  Maturin's  mock-heroics.          *> 

Away  with  passion's  withering  kiss, 
A  purer  spell  be  thine  to  win  us; 
Unlock  the  fount  of  holiness 
While  gentle  Pity  weeps  in  bliss, 
And  hearts  throb  sweetly  sad  within  us. 

Or  call  those  smiles  again  to  thee 

That  shone  upon  the  lip  that  wove  them, 
Like  sun-drops  on  a  summer-sea, 
W7hen  waters  ripple  pleasantly  *9 

To  wanton  winds  that  flutter  o'er  them. 

When  Pity  wears  her  willow-wreath, 
Let  Desdemona's  woes  be  seen; 


152 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Sweet  Beverly's  confiding  faith, 
Or  Juliet,  loving  on  in  death, 
Or  uncomplaining  Imogen. 

When  wit  and  mirth  their  temples  bind 
With  thistle-shafts  o'erhung  with  flow 
ers, 

Then  quaint  and  merry  Rosalind, 

Beatrice  with  her  April  mind 

And  Dinah's  simple  heart  be  ours.      4° 

For  long  thy  modest  orb  has  been 

Eclipsed  by  heartless,  cold  parade; 
So  sinks  the  light  of  evening's  queen 
When  the  dull  earth  intrudes  between, 
Her  beauties  from  the  sun  to  shade. 

Let  Fashion's  worthless  plaudits  rise 

At  the  deep  tone  and  practised  start; 
Be  thine  true  feeling's  stifled  sighs, 
Tears    wrung    from    stern    and    stubborn 
eyes,  49 

And  smiles  that  sparkle  from  the  heart. 
H.  AND  D. 

The  New  York  Evening  Post.  Apr.  19, 
1819. 

AN  ADDRESS1 

For  the  opening  of  the  new  Theatre,  Sept. 
i,  1821,  to  be  spoken  by  Mr.  Olliff 

LADIES  AND  GENTLEMEN  : 

Enlightened  as  you  were,  you  all  must 

know 
Our  playhouse  was  burnt  down  some  time 

ago, 
Without     insurance.     'Twas     a     famous 

blaze, 
Fine  fun  for  firemen,  but  dull  sport  for 

plays ; 

The  proudest  of  our  whole  dramatic  corps 
Such  warm  reception  never  met  before. 
It  was  a  woeful  night  for  us  and  ours, 
Worse  than  dry  weather  to  the  fields  and 

flowers. 
The  evening  found  us  gay  as  summer's 

lark, 

Happy  as  sturgeons  in  the  Tappan  Sea; 
The  morning,  like  the  dove  from  Noah's 

ark,  » 

As  homeless,  houseless,  desolate  as  she. 

1  This  amusing  burlesque  address,  first  pub 
lished  in  the  New-York  Evening  Post,  was  in 
cluded  in  a  small  volume  containing  the  Rejected 
Addresses,  together  with  the  prize  address,  writ 
ten  by  Charles  Sprague,  and  spoken  by  Edmund 
Simpson,  on  the  reopening  of  the  Park  Theatre, 
September  1,  1821. 


But  thanks  to  those  who  always  have 

been  known 
To   love  the  public   interest,   when   their 

own — 

Thanks  to  the  men  of  talent  and  of  trade, 
Who  joy  in  doing  well  when  they're  well 

paid — 

Again  our  fireworn  mansion  is  rebuilt, 
Inside  and  outside,  neatly  carved  and  gilt, 
With  best  of  paint  and  canvas,  lath  and 

plaster, 
The  Lord  bless  Beekman2  and  John  Jacob 

Astor !  2° 

As  an  old  coat,   from  Jennings'3  patent 

screw, 
Comes    out    clean    scoured    and    brighter 

than  the  new ; 

As  an  old  head  in  Saunders'3  patent  wig, 
Looks  wiser  than  when  young,  and  twice 

as  big; 

As  Mat  Van  Buren  in  the  Senate-hall, 
Repairs  the  loss  we  met  in  Spencer's  fall; 
As  the  new  Constitution  will  (we're  told) 
Be  worth,  at  least,  a  dozen  of  the  old, 
So    is    our    new    house    better    than    its 

brother, 
Its    roof    is    painted    yellower    than    the 

other,  3° 

It  is  insured  at  three  per  cent,  'gainst  fire, 
And  cost  three  times  as  much,  and  is  six 

inches  higher. 

'Tis  not  alone  the  house — the  prompter's 
clothes 

Are  all  quite  new,  so  are  the  fiddlers' 
bows; 

The  supernumeraries  are  newly  shaved, 

New  drilled,  and  all  extremely  well  be 
haved 

(They'll  each  one  be  allowed,  I  pause  to 
mention, 

The  right  of  suffrage  by  the  new  Con 
vention). 

We've  some  new  thunder,  several  new 
plays, 

And  a  new  splendid  carpet  of  green  baize. 

So  that  there's  naught  remains  to  bid  us 
reach  4* 

The  topmost  bough  of  favor,  but  a 
speech — 

A  speech,  the  prelude  to  each  public  meet 
ing, 

Whether  for  morals,  charity,  or  eating — 

2  Messrs.    John    K.    Beekman    and   John   Jacob 
Astor  were  joint  proprietors  of  the  Park  Theatre. 
The    former,    from    his    love    of   theatricals,    was 
familiarly   known   as   "Theatre  Jack." 

3  Isaac   Jennings   was    a   well-known   dealer   in 
old  clothes,  and  George  Saunders  was  a  fashion 
able    wig-maker. 


DRAKE   AND    HALLECK 


153 


A  speech,  the  modern  mode  of  winning 

hearts, 
And  power,  and  fame,  in  politics  and  arts. 

What    made    the    good    Monroe1    our 

President? 
'Twas  that  through  all  this  blessed  land 

he  went 
With  his  immortal  cocked  hat  and  short 

breeches, 
Dining — wherever     asked — and     making 

speeches.  5° 

What,  when  Missouri  stood  on  her  last 

legs, 
Revived  her  hopes?  The  speech  of  Henry 

Meigs.2 

1  The    President,    James   Monroe,    had   a   short 
time  previously  made  a  tour  through  the  Middle 
and   Eastern   States. 

2  Henry   Meigs,   when   a  member   of  Congress, 
had    advocated    the    admission    of    Missouri    into 
the  Union,  on  Southern  terms. 


What  proves  our  country  wise,  learned, 

and  happy? 

Mitchill's  address  to  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa. 
What  has   convinced   the   world   that   we 

have  men, 
First  with   the  sword,  the  chisel,  brush, 

and  pen, 
Shaming     all     English     rivals,     men     or 

madams  ? 
The    "Fourth    of    July"    speech    of    Mr. 

Adams. 
Yes,   if   our   managers   grow  great   and 

rich, 
And  players  prosper,  let  them  thank  my 

speech,  6° 

And  let  the  name  of  Olliff  proudly  go 
With    Meigs    and    Adams,    Mitchill    and 

Monroe !  H. 

The  New  York  Evening  Post.  Aug.  21, 
1821. 


FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK 
(1790-1867) 


FANNY 

The  first  forty-three  stanzas  deal  with  the  com 
mercial  successes  of  Fanny's  papa — from  Chat 
ham  Street  to  Hanover  Square  by  way  of  Pearl 
Street — and  the  day  dreams  of  Fanny.  It  is  to 
the  father  that  Ambition  "in  fashion's  elegant 
undress"  appears. 

(American  Culture) 


But  Miss  Ambition  was,  as  I  was  saying, 
"Deshabillee" — his  bedside  tripping  near, 
And,  gently  on  his  nose  her  fingers  lay 
ing, 
She    roared    out    "Tammany !"    in    his 

frighted  ear. 

The  potent  word  awoke  him  from  his  nap, 
And  then   she  vanished,  whispering  ver- 
bum  sap. 

XLV 

The  last  words  were  beyond  his  compre 
hension, 
For  he  had  left  off  schooling,  ere  the 

Greek 

Or  Latin  classics  claimed  his  mind's  at 
tention  : 

Besides,    he   often    had    been   heard    to 
speak  I0 

Contemptuously  of  all  that  sort  of  knowl 
edge, 

Taught  so  profoundly  in   Columbia  Col 
lege. 

XLVI 
We    owe    the    ancients    something.      You 

have  read 

Their  works,   no   doubt — at   least    in   a 
.    translation ; 
Yet  there  was  argument  in  what  he  said, 

I  scorn  equivocation  or  evasion, 
And  own  it  must,  in  candor,  be  confessed 
They  were  an  ignorant  set  of  men  at  best. 

XLVII 
'Twas    their    misfortune    to   be    born   too 

soon 

By  centuries,  and  in  the  wrong  place, 
too; 


154 


They  never  saw  a  steamboat,  or  balloon, 

Velocipede,  or  Quarterly  Review ; 
Or   wore   a  pair   of   Baehr's   black  satin 

breeches, 

Or     read     an      Almanac,     or     Clinton's 
Speeches. 

XLVIII 
In  short,  in  every  thing  we  far  outshine 

them, — 
Art,   science,   taste,   and  talent;   and  a 

stroll 

Through  this  enlightened  city  would  re 
fine  them 
More  than  ten  years'  hard  study  of  the 

whole 

Their   genius   has   produced   of  rich   and 

rare —  29 

God  bless  the  Corporation  and  the  Mayor ! 


In  sculpture,  we've  a  grace  the  Grecian 

master, 
Blushing,  had  owned  his  purest  model 

lacks;  . 

We've  Mr.  Bogart  in  the  best  of  plaster, 
The  witch  of  Endor  in  the  best  of  wax, 
Besides  the  head  of  Franklin  on  the  roof 
Of     Mr.    Lang,    both   jest   and    weather 
proof. 

L 

And  on  our  City  Hall  a  Justice  stands; 
A    neater    form    was    never    made    of 

board, 
Holding  majestically  in  her  hands 

A    pair    of    steelyards    and    a    wooden 
sword ;  4° 

And  looking  down  with  complaisant  civil 
ity- 
Emblem  of  dignity  and  durability. 


In    painting,    we    have    Trumbull's   proud 
chef  d'oenvre, 

Blending  in  one  the  funny  and  the  fine  : 
His  "Independence"  will  endure  forever, 

And  so  will  Mr.  Allen's  lottery-sign; 
And  all  that  grace  the  Academy  of  Arts, 
From  Dr.  Hosack's   face  to  Bonaparte's. 


FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK 


155 


LII 

In  architecture,  our  unrivalled  skill 
Cullen's    magnesian    shop    has    loudly 
spoken  so 

To  an  admiring  world ;  and  better  still 
Is  Gautier's  fairy  palace  at  Hoboken. 

In  music,  we've  the  Euterpian  Society, 

And  amateurs,  a  wonderful  variety. 


In  physic,  we  have  Francis  and  McNeven 
Famed   for  long  heads,   short   lectures, 

and  long  bills; 
And  Quackenboss  and  others,  who  from 

heaven 
Were  rained  upon  us  in  a  shower  of 

pills; 
They'd    beat    the    deathless    yEsculapius 

hollow,  59 

And  make  a  starveling  druggist  of  Apollo. 

LIV 
And    who,    that    ever    slumbered    at   the 

Forum, 

But  owns  the  first  of  orators  we  claim: 
Cicero   would   have  bowed  the  knee  be 
fore  'em — 
And   for  law  eloquence,  we've  Doctor 

Graham. 
Compared    with    him,    their   Justins    and 

Quintilians 
Had  dwindled  into  second-rate  civilians. 


LV 

For  pur^y  and  chastity  of  style, 

There's    Pell's    preface,    and    puffs    by 

Home  and  Waite, 

For  penetration  deep,  and  learned  toil, 
And    all    that    stamps    an    author   truly 
great,  7° 

Have  we  not  Bristed's  ponderous  tomes? 

a   treasure 
For  any  man  of  patience  and  of  leisure. 


Oxonian  Bristed !  many  a  foolscap  page 
He,  in  his  time,  hath  written,  and  more 
over 

(What    few    will    do    in    this    degenerate 

age) 

Hath  read  his  own  works,  as  you  may 
discover 

By    counting    his    quotations    from    him 
self— 

You'll    find    the   books    on    any    auction- 
shelf. 


LVH 
I   beg   Great   Britain's   pardon;    'tis   not 

meant 
To  claim  this   Oxford  scholar  as  our 


own; 


Bo 


That  he  was  shipped  off  here  to  represent 
Her  literature  among  us,  is  well  known ; 
And  none  could  better  fill  the  lofty  sta 
tion 

Of    Learning's    envoy    from    the    British 
nation. 

LVIII 

We  fondly  hope  that  he  will  be  respected 
At  home,  and  soon  obtain  a  place   or 

pension. 

We  should  regret  to  see  him   live -neg 
lected, 
Like  Fearon,  Ashe,  and  others  we  could 

mention ; 

Who  paid  us   friendly  visits  to  abuse 
Our  country,   and   find   food   for  the  re 
views.  9° 

(Fanny's  Education) 

.CXI 

She  long  had  known  that  in  her  father's 

coffers, 

And  also  to  his  credit  in  the  banks, 
There  was  some  cash ;  and  therefore  all 

the  offers 
Made  her,  by  gentlemen  of  the  middle 

ranks, 
Of  heart  and  hand,  had  spurned,  as  far 

beneath 
One  whose  high  destiny  it  was  to  breathe, 


Ere  long,  the  air  of  Broadway  or  Park 

Place, 

And  reign  a  fairy  queen  in  fairy  land ; 
Display   in   the   gay   dance   her    form    of 

grace, 

Or  touch  with  rounded  arm  and  glove- 
less  hand,  J0 
Harp  or  piano. — Madame  Catilani 
Forgot  awhile,  and  every  eye  on  Fanny. 

CXIII 

And  in  anticipation  of  that  hour, 

Her    star    of    hope,    her    paradise    of 

thought, 

She'd  had  as  many  masters  as  the  power 
Of  riches  could  bestow;  and  had  been 

taught 

The  thousand  nameless  graces  that  adorn 
The  daughters  of  the  wealthy  and  high 
born. 


156 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


CXIV 

She    had    been    noticed    at    some    public 

places 

(The    Battery,    and    the    balls    of    Mr. 

Whale),  20 

For  hers  was  one  of  those  attractive  faces, 

That  when  you  gaze  upon  them,  never 

fail 

To  bid  you  look  again ;  there  was  a  beam, 
A  lustre  in  her  eye,  that  oft  would  seem 


cxv 
A  little  like  effrontery;  and  yet 

The  lady  meant  no  harm ;  her  only  aim 
Was  but  to  be  admired  by  all  she  met, 
And   the    free   homage    of   the   heart   to 

claim ; 

And   if   she   showed  too   plainly  this   in 
tention, 

Others   have   done   the   same — 'Twas  not 
of  her  invention.  3° 


She   shone  at  every  copcert;   where  are 

bought 
Tickets  by   all  who  wish  them,   for  a 

dollar ; 

She  patronized  the  Theatre,  and  thought 
That  Wallack  looked  extremely  well  in 

Rolla; 

She  fell  in  love,  as  all  the  ladies  do, 
With  Mr.  Simpson — talked  as  loudly,  too, 


cxvn 
As  any  beauty  of  the  highest  grade, 

To  the  gay  circle  in  the  box  beside  her ; 
And  when  the  pit — half  vexed  and  half 

afraid,  - 

With    looks    of    smothered    indignation 
eyed  her,  4° 

She  calmly  met  their  gaze,  and  stood  be 
fore  'em, 

Smiling    at   vulgar   taste    and    mock   de 
corum. 

CXVIII 

And  though  by  no  means  a  bas  bleu,  she 

had 

For  literature  a  most  becoming  passion ; 
Had  skimmed  the  latest  novels,  good  and 

bad, 
And  read  the  Croakers,  when  they  were 

in  fashion; 

And  Dr.  Chalmers'  sermons  of  a  Sunday ; 
And  Woodworth's  Cabinet,  and  the  new 

Salmagundi. 


cxix 
She   was   among   the   first   and   warmest 

patrons 

Of  Griscom's  conversaziones,  where    5° 
In  rainbow  groups,  our  bright-eyed  maids 

and  matrons, 

On  science  bent,  assemble;   to  prepare 
Themselves  for  acting  well,  in  life,  their 

part 

As  wives  and  mothers.    There  she  learned 
by  heart 

cxx 

Words,   to   the   witches   in   Macbeth   un 
known.  • 

Hydraulics,  hydrostatics,  and  pneumat 
ics, 
Dioptrics,  optics,  katoptrics,  carbon, 

Chlorine,  and  iodine,  and  aerostatics; 
Also, — why  frogs,  for  want  of  air,  expire ; 
And  how  to  set  the  Tappan  Sea  on  fire !     6° 


cxxi 

In  all  the  modern  languages  she  was 
Exceedingly   well-versed;    and   had  de 
voted, 
To  their  attainment,  far  more  time  than 

has, 

By  the  best  teachers,  lately  been  allotted ; 
For  she  had  taken  lessons,  twice  a  week, 
For  a  full  month  in  each;  and  she  could 
speak 

cxxn 

French  and  Italian,  equally  as  well 
As    Chinese,    Portuguese,    or    German ; 

and 
What  is  still  more  surprising,  she  could 

spell 

Most  of  our  longest  English  words  off 
hand  ;  7o 
Was   quite    familiar   in   Low   Dutch   and 

Spanish, 

And  thought  of  studying  modern  Greek 
and  Danish. 

cxxni 
She  sang  divinely;  and  in  "Love's  young 

dream" 

And    "Fanny    dearest,"    and    "The    sol 
dier's  bride" ; 
And    every   song,    whose    dear    delightful 

theme, 

Is  "Love,  still  love,"  had  oft  till  mid 
night  tried 
Her    finest,     loftiest     "pigeon-wings"     of 

sound, 
Waking  the  very  watchmen  far  around. 


FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK 


157 


(Success  in  New  York  City) 

cxxxv 

Ambition  with  her  sire  had  kept  her  word. 
He   had   the    rose,    no    matter    for    its 

thorn, 

And  he  seemed  happy  as  a  summer  bird, 
Careering    on    wet    wing    to    meet    the 

morn. 
Some  said  there   was   a   cloud   upon   his 

brow; 

It   might   be — but   we'll  not   discuss   that 
now. 

cxxxvi   . 
I  left  him  making  rhymes  while  crossing 

o'er 
The   broad   and   perilous   wave   of   the 

North  River. 

He  bade  adieu,  when  safely  on  the  shore, 
To    poetry — and,    as    he    thought,    for 
ever.  I0 
That    night    his    dream     (if    after-deeds 

make  known 

Our  plans   in   sleep)    was   an   enchanting 
one. 

cxxxvn 
He  woke,  in  strength,  like  Samson  from 

his  slumber, 
And  walked  Broadway,  enraptured,  the 

next  day; 
Purchased  a  house  there — I've  forgot  the 

number — 
And  signed  a  mortgage  and  a  bond,  for 

pay. 
Gave,  in  the  slang  phrase,  Pearl  Street  the 

go-by, 

And   cut,   for   several   months,   St.   Tam 
many. 

CXXXVIII 

Bond,  mortgage,  title-deeds,  and  all  com 
pleted, 

He  bought  a  coach  and  half  a   dozen 
horses  2° 

(The    bill's    at    Lawrence's — not   yet    re 
ceipted — 

You'll  find  the  amount  upon  his  list  of 
losses), 

Then  filled  his  rooms  with  servants,  and 
whatever 

Is  necessary  for  a  "genteel  liver." 


This  last  removal  fixed  him:  every  stain 
Was  blotted  from  his  "household  coat," 
and  he 

Now  "showed  the  world  he  was  a  gentle 
man," 


And,  what  is  better,  could  afford  to  be; 
His  step  was  loftier  than  it  was  of  old, 
His  laugh  less  frequent,  and  his  manner 
told  3<> 

CXL 

What  lovers  call  "unutterable  things" — 

That  sort  of  dignity  was  in  his  mien 
Which  awes  the  gazer  into  ice,  and  brings 
To  recollection  some  great  man  we've 

seen, 
The  Governor,  perchance,  whose  eye  and 

frown, 

'Twas    shrewdly    guessed,    would    knock 
Judge  Skinner  down. 

CXLI 
And  for  "Resources,"  both  of  purse  and 

head, 

He  was  a  subject  worthy  Bristed's  pen; 
Believed  devoutly  all  his  flatterers  said, 
And  deemed  himself  a  Crcesus  among 
men ;  4° 

Spread  to  the  liberal  air  his  silken  sails, 
And   lavished   guineas   like   a   Prince   of 
Wales. 

CXLII 

He  mingled  now  with  those  within  whose 

veins 
The  blood  ran   pure — the  magnates  of 

the  land — 
Hailed  them  as  his  companions  and  his 

friends, 
And  lent  them  money  and  his  note  of 

hand. 

In  every  institution,  whose  proud  aim 
Is  public  good  alone,  he  soon  became 

CXLIII 

A  man  of  consequence  and  notoriety; 
His  name,  with  the  addition  of  esquire,  so 
Stood  high  upon  the  list  of  each  society, 
Whose  zeal  and  watchfulness  the  sacred 

fire 

Of  science,  agriculture,  art,  and  learning, 
Keep  on  our  country's  altars  bright  and 
burning. 

CXLIV 
At  Eastburn's  Rooms  he  met,  at  two  each 

day, 
With  men  of  taste  and  judgment  like 

his  own, 
And  played  "first  fiddle"  in  that  orchestra 

Of  literary  worthies — and  the  tone 
Of    his    mind's    music    by    the    listeners 

caught, 

Is  traced  among  them  still  in  language 
and  in  thought.  fo 


158 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


CXLV 

He  once  made  the  Lyceum  a  choice  pres 
ent 
Of   mussel-shells   picked  up   at   Rocka- 

way; 

And  Mitchill  gave  a  classical  and  pleasant 
Discourse  about  them  in  the  streets  that 

day, 
Naming  the   shells,  and  hard  to   put  in 

verse  'twas 

"Testaceous  coverings  of  bivalve  mol- 
luscas." 

CXLVI 
He  was  a  trustee  of  a  Savings  Bank, 

And  lectured   soundly   every   evil-doer, 

Gave  dinners  daily  to  wealth,  power,  and 

rank,  ^ 

And  sixpence,  every  Sunday  to  the  poor,; 

He  was  a  wit,  in  the  pun-making  line — 

Past  fifty  years  of  age,  and  five  feet  nine. 

CXLVII 

But  as  he  trod  to  grandeur's  pinnacle, 
With  eagle  eye  and  step  that  never  fal 
tered, 

The  busy  tongue  of  scandal  dared  to  tell 
That   cash   was    scarce  with   him,   and 

credit  altered; 

And  while  he  stood  the  envy  of  beholders, 
The    Bank    Directors    grinned,    and 
shrugged  their  shoulders. 

CXLVIII 
And  when  these,  the  Lord  Burleighs  of 

the  minute, 

Shake  their   sage  heads,   and  look   de 
mure  and  holy,  8° 
Depend  upon  it  there  is  something  in  it; 
For  whether  born  of  wisdom  or  of  folly, 
Suspicion  is  a  being  whose  fell  power 
Blights    everything  it   touches,    fruit   and 
flower. 

Separately  published,  Dec.,  1819. 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF 

JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE, 
of  New  York,  September,  1820. 

"The  good   die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust, 
Burn  to  the  socket."  — WORDSWORTH. 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee, 
Friend  of  my  better  days !     • 

None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 
Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 


Tears  fell  when  thou  wert  dying, 
From  eyes  unused  to  weep, 

And  long,  where  thou  are  lying, 
Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven, 
Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 

There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 
To  tell  the  world  their  worth ; 

And  I  who  woke  each  morrow 
To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 

Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 
Whose  weal  and  woe  were  thine: 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow, 
But  I've  in  vain  essayed  it, 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  memory  bids   me  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 


The  Quarterly  Repository, 


MARCO  BOZZARIS 


1820. 


At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power : 
In   dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he 

bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror; 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet  ring : 
Then   pressed   that   monarch's   throne — a 

king; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing,    TO 

As  Eden's  garden  bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 
There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood, 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood 

On  old  Plataea's  day; 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquered  there, 
With  arm  to  strike  and  soul  to  dare,      2I 

As  quick,  as  far  as  they. 

1  Marco  Bozzaris,  one  of  the  best  and  bravest 
of  the  modern  Greek  chieftains.  He  fell  in  a 
night  attack  upon  the  Turkish  camp  at  Laspi, 
the  site  of  the  ancient  Plataea,  August  20,  1823, 
and  expired  in  the  moment  of  victory. 


FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK 


159 


An  hour  passed  on — the  Turk  awoke; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 
He  woke — to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 

"To  arms  !  they  come  I  «the  Greek !  the 

Greek !" 

He  woke — to  die  midst  flame,  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre-stroke, 

Ana  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings    from  the   mountain-cloud ; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud,  3* 

Bqzzaris  cheer  his  band : 
"Strike — till  the  last  armed   foe  expires; 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires ; 
Strike — for    the    green    graves    of    your 
sires ; 

God — and  your  native  land !" 

They   fought — like   brave  men,   long   and 
well ; 

They   piled   that  ground   with    Moslem 

slain, 
They  conquered — but  Bozzaris   fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein.  40 

His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won ; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal-chamber,  Death ! 

Come  to  the  mother's,  when  she  feels, 
For-  the  first  time,  her  first-born's  breath ; 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals  5° 

That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke; 
Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form, 
The  earthquake   shock,  the  ocean-storm ; 
Come    when    the    heart    beats    high    and 
warm, 

With  banquet  -  song,  and  dance  and 

wine; 

And  thou  art  terrible — the  tear, 
The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier; 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear 

Of  agony,  are  thine.  6° 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word ; 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Come,  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wrought — 
Come,  with  her  laurel-leaf,  blood  bought — 

Come  in  her  crowning  hour — and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight  7° 

Of  sky  and  stars  to  prisoned  men: 


Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land; 
Thy  summons   welcome   as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 

To  the  world-seeking  Genoese. 
When  the  land  wind,  from  woods  of  palm, 
And  orange-groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 

Blew  o'er  the  Haytian  seas. 

Bozzaris !  with  the  storied  brave  8° 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Rest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 
She  wore  no   funeral-weeds   for  thee, 

Nor   bade    the    dark    hearse    wave    it's 

plume 

Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leafless  tree 
In  sorrow's  pomp  and  pageantry, 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb: 
But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved  and  for  a  season  gone;          9° 
For  thee  her  poet's  lyre  is  wreathed, 
Her  marble  wrought,  her  music  breathed; 
For  thee  she  rings  the  birthday  bells ; 
Of  thee  her  babes'  first  lisping  tells; 
For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said 
At  palace-couch  and  cottage-bed; 
Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe, 
Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow; 
His  plighted  maiden,  when  she  fears 
For  him  the  joy  of  her  young  years,      I0° 
Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her  [tears: 

And  she,  the  mother  of  thy  boys, 
Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak, 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys, 
And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, 
Will,  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh; 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's ; 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names,      ri° 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 


The  New  York  Review,  — 
THE   IRON   GRAYS' 


1823. 


We  twine  the  wreath  of  honor 

Around  the  warrior's  brow, 
Who,  at  his  country's  altar,  breathes 

The  life-devoting  vow, 
And  shall  we  to  the  Iron  Grays 

The  meed  of  praise  deny, 
Who  freely  swore,  in  danger's  days, 

For  their  native  land  to  die? 


excited  their  martial  ardor  by  this  spirited  ode. 


160 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


For  o'er  our  bleeding  country 

Ne'er  lowered  a  darker  storm,  l° 

Than  bade  them  round  their  gallant  chief 

The  iron  phalanx  form. 
When  first  their  banner  waved  in  air, 

Invasion's  bands  were  nigh, 
And  the  battle-drum  beat  long  and  loud, 

And  the  torch  of  war  blazed  high ! 

Though  still  bright  gleam  their  bayonets, 

Unstained  with  hostile  gore, 
Far  distant  yet  is  England's  host, 

Unheard  her  cannon's  roar.  2° 

Yet  not  in  vain  they  flew  to  arms ; 

It  made  the  foemen  know 
That  many  a  gallant  heart  must  bleed 

Ere  freedom's  star  be  low. 

Guards  of  a  nation's  destiny ! 

High  is  that  nation's  claim, 
For  not  unknown  your  spirit  proud, 

Nor  your  daring  chieftain's  name. 
'Tis  yours  to  shield  the  dearest  ties 

That  bind  to  life  the  heart,  3° 

That  mingle  with  the  earliest  breath, 

And  with  our  last  depart. 

The  angel-smile  of  beauty 

What  heart  but  bounds  to  feel? 
Her  fingers  buckled  on  the  belt, 

That  sheathes  your  gleaming  steel. 
And  if  the  soldier's  honored  death 

In  battle  be  your  doom, 
Her  tears  shall  bid  the  flowers  be  green 

That  blossom  round  your  tomb.  40 

Tread  on  the  path  of  duty, 

Band  of  the  patriot  brave, 
Prepared  to  rush,  at  honor's  call, 

"To  glory  or  the  grave." 
Nor  bid  your  flag  again  be  furled 

Till  proud  its  eagles  soar, 
Till  the  battle-drum  has  ceased  to  beat, 

And  the  war-torch  burns  no  more. 

CONNECTICUT 

From  An  Unfinished  Poem 

"The  woods  in  which  we  had  dwelt  pleasantly 
rustled  their  green  leaves  in  the  song,  and  our 
streams  were  there  with  the  sound  of  all  their 
waters."  — MONTROSE. 

I 

Still  her  gray  rocks  tower  above  the  sea 
That  crouches  at  their  feet,  a  conquered 

wave; 
'Tis  a  rough  land  of  earth,  and  stone,  and 

tree, 

Where  breathes  no  castled  lord  or  cab 
ined  slave; 


Where  thoughts,  and  tongues,  and  hands 

are  bold  and  free, 
And  friends  will  find  a  welcome,   foes 

a  grave;    :  •. 
And    where    none    kneel,    save    when    to 

Heaven  they  pray, 
Nor  even  then,  unless  in  their  own  way. 


II 

Theirs  is  a  pure  republic,  wild,  yet  strong, 

A    "fierce    democracie,"    where    all    are 

true  I0 

To  what  themselves  have  voted — right  or 

wrong — 

And  to  their  laws  denominated  blue ; 
(If  red,  they  might  to  Draco's  code  be 
long;) 
A  vestal  state,  which  power  could  not 

subdue, 
Nor   promise   win — like   her  own   eagle's 

nest, 
Sacred — the  San  Marino  of  the  West. 


in 

A    justice    of    the    peace,    for    the    time 

being, 
They   bow   to,   but   may  turn   him   out 

next  year; 

They  reverence  their  priest,  but  disagree 
ing 

In  price  or  creed,  dismiss  him  without 

fear;  2° 

They  have  a  natural  talent  for  foreseeing 

And    knowing    all    things ;    and    should 

Park  appear 

From   his  long  tour  in   Africa,   to   show 
The  Niger's  source,  they'd  meet  him  with 
— "we  know." 


rv 

They  love  their  land,  because  it  is  their 

own, 
And  scorn  to  give  aught  other  reason 

why; 
Would  shake  hands  with  a  king  upon  his 

throne, 

And  think  it  kindness  to  his  majesty; 
A   stubborn   race,    fearing   and   flattering 

none. 
Such  are  they  nurtured,  such  they  live 

and  die ;  3° 

All  but  a   few  apostates,   who   are  med 
dling 
With     merchandise,    pounds,     shillings, 

pence,  and  peddling; 


FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK 


161 


Or  wandering  through  the  Southern  coun 
tries  teaching 

The   ABC   from   Webster's   spelling- 
book; 
Gallant    and     godly,     making    love     and 

preaching, 
And  gaining  by  what  they  call   "hook 

and  crook," 

And  what  the  moralists  call  overreaching, 
A  decent  living.     The  Virginians  look 
Upon  them  with  as  favorable  eyes 
As  Gabriel  on  the  devil  in  paradise.       40 


VI 

But  these  are  but  their  outcasts.     View 

them  near 
At   home,   where   all   their   worth    and 

pride  is  placed; 

And  there  their  hospitable  fires  burn  clear, 
And  there  the  lowliest  farmhouse  hearth 

is  graced 

With  manly  hearts,  in  piety  sincere, 
Faithful    in    love,    in    honor    stern   and 

chaste, 
In   friendship  warm  and  true,  in  danger 

brave, 
Beloved  in  life,  and  sainted  in  the  grave. 


And    minds    have    there    been    nurtured, 

whose  control 

Is  felt  even  in  their  nation's  destiny;   5<> 
Men  who  swayed  senates  with  a  states 
man's  soul, 
And  looked  on  armies  with  a  leader's 

eye; 

Names  that  adorn  and  dignify  the  scjoll, 
Whose    leaves    contain    their    country's 

history, 

And  tales  of  love  and  war — listen  to  one 
Of  the  Green-Mountaineer — the  Stark  of 
Bennington. 

VIII 

When  on  that  field  his  band  the  Hessians 

fought, 

Briefly  he  spoke  before  the  fight  began : 
"Soldiers !    those    German    gentlemen   are 

bought 
For   four  pounds  eight  and  seven  pence 

per  man,  6° 

By    England's    king;    a    bargain,    as    is 

thought. 
Are  we   worth   more?     Let's   prove  it 

now  we  can; 


For  we  must  beat  them,  boys,  ere  set  of 

sun, 
OR    MARY    STARR'S    A    WIDOW."     It    was 

done. 

IX 

Hers    are    not    Tempe's    nor    Arcadia's 

spring, 
Nor    the    long    summer    of    Cathayan 

vales, 
The  vines,  the  flowers,  the  air,  the  skies, 

that  fling 
Such  wild  enchantment  o'er  Boccaccio's 

tales 

Of  Florence  and  the  Arno;  yet  the  wing 
Of  life's  best  angel,  Health,  is  on  her 
gales  70 

Through  sun   and  snow;   and  in  the  au 
tumn-time 
Earth  has  no  purer  and  no  lovelier  clime. 


Her    clear,    warm    heaven    at'   noon  —  the 

mist  that  shrouds 
Her  twilight  hills  —  her  cool  and  starry 

eyes, 
The    glorious     splendor    of    her    sunset 

clouds, 
The    rainbow    beauty    of    her    forest- 

leaves, 

Come  o'er  the  eye,  in  solitude  and  crowds, 
Where'er    his    web    of    song   her   poet 

weaves  ; 
And  his  mind's  brightest  vision  but  dis 

plays 
The    autumn    scenery    of    his    boyhood's 

days.  80 

XI 

And  when  you  dream  of  woman,  and  her 

love; 
Her   truth,   her   tenderness,    her  gentle 

power; 
The    maiden    listening    in    the    moonlight 

grove, 
The    mother    smiling    in    her    infant's 

bower; 
Forms,    features,    worshipped    while    we 

breathe  or  move, 
Be   by    some    spirit    of   your   dreaming 

hour 
Borne,  like  Loretto's  chapel,  through  the 

air 
To  the  green  land  I  sing,  then  wake,  you'll 

find  them  there. 


1  There   is  no   trace  of  the   stanza   under   XII 
in  any  edition  the  editor  has  consulted. 


162 


AMERICAN   POETRY 


XIII 

They  burnt  their  last  witch  in  CONNECTI 
CUT 

About  a  century  and  a  half  ago;          90 
They  made  a  school-house  of  her  forfeit 

hut, 
And  gave  a  pitying  sweet-brier  leave  to 

grow 
Above  her  thankless  ashes ;  and  they  put 

A  certified  description  of  the  show 
Between     two     weeping-willows,     craped 

with  black, 
On  the  last  page  of  that  year's  almanac. 

XIV 

Some    warning   and   well-meant   remarks 

were  made 

Upon  the  subject  by  the  weekly  print 
ers'; 

The  people  murmured  at  the  taxes  laid 
To    pay    for    jurymen    and    pitch-pine 
splinters,  I0° 

And  the  sad  story  made  the  rose-leaf  fade 
Upon  young  listeners'  cheeks   for  sev 
eral  winters 
When  told  at  fireside  eves  by  those  who 

saw 
Executed — the  lady  and  the  law. 

xv 
She  and  the  law  found  rest:  years  rose 

.and  set; 

That  generation,  cottagers  and  kings, 
Slept  with  their  fathers,  and  the  violet 
Has    mourned    above    their    graves    a 

hundred  springs : 
Few  persons  keep  a  file  of  the  Gazette, 

And  almanacs  are  sublunary  things,    II0 
So  that  her  fame  is  almost  lost  to  earth, 
As  if  she  ne'er  had  breathed;  and  of  her 
birth, 

XVI 

And   death,   and  lonely   life's   mysterious 

matters, 

And  how  she  played,  in  our  forefathers' 
times, 

The  very  devil  with  their  sons  and  daugh 
ters; 

And  how  those  "delicate  Ariels"  of  her 
crimes, 

The  spirits  of  the  rocks,  and  woods,  and 

waters, 

Obeyed  her  bidding  when   in  charmed 
rhymes, 

She    muttered,    at    deep    midnight,    spells 
whose  power 

Woke  from  brief  dream  of  dew  the  sleep 
ing  summer  flower,  I2° 


XVII 

And     hushed     the     night-bird's     solitary 

hymn, 

And   spoke   in   whispers   to   the    forest- 
tree, 

Till  his  awed  branches  trembled,  leaf  and 

limb, 

And  grouped  her  churchyard  shapes  of 
fantasie 

Round   merry   moonlight's   meadow-foun 
tain's  brim, 

And   mocking    for   a   space   the    dread 
decree, 

Brought  back  to  dead,  cold  lips  the  parted 
breath, 

And  changed  to  banquet-board  the  bier  of 
death, 

XVIII 

None    knew — except    a    patient,    precious 

few, 

Who've  read  the  folios  of  one  COTTON 

MATHER,  J3o 

A  chronicler  of  tales  more  strange  than 

true, 

New   England's  chaplain,   and  her  his 
tory's  father; 

A   second   Monmputh's  GEOFFREY,  a  new 

HERODOTUS,  their  laureled  victor  rather, 

For  in  one  art  he  soars  above  them  high : 

The  Greek  or  Welshman  does  not  always 

lie. 

XIX 

Know  ye  the  venerable  COTTON?     He 
Was  the  first  publisher's  tourist  on  this 

station ; 
The   first   who   made,   by   labelling   earth 

and  sea, 

A  huge  book,  and  a  handsome  specula 
tion  :  140 
And  ours  was  then  a  land  of  mystery, 
Fit  theme   for  poetry's  exaggeration, 
The  wildest  wonder  of  the  month;   and 

there 
He  wandered  freely,  like  a  bird  or  bear, 

xx 

And  wove  his  forest  dreams  into  quaint 

prose, 
Our    sires    his    heroes,    where,    in    holy 

strife, 
They  treacherously  war  with  friends  and 

foes; 

Where  meek  religion  wears  the  assas 
sin's  knife, 
And    "bids    the    desert    blossom    like    the 

rose," 

By  sprinkling  earth  with  blood  of  In 
dian    life,  :5° 


FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK 


163 


And   rears  her  altars  o'er  the   indignant 

bones 
Or   murdered   maidens,   wives,   and   little 

ones. 

XXI 

Herod  of  Galilee's  babe-butchering  deed 
Lives    not    on    history's    blushing    page 
alone ; 

Our  skies,  it  seems,  have  seen  like  victims 

bleed, 

And  our  own  Ramahs  echoed  groan  for 
groan : 

The  fiends  of  France,  whose  cruelties  de 
creed 

Those  dextrous  drownings  in  the  Loire 
and  Rhone, 

Were  at  their  worst,  but  copyists  second 
hand 

Of   our   shrined,   sainted   sires,   the    Ply 
mouth  pilgrim-band,  .      l6° 

xxn 
Or    else   fibs    MATHER.     Kindred    wolves 

have  bayed 
Truth's    moon    in    chorus,    but    believe 

them  not ! 
Beneath   the    dark   trees   that   the   Lethe 

shade, 

Be  he,  his  folios,  followers,  facts,  forgot ; 
And  let  his  perishing  monument  be  made 
Of  his  own  unsold  volumes :  'tis  the  lot 
Of  many,  may  be  mine;  and  be  it  MATH 
ER'S, 

That   slanderer   of   the    memory   of   our. 
fathers. 

xxin 
And   who   were   they,    our    fathers?     In 

their  veins 

Ran  the  best  blood  of  England's  gentle 
men  :  17° 
Her  bravest  in  the  strife  on  battle-plains, 
Her  wisest    in  the  strife  of  voice  and 

pen; 

Her  holiest,  teaching,  in  her  holiest  fanes, 
The  lore  that  led  to  martyrdom;   and 

when 
On    this    side    ocean    slept    their    wearied 

sails, 

And  their  toil-bells  woke  up  our  thousand 
hills  and  dales, 

XXIV 

Shamed    they    their    fathers?      Ask    the 

village-spires 

Above   their    Sabbath-homes    of    praise 
and  prayer ; 

Ask  of  their  children's  happy  household- 
fires, 


And  happier  harvest  noons;  ask  sum 
mer's  air,  l8° 

Made  merry  by  young  voices,  when  the 

wires 

Of  their  school-cages  are  unloosed,  and 
dare 

Their    slanderers'    breath    to    blight    the 
memory 

That  p'er  their  graves  is  "growing  green 
to  see !" 

XXV 

If  he  has  "writ  their  annals  true";  if  they 
The  Christian-sponsored  and  the  Chris 
tian-nursed, 

Clouded  with  crime  the  sunset  of  their  day 
And  warmed  their  winter's  hearths  with 

fires  accursed ; 

And  if  the  stain  that  time  wears  not  away 

Of  guilt  was  on  the   pilgrim  axe  that 

first  190 

Our  wood-paths'  roses  blest  with  smiles 

from  heaven, 

In  charity   forget,   and  hope   to  be   for 
given. 

XXVI 

Forget  their  story's  cruelty  and  wrong; 

Forget  their  story-teller;  or  but  deem 

His  facts  the  fictions  of  a  minstrel's  song, 

The    myths    and    marvels    of    a    poet's 

dream. 

And  are  they  not  such?    Suddenly  among 
My  mind's  dark  thoughts  its  boyhood's 

sunrise  beam 
Breathes  in  spring  balm  and  beauty  o'er 

my  page- 
Joy  !  joy !  my  patriot  wrath  hath  wronged 
.    the  reverend  sage.  «» 

XXVII 

Welcome !  young  boyhood,  welcome !    Of 

thy  lore, 
Thy  morning-gathered  wealth  of  prose 

and   rhyme, 

Of  fruit  the  flower,  of  gold  the  infant  ore, 
The     roughest     shuns     not    manhood's 

stormy  clime, 

But  loves  wild  ocean's  winds  and  break 
ers'   roar; 
While,   of   the   blossoms   of   the   sweet 

spring-time, 

The  bonniest,  and  most  beautiful  of  joy, 
Shrink  from  the  man,  and  cling  around 
the  boy. 

XXVIII 

But    now,    like    doves    "with  healing    on 

their  wings," 

Blossom     and     fruit    with  gladdening 

kindness  come,  2I° 


164 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Charming  to  sleep  my  murmuring  song, 

that  sings, 
Unworthy  dirges  over  MATHER'S  tomb: 

Welcome  the  olive-branch  their  message 

brings ! 

It  bids  me  wish  him  not  the  moulder 
ing   doom 

Of  nameless  scrives  of  "memoires  pour 
servir," 

Dishonest    "chroniclers    of   time's    small- 
beer." 

XXIX 

No :  a  born  Poet,  at  his  cradle-fire 
The  muses  nursed  him  as  their  bud  un 
blown, 
And   gave    him    as    his    mind   grew    high 

and    higher, 

Their     ducal     strawberry  -  leaf's     en- 
wreathed    renown.  22° 
Alas !  that  mightiest  masters  of  the  lyre, 
Whose    pens    above    an    eagle's    heart 

have  grown, 

In   all  the  proud   nobility  of  wing, 
Should  stoop  to  dip  their  points  in  pas 
sion's  poison-spring! 

xxx 

Yet  MILTON,  weary  of  his  youth's  young 

wife, 

To  her,  to  king,  to  church,  to  law  un 
true, 
Warred    for   divorce   and   discord  to   the 

knife, 
And     proudest     wore     his     plume     of 

darkest  hue : 
And  DANTE,  when  his  FLORENCE,  in  her 

strife, 
Robbed  him   of  office  and  his  temper, 

threw  230 

'Mongst  friends  and  foes  a  bomb-shell  of 

fierce  rhymes, 
Shivering  their  names  and   fames   to  all 

succeeding  times. 

XXXI 

And    our    own    MATHER'S    fire-and-fagot 

tale 
Of  conquest,  with  her  "garments  rolled 

in  blood," 
And    banners    blackening,    like    a    pirate's 

sail, 
The  Mayflower's  memories  of  the  brave 

and  good, 
Though  but  a  brain-born  dream  of  fain 

and  hail, 
And  in  his  epic  but  an  episode, 


Proves  mournfully  the  strange  and  sad 
admission 

Of  much  sour  grape-juice  in  his  disposi 
tion.  24° 

XXXII 

O   Genius !   powerful   with   thy   praise  or 

blame, 
When  art  thou  feigning?  when  art  thou 

sincere? 
MATHER,  who   banned   his   living   friends 

with  shame, 
In     funeral-sermons    blessed    them    on 

their  bier, 
And  made  their  death-beds  beautiful  with 

fame — 
Fame  true  and  gracious  as  a  widow's 

tear 

To  her  departed  darling  husband  given ; 
Him  whom  she  scolded  up  from  earth  to 

heaven. 

XXXIII 

Thanks  for  his  funeral-sermons ;  they  re 
call 

The  sunshine  smiling  through  his  folio's 

leaves,  2so 

That  makes  his  readers'  hours  in  bower 

or  hall 
Joyous    as    plighted    hearts    on    bridal 

eves ; 

Chasing,  like  music  from  the  soul  of  Saul, 
The  doubt  that  darkens,  and  the  ill  that 

grieves; 

And  honoring  the  author's  heart  and  mind, 
That  beats  to  bless,  and  toils  to  ennoble 
human  kind. 

xxxiv 

His  chaplain-mantle  worthily  to  wear, 
He    fringed   its   sober  gray   with   poet- 
bays, 

And  versed  the  Psalms  of  David  to  the  air 
Of  YANKEE-DOODLE,  for  Thanksgiving- 
days  ;  26° 
Thus   hallowing  with   the  earnestness   of 

prayer, 

And  patriotic  purity  of  praise, 
Unconscious  of  irreverence  or  wrong, 
Our    manliest    battle-tune    and    merriest 
bridal  song. 


The  good  the  Rhine-song  does  to  German 

hearts, 
Or  thine,  Marseilles !  to  France's  fiery 

blood  ; 

The  good  thy  anthemed  harmony  imparts, 
"Goo,    save   the    Queen !"    to    England's 
field  and  flood, 


FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK 


165 


A  home-born  blessing,  Nature's  boon,  not 

Art's ; 

The  same  heart-cheering,   spirit-warm 
ing  good,  27° 
To  us  and  ours,  where'er  we  war  or  woo, 
Thy  words  and  music,   Y AN KEE- DOODLE  ! 
'—do. 

XXXVI 

Beneath  thy  Star,  as  one  of  the  THIRTEEN, 
Land    of    my    lay !    through    many    a 

battle's  night 
Thy    gallant    men    stepped    steady    and 

serene, 
To  that  war-music's  stern  and  strong 

delight. 
Where    bayonets    clinched    above    the 

trampled  green, 

Where   sabres   grappled   in   the   ocean- 
fight; 
In   siege,  in  storm,  on  deck  or  rampart, 

there  V9 

They  hunted  the  wolf  Danger  to  his  lair, 
And   sought   and   won   sweet   Peace,   and 

wreaths  for  Honor's  hair ! 

XXXVII 

And  with  thy  smiles,  sweet  Peace,  came 

woman's,  bringing 
The  Eden-sunshine  of  her  welcome  kiss, 

And  lovers'   flutes,   and   children's  voices 

singing 

The   maiden's   promised,   matron's   per 
fect  bliss, 

And  heart  and  home-bells  blending  with 

their  ringing 

Thank-offerings  borne  to  holier  worlds 
than  this, 

And  the  proud  green  of  Glory's  laurel- 
leaves, 

And  gold,  the  gift  to  Peace,  of  Plenty's 
summer  sheaves. 

RED  JACKET* 

A  Chief  of  the  Indian  Tribes,  the 
Tuscaroras. 

On  looking  at  his  portrait  by  Weir. 

COOPER,  whose  name  is  with  his  country's 

woven, 

First  in  her  files,  her  PIONEER  of  mind — 
A   wanderer    now    in    other   climes,2    has 

proven 

His   love    for   the   young   land   he   left 
behind ; 

1  "Red    Jacket"    appeared    originally    in    1828, 
soon     after     the     publication     of     Mr.     Cooper's 
"Notions   of   the   Americans." 

2  Cooper   was  abroad   from   1825   to   1832. 


And   throned   her    in   the    senate-hall   of 

nations, 

Robed  like  the  deluge  rainbow,  heaven- 
wrought  ; 

Magnificent  as  his  own  mind's  creations, 
And   beautiful   as    its   green   world   of 
thought : 

And    faithful    to    the    Act    of    Congress, 

quoted 

As  law  authority,  it  passed  nem.  con. :  '° 
He  writes  that  we  are,  as  ourselves  have 

voted, 
The     most     enlightened    people    ever 

known. 

That  all  pur  week  is  happy  as  a  Sunday 
In  Paris,  full  of  song,  and  dance,  and 

laugh ; 
And   that,   from   Orleans  to   the   Bay  of 

Fundy, 
There's  not  a  bailiff  or  an  epitaph: 

And    furthermore  —  in    fifty   years,    or 

sooner, 

We  shall  export  our  poetry  and  wine; 
And   our  brave  fleet,   eight   frigates  and 

a  schooner, 

Will  sweep   the   seas   from  Zembla  to 
the  Line.  20 

If  he  were  with  me,  King  of  Tuscarora! 

Gazing,  as  I,  upon  thy  portrait  now, 
In  all  its  medalled,   fringed,  and  beaded 

glory, 

Its  eye's  dark  beauty,  and  its  thought 
ful  brow — 

Its  brow,  half  martial  and  half  diplomatic, 
Its  eye,  upsoaring  like  an  eagle's  wings ; 

Well  might  he  boast  that  we,  the  Demo 
cratic, 
Outrival  Europe,  even  in  our  Kings! 

For  thou  wast  monarch  born.    Tradition's 

pages 

Tell  not  the  planting  of  thy  parent  tree, 

But  that  the  forest  tribes  have  bent  for 

ages  31 

To  thee,  and  to  thy  sires,  the  subject 

knee. 

Thy  name  is  princely — if  no  poet's  magic 
Could  make  RED  JACKET  grace  an  Eng 
lish  rhyme, 
Though  some  one  with  a  genius  for  the 

tragic 
Hath  introduced  it  in  a  pantomime — 


166 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Yet  it  is  music  in  the  language  spoken 
Of  thine  own  land,  and  on  her  herald- 
roll; 
As  bravely   fought   for,  and  as   proud  a 

token 

As  Coeur  de  Lion's  of  a  warrior's  soul. 

40 

Thy    garb — though    Austria's    bosom-star 

would  frighten 
That  medal  pale,  as  diamonds  the  dark 

mine, 
And  George  the  Fourth  wore,  at  his  court 

at  Brighton 

A   more  becoming   evening    dress   than 
thine ; 

Yet  'tis  a  brave  one,  scorning  wind  and 

weather, 
And  fitted   for  thy  couch,  on  field  and 

flood, 
As   Rob   Roy's   tartan    for  the   Highland 

heather, 

Or    forest   green    for    England's    Robin 
Hood. 

Is    strength    a    monarch's    merit,    like    a 

whaler's? 

Thou    art    as    tall,    as    sinewy,    and    as 

strong  so 

As  earth's  first  kings — the  Argo's  gallant 

sailors, 
Heroes  in  history  and  gods  in  song. 

Is    beauty? — Thine    has    with    thy    youth 

departed ; 
But  the  love-legends  of  thy  manhood's 

years, 

And  she  who  perished,  young  and  broken 
hearted, 

Are — but  I   rhyme   for   smiles  and  not 
for  tears. 

Is    eloquence? — Her    spell    is    thine    that 

reaches 
The  heart,  and  makes  the  wisest  head 

its  sport ; 
And  there's   one  rare,   strange   virtue   in 

thy  speeches, 

The  secret  of  their  mastery — they  are 
short.  6° 

The  monarch  mind,  the  mystery  of  com 
manding, 

The  birth-hour  gift,  the  art  Napoleon, 
Of  winning,  fettering,  moulding,  wielding, 

banding 

The  hearts  of  millions  till  they  move 
as  one : 


Thou  hast  it.    At  thy  bidding  men  have 

crowded 

The  road  to  death  as  to  a  festival ; 
And   minstrels,   at  their   sepulchers,   have 

shrouded 

With    banner- folds    of    glory    the    dark 
pall. 

Who  will  believe?     Not  I — for  in  deceiv 
ing 

Lies  the  dear  charm  of  life's  delightful 
dream ;  70 

I  cannot  spare  the  luxury  of  believing 
That  all  things  beautiful  are  what  they 
seem : 

Who  will  believe  that,  with  a  smile  whose 

blessing 
Would,    like   the    Patriarch's,    soothe   a 

dying  hour, 

With  voice  as  low,  as  gentle,  and  caress 
ing, 

As    e'er    won    maiden's   lip    in    moonlit 
bower : 

With    look    like    patient   Job's    eschewing 

evil; 
With   motions   graceful   as    a   bird's   in 

air: 

Thou  art,  in  sober  truth,  the  veriest  devil 

That  e'er  clinched  fingers  in  a  captive's 

hair!  80 

That  in  thy  breast  there  springs  a  poison 

fountain, 
Deadlier    than    that    where    bathes    the 

Upas-tree ; 

And  in  thy  wrath  a  nursing  cat-o'-moun 
tain 

Is  calm  as   her  babe's   sleep  compared 
with  thee ! 

And   underneath   that    face,   like   summer 

ocean's, 
Its   lip   as   moveless,   and   its   cheek   as 

clear, 

Slumbers  a  whirlwind  of  the  heart's  emo 
tions, 

Love,   hatred,    pride,   hope,   sorrow — all 
save  fear : 

Love — for  thy   land,   as   if  she  were  thy 

daughter, 

Her    pipe    in    peace,    her   tomahawk   in 

wars ;  9° 

Hatred — of  missionaries  and  cold  water ; 

Pride — in    thy    rifle-trophies    and    thy 

scars ; 


FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK 


167 


Hope — that  thy   wrongs   may   be,  by  the 

Great  Spirit, 
Remembered  and   revenged  when  thou 

art  gone ; 

Sorrow — that   none   are  left  thee   to   in 
herit 

Thy  name,  thy  fame,  thy  passions,  and 
thy  throne! 

The  Talisman,  1828. 


THE    FIELD    OF   THE    GROUNDED 
ARMS 

SARATOGA 

Strangers !  your  eyes  are  on  that  valley 

fixed 
Intently,  as  we  gaze  on  vacancy. 

When  the  mind's  wings  o'erspread 

The  spirit-world  of  dreams. 

True,  'tis  a  scene  of  loveliness — the  bright 
Green  dwelling  of  the  summer's  first  born 
Hours, 

Whose  wakened  leaf  and  bud 

Are  welcoming  the  morn. 

And  morn  returns  the  welcome,  sun  and 

cloud 

Smile  on  the  green  earth  from  their  home 
in  heaven,  I0 

Even  as  a  mother  smiles 
Above  her  cradled  boy, 

And   wreath   their   light   and   shade   o'er 

plain  and  mountain, 
O'er  sleepless  seas  of  grass,  whose  waves 

are  flowers, 

The  river's  golden  shores, 
The  forest  of  dark  pines. 

The  song  of  the  wild  bird  is  on  the  wind. 
The  hum  of  the  wild  bee,  the  music  wild 

Of  waves  upon  the  bank. 

Of  leaves  upon  the  bough.  2° 

But  all  is  song  and  beauty  in  the  land. 
Beneath  her  skies  of  June;  then  journey 
on, 

A  thousand  scenes  like  this 

Will  greet  you  ere  the  eve. 

Ye  linger  yet — ye  see  not,  hear  not  now, 
The  sunny  smile,  the  music  of  to-day, 

Your  thoughts  are  wandering  up, 

Far  up  the  stream  of  time; 


And  boyhood's  lore  and  fireside-listened 

tales 

Are    rushing    on    your    memories,    as    ye 
breathe  3° 

That  valley's  storied  name, 
FIELD  OF  THE  GROUNDED  ARMS. 

Strangers  no  more,  a  kindred  "pride  of 

place," 
Pride  in  the  gift  of  country  and  of  name, 

Speaks  in  your  eye  and  step — 

Ye  tread  your  native  land. 

And  your  high  thoughts  are  on  her  glory's 
day, 

The  solemn  sabbath  of  the  week  of  battle, 
Whose  tempests  bowed  to  earth 
Her  foeman's  banner  here.  4° 

The   forest-leaves  lay  scattered  cold  and 

dead, 
Upon    the    withered    grass    that    autumn 

morn, 

When,  with  as  widowed  hearts 
And  hopes  as  dead  and  cold, 

A  gallant  army  formed  their  last  array 
Upon   that   field,   in    silence   and    deep 

gloom, 

And  at  their  conqueror's  feet 
Laid  their  war-weapons  down. 

Sullen  and  stern,  disarmed  but  not  dis 
honored  ; 

Brave  men,  but  brave  in  vain,  they  yielded 
there ;  50 

The  soldier's  trial-task 
Is  not  alone  "to  die." 

Honor  to  chivalry !  the  conqueror's  breath 
Stains  not  the  ermine  of  his  foeman's' 
fame, 

Nor  mocks  his  captive's  doom — 

The  bitterest  cup  of  war. 

But  be  that  bitterest  cup  the  doom  of  all 
Whose  swords  are  lightning-flashes  in  the 
cloud 

Of  the  Invader's  wrath, 

Threatening  a  gallant  land!  &> 

His  armies'  trumpet-tones  wake  not  alone 
Her  slumbering  echoes;  from  a  thousand 
hills 

Her  answering  voices  shout, 

And  her  bells  ring  to  arms! 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Then    danger    hovers   o'er   the   Invader's 

march, 
On    raven    wings,    hushing    the    song   of 

fame, 

And  glory's  hues  of  beauty 
Fade  from  the  cheek  of  death. 

A  foe  is  heard  in  every  rustling  leaf, 
A  fortress  seen  in  every  rock  and  tree,  7° 

The  eagle  eye  of  art 

Is  dim  and  powerless  then, 

And  war  becomes  a  people's  joy,  the  drum 
Man's  merriest  music,  and  the  field  of 
death 

His  couch  of  happy  dreams, 

After  life's  harvest-home. 

He  battles  heart  and  arm,  his  own  blue 

sky 
Above    him,    and    his    own    green    land 

around, 

Land  of  his  father's  grave, 
His  blessing  and  his  prayers :  ^»° 


Land  where  he  learned  to  lisp  a  mother's 

.    name, 
The  first  beloved  in  life,  the  last  forgot, 

Land  of  his  frolic  youth, 

Land  of  his  bridal  eve — 

Land  of  his  children — vain  your  columned 

strength, 
Invaders  !  vain  your  battles'  steel  and  fire  ! 

Choose  ye  the  morrow's  doom — 

A  prison  or  a  grave. 

And  such  were  Saratoga's  victors — such 
The    Yeoman-Brave,    whose    deeds    and 
death  have  given  9° 

A  glory  to  her  skies, 

A  music  to  her  name. 

In  honorable  life  her  fields  they  trod, 
In  honorable  death  they  sleep  below ; 

Their  sons'  proud  feelings  here 

Their  noblest  monuments. 

1831. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 

(1794-1878) 


_      THANATOPSISi_ 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she 

speaks 

A  various  language;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.     When 

thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images  I0 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow 

house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at 

heart ; — 

Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To    Nature's    teachings,    while    from    all 

around — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of 

air — 
Comes  a  still  voice — Yet  a  few  days,  and 

thee 

The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In   all   his   course ;   nor   yet   in   the   cold 

ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many 

tears,  2° 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee, 

shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again. 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering 

"P. 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 

1  Thanatopsis  was  written  when  Bryant  was 
seventeen  or  eighteen  years  old.  As  originally 
printed  in  the  North  American  Review,  Septem 
ber,  1817,  it  began  at  line  17  of  the  present 
arrangement: 

Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
and  ended  with  lines  65  and  66 

and  shall  come 

And  make  their  bed  with  thee. 
As   it   now  stands   the  poem   was   first   published 
in   the   volume   of  poems  put   out  in   1821.      See 
"The    Growth    of    Thanatopsis,"    by    Carl     van 
Doren,  The  Nation,  October  7,  1915. 


To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude 

swain 
Turns   with  his   share,   and  treads .  upon. 

The  oak 
Shall   send   his   roots   abroad,   and   pierce 

thy  mould.  30 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou 

wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie 

down 
With    patriarchs    of   the    infant    world — 

with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the 

good, 

Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun, — the 

vales 

Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 
The  venerable  woods — rivers  that  move  40 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That   make   the    meadows   green ;    and, 

poured  round  all, 

Old  Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden 

sun, 

The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death. 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.    All  that 

tread 

The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That    slumber    in    its    bosom. — Take    the 

wings  5° 

Of  morning,  pierce  the  Barcan  wilderness, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where   rolls   the   Oregon,   and   hears   no 

sound, 
Save  his  own  dashings — yet  the  dead  are 

there : 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them 

down 
In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there 

alone. 

So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  what  if  thou  with 
draw 


169 


170 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note   of  thy   departure?     All   that 

breathe  fc 

Will   share   thy    destiny.     The   gay   will 

laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood 

of  care 
Plod    on,    and    each    one   as    before   will 

chase 
His  favorite  phantom;  yet  all  these  shall 

leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and 

shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the 

long  train 

Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he 

who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and 

maid, 
The  speechless  babe,  and  the  gray-headed 

man —  7° 

Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 
By  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow 

them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes 

to  join 

The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To    that    mysterious    realm,    where    each 

shall  take 

His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou    go    not,    like    the    quarry-slave    at 

night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained 

and  soothed 
By    an    unfaltering    trust,    approach    thy 

grave, 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his 

couch  8° 

About    him,    and    lies    down    to    pleasant 

dreams. 
1811? 
North  American  Review,  September,  1817. 


TO  A  WATERFOWL 


Whither,  midst  falling  dew. 
While    glow   the   heavens   with   the    last 

steps  of  day. 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou 

pursue 
Thy  solitary  way? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee 

wrong, 
As,  darkly  seen  against  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 


Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  Weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide,  10 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean-side? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches    thy    way    along    that    pathless 

coast — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air — 

Lone  wanderingTbutT  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmos 
phere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near.  » 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and 

rest, 
And    scream    among   thy    fellows;    reeds 

shall  bend, 
Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou  frt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form;  yet,  on  my 

heart 
Deeply    has    sunk   the   lesson    thou    hast 

given, 
And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 
Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  cer 
tain  flight,  3«> 
In  the  long  way  that  I.  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

North  American  Review,  1815. 


O  fairest  of  the  rural  maids! 
Thy  birth  was  in  the  forest  shades; 
Green  boughs,  and  glimpses  of  the  sky, 
Were  all  that  met  thine  infant  eye. 

Thy  sports,  thy  wanderings,  when  a  child, 
Were  ever  in  the  sylvan  wild; 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  place 
Is  in  thy  heart  and  on  thy  face. 

The  twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks 
Is  in  the  light  shade  of  thy  locks;  I0 

Thy  step  is  as  the  wind,  that  weaves 
Its  playful  way  among  the  leaves. 

Thine  eyes  are  springs,  in  whose  serene 
And  silent  waters  heaven  is  seen ; 
Their  lashes  are  the  herbs  that  look 
On  their  young  figures  in  the  brook. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 


171 


The  forest  depths,  by  foot  unpressed, 
Are  not  more  sinless  than  thy  breast; 
The  holy  peace,  that  fills  the  air 
Of  those  calm  solitudes,  is  there. 


1820. 


"Poems,"  1832. 


SUMMER  WIND 


It  is  a  sultry  day;  the  sun  has  drunk 
The  dew  that  lay  upon  the  morning  grass ; 
There  is  no  rustling  in  the  lofty  elm 
That  canopies  my  dwelling,  and  its  shade 
Scarce  cools  me.     All  is  silent,  save  the 

faint 

And  interrupted  murmur  of  the  bee, 
Settling    on    the    sick    flowers,    and    then 

again 

Instantly  on  the  wing.  The  plants  around 
Feel  the  too  potent  fervors :  the  tall  maize 
Rolls  up  its  long  green  leaves;  the  clover 

droops  I0 

Its  tender  foliage,  and  declines  its  blooms. 
But  far  in  the  fierce  sunshine  tower  the 

hills. 
With    all   their   growth   of   woods,  silent 

and  stern, 
As    if   the    scorching    heat    and    dazzling 

light 
Were  but  an  element  fhey  loved.     Bright 

clouds, 

Motionless  pillars  of  the  brazen  heaven — 
Their  bases  on  the  mountains — their  white 

tops 

Shining  in  the  far  ether — fire  the  air 
With  a  reflected  radiance,  and  make  turn 
The  gazer's  eye  away.    For  me,  I  lie      *° 
Languidly  in  the  shade,  where  the  thick 

turf, 

Yet  virgin  from  the  kisses  of  the  sun, 
Retains   some    freshness,   and   I  woo  the 

wind 
That    still    delays    his    coming.      Why   so 

slow, 

Gentle  and  voluble  spirit  of  the  air? 
Oh,  come  and  breathe  upon  the  fainting 

earth 

Coolness  and  life.  Is  it  that  in  his  caves 
He  hears  me?  See,  on  yonder  woody 

ridge, 
The  pine   is  bending  his  proud  top,  and 

now 
Among  the  nearer  groves,  chestnut  and 

oak  3» 

Are  tossing  their  green  boughs  about.    He 

comes ; 
Lo,   where   the   grassy   meadow    runs   in 

waves ! 
The  deep  distressful  silence  of  the  scene 


Breaks  up  with  mingling  of  unnumbered 

sounds 

And  universal  motion.     He  is  come, 
Shaking  a  shower  of  blossoms  from  the 

shrubs, 
And    bearing    their    fragrance;    and    he 

brings 
Music   of   birds,   and    rustling  of   young 

boughs, 
And  sound  of  swaying  branches,  and  the 

voice 
Of    distant    waterfalls.     All    the    green 

herbs  •*> 

Are   stirring   in   his   breath;    a   thousand 

flowers, 
By  the  road-side  and  the  borders  of  the 

brook, 

Nod  gayly  to  each  other;  glossy  leaves 
Are  twinkling  in  the  sun,  as  if  the  dew 
Were  on  them  yet,  and  silver  waters 

break  • 

Into  small  waves  and  sparkle  as  he  comes. 
1824. 

United  States  Literary  Gazette,  July  15, 
1824. 

MONUMENT  MOUNTAIN  * 

Thou  who  wouldst  see  the  lovely  and 

the  wild 

Mingled  in  harmony  on  Nature's  face, 
Ascend   our    rocky    mountains.      Let   thy 

foot 

Fail  not  with  weariness,  for  on  their  tops 
The  beauty  and  the  majesty  of  earth, 
Spread  wide  beneath,  shall  make  thee  to 

forget 
The  steep  and  toilsome  way.     There,  as 

thou  stand'st, 

The  haunts  of  men  below  thee,  and  around 
The    mountain  -  summits,    thy    expanding 

heart 
Shall    feel    a    kindred    with    that    loftier 

world  I0 

To  which  thou  art  translated,  and  partake 
The    enlargement    of    thy    vision.      Thou 

shalt  look 

Upon  the  green  and  rolling  forest-tops, 
And  down  into  the  secrets  of  the  glens, 

1  The  mountain  called  by  this  name  is  .a  re 
markable  precipice  in  Great  Harrington,  overlook 
ing  the  rich  and  picturesque  Talley  of  the 
Housatonic,  in  the  western  part  of  Massa 
chusetts.  At  the  southern  extremity  is,  or  was 
a'  few  years  since,  a  conical  pile  of  small  stones, 
erected  according  to  the  tradition  of  the  sur 
rounding  country,  by  the  Indians,  in  memory 
of  a  young  woman  of  the  Stockbridge  tribe  who 
killed  herself  by  leaping  from  the  edge  of  the 
precipice,  (Author's  Note.) 


172 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


And    streams    that    with    their    bordering 

thickets  strive 
To  hide  their  windings.    Thou  shalt  gaze, 

at  once, 
Here    on    white   villages,    and   tilth,    and 

herds, 

And  swarming  roads,  and  there  on  soli 
tudes 

That  only  hear  the  torrent,  and  the  wind, 
And  eagle's  shriek.     There  is  a  precipice 
That  seems  a  fragment  of  some  mighty 
wall,  2! 

Built  by  the  hand  that  fashioned  the  old 

world, 

To  separate  its  nations,  and  thrown  down 
When  the  flood  drowned  them.  To  the 

north,  a  path 

Conducts  'you  up  the  narrow  battlement. 
Steep    is    the    western    side,    shaggy    and 

wild 

With  mossy  trees,  and  pinnacles  of  flint, 
And  many  a  hanging  crag.     But,  to  the 

east, 
Sheer  to  the  vale  go  down  the  bare  old 

cliffs- 
Huge  pillars,  that  in  middle  heaven  up 
bear  3° 
Their  weather-beaten  capitals,  here  dark 
With  moss,  the  growth  of  centuries,  and 

there 

Of  chalky  whiteness  where  the  thunder 
bolt 

Has  splintered  them.  It  is  a  fearful  thing 
To  stand  upon  the  beetling  verge,  and  see 
Where  storm  and  lightning,  from  that 

huge  gray  wall, 
Have  tumbled  down  vast  blocks,  and  at 

the  base 
Dashed   them   in    fragments,   and   to   lay 

thine  ear 

Over  the  dizzy  depth,  and  hear  the  sound 

Of  winds,  that  struggle  with  the  woods 

below,  40 

Come  up  like  ocean  murmurs.     But  the 

scene 

Is  lovely  round;  a  beautiful  river  there 
Wanders  amid  the  fresh  and  fertile  meads, 
The  paradise  he  made  unto  himself, 
Mining  the  soil  for  ages.    On  each  side 
The  fields  swell  upward  to  the  hills;  be 
yond, 

Above  the  hills,  in  the  blue  distance,  rise 
The  mountain-columns  with  which  earth 
props  heaven. 

There   is   a  tale  about   these   reverend 

rocks, 

A  sad  tradition  of  unhappy  love,  5° 

And  sorrows  borne  and  ended,  long  ago, 


When   over  these   fair  vales   the   savage 

sought 
His  game  in  the  thick  woods.    There  was 

a  maid, 

The  fairest  of  the  Indian  maids,  bright- 
eyed, 
With    wealth    of    raven    tresses,    a   light 

form, 

And  a  gay  heart.    About  her  cabin-door 
The  wide  old  woods  resounded  with  her 

song 

And  fairy  laughter  all  the  summer  day. 
She  loved  her  cousin ;   such   a  love  was 

deemed, 

By  the  morality  of  those  stern  tribes,  & 
Incestuous,  and  she  struggled  hard  and' 

long 
Against  her  love,  and  reasoned  with  her 

heart, 

As  simple  Indian  maiden  might.  In  vain. 
Then  her  eye  lost  its  lustre,  and  her  step 
Its  lightness,  and  the  gray-haired  men  that 

passed 
Her  dwelling,  wondered  that  they  heard 

no  more 
The  accustomed  song  and  laugh  of  her, 

whose  looks 
Were  like  the  cheerful  smile  of  Spring, 

they  said, 

Upon  the  Winter  of  their  age.  She  went 
To  weep  where  no  eye  saw,  and  was  not 

found  7° 

Where  all  the  merry  girls   were  met  to 

dance, 

And  all  the  hunters  of  the  tribe  were  out; 
Nor  when  they  gathered  from  the  rustling 

husk 
The  shining  ear;  nor  when,  by  the  river's 

side, 
They  pulled  the  grape  and   startled   the 

wild  shades 
With   sounds   of   mirth.     The  keen-eyed 

Indian  dames 

Would  whisper  to  each  other,  as  they  saw 
Her  wasting  form,  and  say,  The  girl  will 

die. 

One  day  into  the  bosom  of  a  friend, 
A  playmate   of  her  young  and   innocent 

years,  &> 

She  poured  her  griefs.     "Thou  know'st, 

and  thou  alone," 
She  said,  "for  I  have  told  thee,  all  my 

love, 

And  guilt,  and  sorrow.  I  am  sick  of  life. 
All  night  I  weep  in  darkness,  and  the 

morn 

Glares  on  me,  as  upon  a  thing  accursed, 
That  has  no  business  on  the  earth.    I  hate 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 


173 


The  pastimes  and  the  pleasant  toils  that 

once 

I  loved ;  the  cheerful  voices  of  my  friends 
Sound  in  my  ear  like  mockings,  and,  at 

night, 
In  dreams,  my  mother,  from  the  land  of 

souls,  90 

Calls  me  and  chides  me.    All  that  look 

on  me 
Do  seem  to  know  my  shame;   I  cannot 

bear 
Their  eyes;  I  cannot  from  my  heart  root 

out 
The  love  that  wrings  it  so,  and  I  must 

die." 

It   was   a   summer   morning,    and   they 

went 

To  this  old  precipice.    About  the  cliffs 
Lay  garlands,  ears  of  maize,  and  shaggy 

skins 
Of  wolf  and  bear,  the  offerings  of  the 

tribe 
Here  made  to  the  Great  Spirit,  for  they 

deemed, 
Like  worshippers  of  the  elder  time,  that 

God  I0° 

Doth  walk  on  the  high  places  and  affect 
The    earth-o'erlooking    mountains.      She 

had  on 
The    ornaments    with    which    her    father 

loved 
To   deck   the   beauty   of    his   bright-eyed 

girl, 

And  bade  her  wear  when  stranger  war 
riors  came 
To  be  his  guests.     Here  the   friends  sat 

them  down, 
And  sang,  all  day,  old  songs  of  love  and 

death, 
And   decked  the   poor  wan  victim's  hair 

with  flowers, 
And  prayed  that  safe  and  swift  might  be 

her  way 
To  the  calm  world  of  sunshine,  where  no 

grief  II0 

Makes  the  heart  heavy  and  the  eyelids  red. 
Beautiful  lay  the  region  of  her  tribe 
Below  her — waters  resting  in  the  embrace 
Of    the    wide    forest,    and    maize-planted 

glades 

Opening  amid  the  leafy  wilderness. 
She  gazed  upon  it  long,  and  at  the  sight 
Of  her  own  village  peeping  through  the 

trees, 

And  her  own  dwelling,  and  the  cabin  roof 
Of  him  she  loved  with  an  unlawful  love, 
And  came  to  die  for,  a  warm  gush  of 

tears  I2° 


Ran   from  her  eyes.     But  when  the  sun 

grew  low 

And  the  hill  shadows  long,  she  threw  her 
self 
From  the  steep  rock  and  perished.    There 

was  scooped, 
Upon    the    mountain's    southern    slope,   a 

grave ; 

And  there  they  laid  her,  in  the  very  garb 
With  which  the  maiden  decked  herself 

for  death, 
With  the  same  withering  wild-flowers  in 

her  hair, 
And  o'er  the  mould  that  covered  her,  the 

tribe 

Built  up  a  simple  monument,  a  cone 
Of    small    loose    stones.      Thenceforward 

all  who  passed,  '3° 

Hunter,  and  dame,  and  virgin,  laid  a  stone 
In  silence  on  the  pile.  It  stands  there  yet. 
And  Indians  from  the  distant  West,  who 

come 
To  visit  where  their   fathers'   bones   are 

laid, 

Yet  tell  the  sorrowful  tale,  and  to  this  day 
The  mountain  where  the  hapless  maiden 

died 

Is  called  the  Mountain  of  the  Monument. 
1824. 

United  States  Literary  Gazette,  Sept.  15, 

1824. 

HYMN  TO  THE  NORTH  STAR 

The  sad  and  solemn  night 
Hath  yet  her  multitude  of  cheerful  fires; 

The  glorious  hosts  of  light 
Walk  the  dark  hemisphere  till  she  re 
tires  ; 
All   through   her   silent   watches,   gliding 

slow, 

Her   constellations   come,   and   climb   the 
heavens,  and  go. 

Day,  too,  hath  many  a  star 
To  grace  his  gorgeous  reign,  as  bright 

as  they : 

Through  the  blue  fields  afar, 
Unseen,  they  follow  in  his  flaming  way : 
Many  a  bright  lingerer,  as  the  eve  grows 
dim,  » 

Tells  what  a  radiant  troop  arose  and  set 
with  him. 

And  thou  dost  see  them  rise, 
Star   of  the -Pole!   and   thou   dost   see 

them  set. 
Alone,  in  thy  cold  skies, 


174 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Thou  keep'st  thy  old  unmoving  station 

yet, 
Nor  join'st  the  dances  of  that  glittering 

train, 
Nor   dipp'st   thy   virgin   orb   in   the  blue 

western  main. 

There,  at  morn's  rosy  birth, 
Thou  lookest  meekly  through  the  kind 
ling  air,  2° 
And  eve,  that  round  the  earth 
Chases  the  day,  beholds  thee  watching 

there ; 
There  noontide  finds  thee,  and  the  hour 

that  calls 

The  shapes  of  polar  flame  to  scale  heav 
en's  azure  walls. 

Alike,  beneath  thine  eye, 
The  deeds  of  darkness  and  of  light  are 

done ; 

High  toward  the  starlit  sky 
Towns  blaze,  the  smoke  of  battle  blots 

the  sun, 
The  night   storm  on   a  thousand  hills   is 

loud, 

And  the  strong  wind  of  day  doth  mingle 
sea  and  cloud.  .  3° 

On  thy  unaltering  blaze 
The  half-wrecked  mariner,  his  compass 

lost, 

Fixes  his  steady  gaze, 
And  steers,  undoubting,  to  the  friendly 

coast ; 
And  they  who  stray  in  perilous  wastes, 

by  night, 

Are  glad  when  thou  dost  shine  to  guide 
their  footsteps  right. 

And,  therefore,  bards  of  old, 
Sages  and  hermits  of  the  solemn  wood, 

Did  in  thy  beams  behold 

A   beauteous   type   of   that   unchanging 

good,  40 

That  bright  eternal  beacon,  by  whose  ray 

The    voyager   of   time    should   shape    his 

heedful  way. 
1825. 

United  States  Literary  Gazette,  Jan.  15, 
1825. 

A  FOREST  HYMN 

The   groves    were    God's    first   temples. 

Ere  man  learned 
To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 
And  spread  the  roof  above  them — ere  he 

framed 


The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 
The  sound  of  anthems;   in  the  darkling 

wood, 

Amid  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down, 
And    offered    to    the    Mightiest    solemn 

thanks 

And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 
Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences 
Which,    from    the    stilly    twilight   of    the 

place,  10 

And  from  the  gray  old  trunks  that  high 

in  heaven 
Mingled   their   mossy   boughs,   and    from 

the  sound 
Of   the   invisible   breath   that   swayed   at 

once 
All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and 

bowed 
His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless 

power 

And  inaccessible  majesty.     Ah,  why 
Should    we,    in    the    world's    riper   years, 

neglect 

God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 
Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 
That  our   frail   hands   have   raised?     Let 

me,  at  least,  2° 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood, 
Offer  one  hymn — thrice  happy,  if  it  find 
Acceptance  in  his  ear. 

Father,  thy  hand 
Hath    reared    these    venerable    columns, 

Thou 
Didst    weave    this    verdant    roof.      Thou 

didst  look  down 

Upon  the  naked  earth,  and,  forthwith,  rose 
All  these   fair  ranks  of  trees.     They,  in 

thy  sun, 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in 

thy  breeze, 

And  shot  toward  heaven.     The  century- 
living  crow, 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old 

and  died  3° 

Among  their  branches,  till,   at  last,  they 

stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and 

dark, 

Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker.     These  dim 

vaults, 
These  winding  aisles,  of  human  pomp  or 

pride 

Report  not.     No  fantastic  carvings  show 
The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the 

form 
Of  thy  fair  works.    But  Thou  art  here— 

thou  fill'st 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 


175 


The  solitude.    Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds 
That    run    along    the    summit    of    these 

trees  40 

In  music ;  Thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath 
That    from   the   inmost   darkness   of   the 

place 
Comes,    scarcely    felt;    the  barky   trunks, 

the  ground, 
The  fresh  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct 

with  Thee. 

Here  is  continual  worship; — Nature,  here, 
In  the  tranquillity  that  Thou  dost  love, 
Enjoys  thy  presence.    Noiselessly,  around, 
From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 
Passes ;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  midst 

its  herbs, 
Wells  softly  forth  and  wandering  steeps 

the  roots  5° 

Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 
Of  all  the  good  it  does.     Thou  hast  not 

left 

Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  the  shades, 
Of  thy  perfections.     Grandeur,  strength, 

and  grace 
Are  here  to  speak  of  Thee.    This  mighty 

oak— 
By  whose  immovable  stem  I   stand   and 

seem 

Almost  annihilated — not  a  prince, 
In  all  that  proud  old  world  beyond  the 

deep, 

E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 
Wears  the  green  coronal  of  leaves  with 

which  &> 

Thy   hand    has   graced    him.      Nestled   at 

his  root 
Is    beauty,    such    as    blooms    not    in    the 

glare 
Of  the  broad  sun.     That  delicate   forest 

flower, 
With  scented  breath  and  look  so  like  a 

smile, 
Seems,   as   it   issues    from   the   shapeless 

mould. 

An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 
A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 
That  are  the  soul  of  this  great  universe. 

My   heart   is   awed   within  me  when   I 

think 

Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on,   70 
In  silence,  round  me — the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 
Forever.     Written  on  thy  works  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lo !  all  grow  old  and  die — but  see  again, 
How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay 
Youth    presses — ever    gay    and    beautiful 
youth 


In   all  its  beautiful   forms.     These  lofty 

trees 

Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Moulder  beneath  them.     Oh,  there  is  not 

lost  80 

One  of  earth's  charms :  upon  her  bosom 

yet, 

After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries,  ~ 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies 
And  yet  shall  lie.     Life   mocks  the  idle 

hate 

Of  his  arch-enemy  Death — yea,  seats  him 
self 

Upon  the  tyrant's  throne — the  sepulchre, 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes    his    own    nourishment.      For    he 

came  forth 
From  thine  own   bosom,  and  shall  have 

no  end. 

There    have   been    holy   men   who   hid 

themselves  9° 

Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their    lives    to    thought    and    prayer,    till 

they  outlived 
The    generation     born     with    them,    nor 

seemed 

Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them; — and  there  have  been  holy 

men 
Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life 

thus. 

But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
Retire,  and  in  thy  presence  reassure 
My   feeble  virtue.     Here   its   enemies, 
The    passions,    at    thy    plainer    footsteps 

shrink  100 

And  tremble  and  are  still.    O  God !  when 

Thou 
Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set 

on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or 

fill, 

With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament, 
The    swift   dark   whirlwind   that   uproots 

the  woods 
And   drowns   the  villages;   when,   at   thy 

call, 

Uprises  the  great  deep  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities — who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power, 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies 

by?  «« 

Oh,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine,  nor  let  us  need  the 

wrath 

Of  the  mad  unchained  elements  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.    Be  it  ours  to  meditate, 


176 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


In  these  calm  shades,  thy  milder  majesty, 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 
1825. 
United  States  Literary  Gazette,  Apr. 


HYMN  TO  DEATH 


Oh  !  could  I  hope  the  wise  and  pure  in 

heart 
Might  hear  my  song  without  a  frown,  nor 

deem 
My    voice    unworthy    of    the    theme    it 

tries,  — 
I  would  take  up  the  hymn  to  Death,  and 

say 
To    the    grim    power,    The    world    hath 

slandered  thee 
And  mocked  thee.    On  thy  dim  and  shad 

owy  brow 
They  place  an  iron  crown,  and  call  thee 

king 

Of  terrors,  and  the  spoiler  of  the  world, 
Deadly    assassin,    that    strik'st    down    the 

fair, 
The   loved,   the   good  —  that  breathest   on 

the  lights  I0 

Of  virtue  set  along  the  vale  of  life, 
And  they  go  out  in  darkness.    I  am  come, 
Not  with  reproaches,  not  with  cries  and 

prayers, 
Such  as  have  stormed  thy  stern,  insensible 

ear 

From  the  beginning;  I  am  come  to  speak 
Thy  praises.  True  it  is,  that  I  have  wept 
Thy  conquests,  and  may  weep  them  yet 

again, 
And  thou  from  some  I  love  wilt  take  a 

life 
Dear  to  me  as  my  own.     Yet  while  the 

spell 

Is  on  my  spirit,  and  I  talk  v.'ith  thee       2° 
In  sight  of  all  thy  trophies,  face  to  face, 
Meet  is  it  that  my  voice  should  utter  forth 
Thy   nobler   triumphs  ;    I    will    teach    the 

world 
To  thank  thee.     Who  are  thine  accusers? 

—Who? 
The    living  !  —  they    who    never    felt    thy 

power, 
And  know  thee  not.     The  curses  of  the 

wretch 
Whose    crimes    are    ripe,    his    sufferings 

when  thy  hand 

1  The  poem  was  unfinished  at  the  time  of  the 
death  of  Bryant's  father  in  1820.  The  conclud 
ing  lines,  of  course,  refer  to  that  event. 


Is   on    him,    and   the   hour   he    dreads    is 

come, 
Are    writ    among    thy    praises.      But    the 

good — 
Does  he  whom  thy  kind  hand  dismissed 

to  peace,  3° 

Upbraid  the  gentle  violence  that  took  off 
His  fetters,  and  unbarred  his  prison-cell? 

Raise  then  the  hymn  to  Death.     Deliv 
erer ! 

God  hath  anointed  thee  to  free  the  op 
pressed 

And    crush    the    oppressor.     When    the 
armed  chief, 

The  conqueror  of  nations,  walks  the  world, 

And  it  is  changed  beneath  his   feet,  and 
all 

Its  kingdoms  melt  into  one  mighty  realm — 

Thou,  while  his  head  is  loftiest  and  his 
heart  39 

Blasphemes,  imagining  his  own  right  hand 

Almighty,  thou  dost  set  thy  sudden  grasp 

Upon  him,  and  the  links  of  that  strong 
chain 

Which    bound    mankind    are    crumbled; 
thou  dost  break 

Sceptre  and  crown,  and  beat  his  throne  to 
dust. 

Then  the  earth  shouts  with  gladness,  and 
her  tribes 

Gather  within  their  ancient  bounds  again. 

Else  had  the  mighty  of  the  olden  time, 

Nimrod,    Sesostris,    or    the    youth .  who 
feigned 

His  birth   from  Libyan  Ammon,  smitten 
yet 

The  nations  with  a  rod  of  iron,  and  driven 

Their  chariot  o'er  our  necks.     Thou  dost 
avenge,  -1 

In   thy  good  time,   the   wrongs  of  those 

who  know 
'  No  other  friend.    Nor  dost  thou  interpose 

Only  to  lay  the  sufferer  asleep, 

Where     he     who     made     him     wretched 
troubles  not 

His   rest — thou  dost  strike  down  his  ty 
rant  top. 

Oh,   there   is   joy   when   hands   that   held 
the  scourge 

Drop  lifeless,  and  the  pitiless  heart  is  cold. 

Thou  too  dost  purge  from  earth  its  hor 
rible 

And  old  idolatries ; — from  the  proud  fanes 

Each  to  his  grave  their  priests  go  out,  till 
none  6l 

Is  left  to  teach  their  worship ;  then  the 
fires 

Of  sacrifice  are  chilled,  and  the  green  moss 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 


177 


O'ercreeps  their  altars ;  the  fallen  images 
Cumber  the  weedy  courts,  and  for  loud 

hymns, 

Chanted  by  kneeling  multitudes,  the  wind 
Shrieks  in  the  solitary  aisles.     When  he 
Who  gives  his  life  to  guilt,  and  laughs  at 

all 
The  laws  that  God  or  man  has  made,  and 

round 
Hedges  his  seat  with  power,  and  shines  in 

wealth, —  70 

Lifts  up  his  atheist  front  to  scoff  at  Heav 
en, 

And  celebrates  his  shame  in  open  day, 
Thou,    in    the    pride    of    all    his    crimes, 

cutt'st  off 

The  horrible  example.  Touched  by  thfne, 
The  extortioner's  hard  hand  foregoes  the 

gold 

Wrung  from  the  o'er-worn  poor.  The  per 
jurer, 
Whose  tongue  was  lithe,  e'en  now,  and 

voluble 
Against  his  neighbor's  life,  and  he  who 

laughed 

And  leaped  for  joy  to  see  a  spotless  fame 
Blasted  before  his  own  foul  calumnies,  8° 
Are  smit  with  deadly  silence.  He,  who 

sold 
His   conscience   to   preserve   a   worthless 

life, 

Even  while  he  hugs  himself  on  his  escape, 
Trembles,  as,  doubly  terrible,  at  length, 
Thy  steps  o'ertake  him,  and  there  is  no 

time 
For  parley,  nor  will  bribes  unclench  thy 

grasp. 

Oft,  too,  dost  thou  reform  thy  victim,  long 
Ere  his  last  hour.  And  when  the  reveller, 
Mad  in  the  chase  of  pleasure,  stretches  on, 
And  strains  each  nerve,  and  clears  the 

path  of  life  9° 

Like  wind,  thou  point'st  him  to  the  dread 
ful  goal, 
And  shak'st  thy  hour-glass  in  his  reeling 

eye, 
And   check'st   him   in    mid   course.     Thy 

skeleton  hand 
Shows   to    the    faint   of    spirit   the    right 

path, 

And  he  is  warned,  and  fears  to  step  aside. 
Thou  sett'st  between  the  ruffian  and  his 

crime 
Thy   ghastly   countenance,   and   his    slack 

hand 
Drops   the   drawn   knife.     But,   oh,   most 

fearfully 
Dost  thou   show   forth   Heaven's   justice, 

when  thy  shafts 


Drink  up  the  ebbing  spirit — then  the  hard 
Of  heart  and  violent  of  hand  restores  I01 
The  treasure  to  the  friendless  wretch  he 

wronged. 
Then  from  the  writhing  bosom  thou  dost 

pluck 

The  guilty  secret;  lips,  for  ages  sealed, 
Are    faithless   to  their   dreadful   trust   at 

length, 

And  give  it  up ;  the  felon's  latest  breath 
Absolves  the  innocent  man  who  bears  his 

crime ; 
The  slanderer,  horror-smitten,  and   in 

tears, 

Recalls  the  deadly  obloquy  he  forged 
To  work  his  brother's  ruin.     Thou   dost 

make  II0 

Thy  penitent  victim  utter  to  the  air 
The  dark  conspiracy  that  strikes  at  life, 
And  aims  to  whelm  the  laws;  ere  yet  the 

hour 
Is  come,  and  the  dread  sign  of  murder 

given. 

Thus,  from  the  first  of  time,  hast  thou 

been  found 

On  virtue's  side;  the  wicked,  but  for  thee, 
Had  been  too  strong  for  the  good;  the 

great  of  earth 
Had  crushed  the  weak  for  ever.   Schooled 

in  guile 
For   ages,    while   each    passing   year   had 

brought 
Its    baneful    lesson,    they    had    filled    the 

world  '2° 

With  their  abominations ;  while  its  tribes, 
Trodden  to  earth,  imbruted,  and  despoiled, 
Had  knelt  to  them  in  worship;  sacrifice 
Had   smoked  on  many  an  altar,  temple- 
roofs 
Had  echoed  with  the  blasphemous  prayer 

and  hymn : 

But  thou,  the  great  reformer  of  the  world, 
Tak'st  off  the  sons  of  violence  and  fraud 
In  their  green  pupilage,  their  lore  half 

learned — 
Ere   guilt   had   quite   o'errun   the   simple 

heart 
God  gave  them  at  their  birth,  and  blotted 

out  '3° 

His  image.    Thou  dost  mark  them  flushed 

with  hope, 

As  on  the  threshold  of  their  vast  designs 
Doubtful  and  loose  they  stand,  and 

strik'st  them  down. 


Alas!    I    little    thought   that   the   stern 
power, 


178 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Whose   fearful  praise  I   sang,  would  try 

me  thus 
Before   the   strain   was    ended.      It   must 

cease — 
For  he  is   in  his  grave   who   taught  my 

youth 

The  art  of  verse,  and  in  the  bud  of  life 
Offered  'me  to  the  Muses.     Oh,  cut  off 
Untimely !  when  thy  reason  in  its  strength, 
Ripened  by  years  of  toil  and  studious  re 
search,  *4i 
And    watch    of    Nature's    silent    lessons, 

taught 
Thy    hand    to    practise    best    the    lenient 

art 
To     which     thou     gavest     thy     laborious 

days, 
And,  last,  thy  life.     And,  therefore,  when 

the  earth 
Received   thee,  tears    were   in   unyielding 

eyes 
And  on  hard  cheeks,  and  they  who  deemed 

thy  skill 
Delayed  their  death-hour,  shuddered  and 

turned  pale 
When    thou    wert    gone.      This    faltering 

verse,  which  thou 
Shalt    not,    as    wont,    o'erlook,    is    all    I 

have  js° 

To  offer  at  thy  grave — this — and  the  hope 
To  copy  thy  example,  and  to  leave 
A  name  of  which  the  wretched  shall  not 

think 

«As  of  an  enemy's,  whom  they  forgive 
As  all  forgive  the  dead.     Rest,  therefore, 

thou 
Whose  early  guidance  trained  my  infant 

steps — 
Rest,  in  the  bosom  of  God,  till  the  brief 

sleep 

Of  death  is  over,  and  a  happier  life 
Shall  dawn  to  waken  thy  insensible  dust. 

Now   thou   art   not — and   yet   the   men 

whose  guilt  l6° 

Has  wearied   Heaven    for  vengeance — he 

who  bears 
False  witness — he  who  takes  the  orphan's 

bread, 
And    robs    the    widow — he    who    spreads 

.  abroad 

Polluted  hands  in  mockery  of  prayer, 
Are    left   to    cumber    earth.      Shuddering 

I  look 

On  what  is  written,  yet  I  blot  not  out 
The  desultory  numbers ;  let  them  stand, 
The  record  of  an  idle  revery. 

The  New  York  Review,  Oct.,  1825. 


THE  DEATH   OF  THE  FLOWERS 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  sad 
dest  of  the  year, 

Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and 
meadows  brown  and  sere. 

Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the 
autumn  leaves  lie  dead ; 

They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to 
the  rabbit's  tread; 

The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and 
from  the  shrubs  the  jay, 

And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow- 
through  all  the  gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young 
flowers,  that  lately  sprang  and  stood 

In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beaute 
ous  sisterhood? 

Alas !  they  all  are  in  their  graves,  the 
gentle  race  of  flowers 

Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the 
fair  and  good  of  ours.  I0 

The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie,  but 
cold  November  rain 

Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the 
lovely  ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  per 
ished  long  ago, 

And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died 
amid  the  summer  glow; 

But  on  the  hills  the  golden-rod,  and  the 
aster  in  the  wood, 

And  the  yellow  sun-flower  by  the  brook, 
in  autumn  beauty  stood, 

Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold 
heaven,  as  falls  the  plague  on  men, 

And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was 
gone,  from  upland,  glade,  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day, 

as  still  such  days  will  come, 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out 

their  winter  home;  2° 

When    the    sound    of    dropping    nuts    is 

heard,  though  all  the  trees  are  still, 
And    twinkle    in    the    smoky    light    the 

waters  of  the  rill. 
The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers 

whose   fragrance  late  he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and 

by  the  stream  no  more. 

And    then    I    think    of    one    who    in    her 

youthful  beauty  died, 
The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and 

faded  by  my  side. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 


179 


In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when 

the  forests  cast  the  leaf, 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should 

have  a  life  so  brief: 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like  that 

young  friend  of  ours, 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish 

with  the  flowers.  3° 


1825. 


New  York  Review,  Nov.,  1825. 


"I  BROKE  THE  SPELL  THAT  HELD 
ME  LONG" 

I  broke  the  spell  that  held  me  long, 

The  dear,  dear  witchery  of  song. 

I  said,  the  poet's  idle  lore 

Shall  waste  my  prime  of  years  no  more, 

For  Poetry,  though  heavenly  born, 

Consorts  with  poverty  and  scorn. 

I  broke  the  spell — nor  deemed  its  power 
Could  fetter  me  another  hour. 
Ah,  thoughtless !  how  could  I  forget 
Its  causes  were  around  me  yet?  I0 

For  wheresoe'er  I  looked,  the  while, 
Was  Nature's  everlasting  smile. 

Still  came  and  lingered  on  my  sight 

Of    flowers   and   streams   the   bloom   and 

light, 

And  glory  of  the  stars  and  sun; — 
And  these  and  poetry  are  one. 
They,  ere  the  world  had  held  me  long, 
Recalled  me  to  the  love  of  song. 


1824. 


Atlantic  Souvenir,  1825. 


"I  CANNOT  FORGET  WITH  WHAT 
FERVID  DEVOTION" 

I  cannot  forget  with  what  fervid  devotion 
I  worshipped  the  visions  of  verse  and 

of  fame ; 
Each  gaze  at  the  glories  of  earth,  sky,  and 

ocean, 

To  my  kindled  emotions,  was  wind  over 
flame. 

And  deep  were  my  musings  in  life's  early 

blossom, 
Mid    the    twilight    of    mountain-groves 

wandering  long; 
How  thrilled   my   young   veins,   and   how 

throbbed  my  full  bosom, 
When  o'er  me  descended  the  spirit  of 
song! 


'Mong  the  deep-cloven  fells  that  for  ages 

had  listened 

To  the  rush  of  the  pebble-paved  river 

between,  I0 

Where  the  kingfisher  screamed  and  gray 

precipice  glistened, 

All  breathless  with  awe  have  I  gazed  on 
the  scene; 

Till  I  felt  the  dark  power  o'er  my  reveries 

stealing, 
From  the  gloom  of  the  thicket  that  over 

me  hung, 
And    the   thoughts    that    awoke,    in    that 

rapture  of  feeling, 

Were  formed  into  verse  as  they  rose  to 
my  tongue. 

Bright  visions!  I  mixed  with  the  world, 

and  ye  faded, 
No  longer  your  pure  rural  worshipper 

now; 
In    the    haunts    your    continual    presence 

pervaded, 

Ye  shrink  from  the  signet  of  care  on 
my  brow.  20 

In  the  old  mossy  groves  on  the  breast  of 

the  mountains, 
In  deep  lonely  glens  where  the  waters 

complain, 
By  the  shade  of  the  rock,  by  the  gush  of 

the  fountain, 

I   seek  your  loved   footsteps,   but  seek 
them  in  vain. 

Oh,   leave  not   forlorn  and   forever   for 
saken, 
Your  pupil  and  victim  to  life   and  its 

tears ! 
But    sometimes     return,    and     in    mercy 

awaken 

The   glories    ye   showed   to   his   earlier 
years. 

1815-1826.    New  York  Review,  Feb.,  1826. 


JUNEi 

I  gazed  upon  the  glorious  sky 
And  the  green  mountains  round, 

And  thought  that  when  I  came  to  lie 
At  rest  within  the  ground, 

'T  were  pleasant,  that  in  flowery  June, 

When  brooks  send  up  a  cheerful  tune, 

1  Bryant  died  in  June,   1878. 


180 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


And  groves  a  joyous  sound, 
The  sexton's  hand,  my  grave  to  make, 
The    rich,   green    mountain  -  turf   should 
break. 

A  cell  within  the  frozen  mould,  I0 

A  coffin  borne  through  sleet, 
And  icy  clods  above  it  rolled, 

While  fierce  the  tempests  beat — 
Away ! — I  will  not  think  of  these — 
Blue  be  the  sky  and  soft  the  breeze, 

Earth  green  beneath  the  feet, 
And  be  the  damp  mould  gently  pressed 
Into  my  narrow  place  of  rest. 

There  through  the  long,  long  summer 
hours, 

The  golden  light  should  lie,  2° 

And    thick   young   herbs    and    groups    of 
flowers 

Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  love-tale  close  beside  my  cell; 

The  idle  butterfly 

Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  be  heard 
The  housewife  bee  and  humming-bird. 

And  what  if  cheerful  shouts  at  noon 

Come,  from  the  village  sent, 
Or  songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon    3» 

With  fairy  laughter  blent? 
And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light, 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument? 
I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 
Might  know  no  sadder  sight  nor  sound. 

I  know  that  I  no  more  should  see 

The  season's  glorious  show, 
Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for  me, 

Nor  its  wild  music  flow;  4° 

But  if,  around  my  place  of  sleep, 
The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep, 

They  might  not  haste  to  go. 
Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light,  and  bloom 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb. 

These  to  their  softened  hearts  should  bear 

The  thought  of  what  has  been, 
And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 

The  gladness  of  the  scene; 
Whose  part,  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills    5° 
The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills, 

Is  that  his  grave  is  green; 
And  deeply  would  their  hearts  rejoice 
Tc  hear  again  his  living  voice. 


1825. 


Atlantic  Souvenir,  1826. 


A   MEDITATION   ON   RHODE 
ISLAND  COALi 

"Decolor,  obscurus,  vilis,  non  ille  repexatn 
Cesariem   regnum,  non   Candida  virginis  ornat 
Colla,    nee   insigni    splendet   per   cingula   morsu 
Sed   nova  si   nigri  videas  miracula  saxi, 
Tune    superat    pulchos    cultus    et    quicquid    Eois 
Indus  litoribus  rubra  scrutatur  in  alga." 

— Claudian. 

I    sat    beside    the    glowing    grate,    fresh 

heaped 

With  Newport  coal,  and  as  the  flame 
grew  bright 

— The    many-colored    flame — and    played 

and  leaped, 

I  thought  of  rainbows,  and  the  northern 
light, 

Moore's  Lalla  Rookh,  the  Treasury  Re 
port, 

And  other  brilliant  matters  of  the  sort. 

At  last  I  thought  .of  .that  fair  isle  which 

sent 

The  mineral  fuel ;  on  a  summer  day 

I  saw  it  once,  with  heat  and  travel  spent, 

And    scratched    by    dwarf-oaks    in    the 

hollow  way.  I0 

Now   dragged  through   sand,   now   jolted 

over  stone — 
A  rugged  road  through  rugged  Tiverton. 

And   hotter  grew   the  air,   and   hollower 

grew 
The  deep-worn  path,  and  horror-struck, 

I  thought, 
Where  will  this  dreary  passage  lead  me 

19? 
This  long  dull   road,  so  narrow,   deep, 

and  hot? 

I  looked  to  see  it  dive  in  earth  outright; 
I   looked — but  saw  a   far  more  welcome 

sight. 

Like  a  soft  mist  upon  the  evening  shore, 

At  once  a  lovely  isle  before  me  lay,  x 
Smooth,  and  with  tender  verdure  covered 

o'er, 
As  if  just  risen   from   its  calm  inland 

bay; 

Sloped  each  way  gently  to  the  grassy  edge, 
And  the  small  waves  that  dallied  with  the 
sedge. 

1  Bryant  went  to  New  York  in  1825.  It  was 
perhaps  the  influence  of  the  American  followers 
of  Byron  in  New  York  City  rather  than  of 
Byron  himself  that  suggested  to  Bryant  the  few 
poems  of  the  type  of  the  "Meditation  on  Rhode 
Island  Coal." 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 


181 


The  barley   was   just   reaped;   the   heavy 

sheaves 
Lay  on  the  stubble-field ;  the  trail  maize 

stood 
Dark   in   its   summer  growth,  and   shook 

its  leaves, 
And  bright  the  sunlight  played  on  the 

young  wood — 

For  fifty  years  ago,  the  old  men  say, 
The   Briton   hewed   their   ancient   groves 

away.  3° 

I    saw    where    fountains    freshened    the 

green  land, 

And    where    the    pleasant    road,    from 
door  to  door, 

With  rows  of  cherry-trees  on  either  hand, 
Went  wandering  all  that  fertile  region 
o'er — 

Rogue's  Island  once — but  when  the  rogues 
were  dead, 

Rhode  Island  was  the  name  it  took  in 
stead. 

Beautiful  island!  then  it  only  seemed 
A    lovely    stranger;    it    has    grown    a 

friend. 
1  gazed  on  its  smooth  slopes,  but  never 

dreamed 

How    soon    that   green    and    quiet    isle 
would  send  4° 

The  treasures  of  its  womb  across  the  sea, 
To  warm  a  poet's  room  and  boil  his  tea. 

Dark   anthracite!   that   reddenest   on   my 

hearth, 

Thou  in  those  island  mines  didst  slum 
ber  long; 

But   now  thou   art  come    forth   to   move 

the  earth, 

And  put  to  shame  the  men  that  mean 
thee  wrong: 

Thou  shalt  be  coals  of  fire  to  those  that 
hate  thee, 

And  warm  the  shins  of  all  that  under 
rate  thee. 

Yea,    they   did   wrong   thee    foully — they 

who  mocked 

Thy  honest  face,  and  said  thou  wouldst 
not  burn ;  5<> 

'Of  hewing  thee  to  chimney-pieces  talked, 
And  grew  profane,  and  swore,  in  bitter 
scorn, 

That  men   might  to  thy  inner  caves   re 
tire, 

And  there,  unsinged,  abide  the  day  of  fire. 


Yet   is   thy   greatness   nigh.    I    pause   to 

state, 
That  I   too  have  seen  greatness — even 

I— 
Shook  hands  with  Adams,  stared  at  La 

Fayette, 
When,   barehead,    in   the   hot   noon   of 

July, 
He  would  not  let  the  umbrella  be  held 

o'er  him, 
For  which  three  cheers   burst   from   the 

mob  before  him.  6° 

And  I  have  seen — not  many  months  ago — 

An  eastern  Governor  in  chapeau  bras 
And  military  coat,  a  glorious  show ! 

Ride  forth  to  visit  the  reviews,  and  ah ! 
How  oft  he  smiled  and  bowed  to  Jona 
than! 

How  many  hands  were  shook  and  votes 
were  won ! 

'Twas  a  great  Governor ;  thou  too  shalt  be 
Great  in  thy  turn,  and  wide  shall  spread 
thy  fame 

And  swiftly;  furthest  Maine  shall  hear  of 

thee, 

And   cold   New   Brunswick   gladden   at 
thy  name ;  7° 

And,  faintly  through  its  sleets,  the  weep 
ing  isle 

That   sends   the    Boston    folks   their   cod 
shall  smile. 

For  thou  shalt   forge  vast  railways,  and 

shalt  heat 

The  hissing  rivers  into  steam  and  drive 
Huge    masses    from    thy    mines,    on   iron 

feet, 

Walking  their  steady  way,  as  if  alive, 
Northward,  till  everlasting  ice  besets  thee, 
And  South  as  far  as  the  grim  Spaniard 
lets  thee. 

Thou   shalt   make    mighty   engines    swim 

the  sea, 

Like  its  own  monsters — boats  that  for 
a  guinea  &> 

Will  take  a  man  to  Havre — and  shalt  be 
The  moving  soul  of  many  a  spinning- 
jenny, 

And  ply  thy  shuttles,  till  a  bard  can  wear 
As  good  a  suit  of  broadcloth  as  the  mayor. 

Then  we  will  laugh  at  winter  when  we 

hear 
The  grim  old  churl  about  our  dwellings 

rave : 
Thou,   from   that   "ruler  of   the   inverted 

year," 


182 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Shalt  pluck  the  knotty  sceptre  Cowper 

gave, 
And  pull  him  from  his  sledge,  and  drag 

him  in, 
And  melt  the  icicles  from  off  his  chin.     9° 

1826.  New  York  Review,  April,  1826. 


.1  THE   PAST 

Thou  unrelenting  Past ! 
Strong  are  the  barriers  round   thy  dark 
domain, 

And  fetters,  sure  and  fast, 
Hold  all  that  enter  thy  unbreathing  reign. 

Far  in  thy  realm  withdrawn, 
Old  empires  sit  in  sullenness  and  gloom, 

And  glorious  ages  gone 
Lie  deep  within  the  shadow  of  thy  womb. 

Childhood,  with  all  its  mirth, 
Young,  Manhood,  Age  that  draws  us  to 
the  ground,  I0 

And  last,  Man's  Life  on  earth, 
Glide    to    thy    dim    dominions,    and    are 
bound. 

Thou  hast  my  better  years ; 
Thou  hast  my  earlier   friends,  the  good, 
the  kind, 

Yielded  to  thee  with  tears — 
The  venerable  form,  the  exalted  mind. 

My  spirit  yearns  to  bring 
The  lost  ones   back — yearns   with   desire 

intense, 

And  struggles  hard  to  wring 
Thy  bolts  apart,  and  pluck  thy  captives 
thence.  » 

In  vain;  thy  gates  deny 
All  passage  save  to  those  who  hence  de 
part; 

Nor  to  the  streaming  eye 
Thou  giv'st  them  back — nor  to  the  broken 
heart. 

In  thy  abysses  hide 
Beauty  and  excellence  unknown;  to  thee 

Earth's  wonder  and  her  pride 
Are  gathered,  as  the  waters  to  the  sea; 

Labors  of  good  to  man, 
Unpublished  charity,  unbroken  faith,      3° 

Love,  that  midst  grief  began, 
And   grew   with   years,   and    faltered   not 
in  death. 


Full  many  a  mighty  name 
Lurks    in    thy    depths,    unuttered,    unre- 

vered; 

'    With  thee  are  silent  fame, 
Forgotten  arts,  and  wisdom  disappeared. 

Thine  for  a  space  are  they — 
Yet  shall  thou  yield  thy  treasures  up  at 
last: 

Thy  gates  shall  yet  give  way, 
Thy  bolts  shall  fall,  inexorable  Past !      40 

All  that  of  good  and  fair 
Has   gone   into   thy   womb    from   earliest 
time, 

Shall  then  come  forth  to  wear 
The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  its  prime. 

They  have  not  perished — no ! 
Kind  words,  remembered  voices  once  so 
sweet, 

Smiles,  radiant  long  ago, 
And  features,  the  great  soul's  apparent  seat. 

All  shall  come  back ;  each  tie 
Of  pure  affection  shall  be  knit  again;     so 

Alone  shall  Evil  die, 
And  Sorrow  dwell  a  prisoner  in  thy  reign. 

And  then  shall  I  behold 
Him,  by  whose  kind  paternal  side  I  sprung, 

And  her,  who,  still  and  cold, 
Fills    the   next   grave — the   beautiful    and 
young.1 


1828. 


Talisman,  1829. 


THE  TWENTY-SECOND  OF 
DECEMBER 

Wild  was  the  day;  the  wintry  sea 

Moaned  sadly  on  New  England's  strand, 

When  first  the  thoughtful  and  the  free, 
Our  fathers,  trod  the  desert  land. 

They  little  thought  how  pure  a  light, 
With  years,   should  gather   round   that 

day; 
How    love    should    keep    their    memories 

bright, 

How   wide   a   realm    their   sons   should 
sway. 

Green  are  their  bays ;  but  greener  still 
Shall  round  their  spreading  fame  be 

wreathed,  I0 

And    regions,    now    untrod,    shall    thrill 
With   reverence  when  their  names  are 

breathed. 
1  Bryant's  father  and   sister. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 


183 


Till  where  the  sun,  with  softer  fires, 
Looks  on  the  vast  Pacific's  sleep, 

The  children  of  the  pilgrim  sires 
This  hallowed  day  like  us  shall  keep. 

1829 

THE  EVENING  WIND 

Spirit  that  breathest  through  my  lattice, 

thou 
That  cool'st  the*  twilight  of  the  sultry 

day, 
Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my 

brow ; 
Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at 

play, 
Riding  all   day  the  wild  blue  waves  till 

now, 
Roughening  their  crests,  and  scattering 

high  their  spray, 
And  swelling  the  white  sail.     I  welcome 

thee 
To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer  of 

the  sea! 

Nor  I  alone;  a  thousand  bosoms  round 

Inhale  thee  in  the   fulness  of   delight; 

And   languid    forms   rise   up,    and   pulses 

bound  n 

Livelier,    at    coming    of    the    wind    of 

night ; 
And,    languishing    to    hear    thy    grateful 

sound, 
Lies   the   vast   inland   stretched   beyond 

the   sight. 
Go    forth    into    the   gathering   shade;    go 

forth, 

God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting 
earth ! 

Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest, 
Curl  the  still  waters,  bright  with  stars, 

and  rouse 
The    wide   old    wood    from    his    majestic 

rest, 
Summoning      from      the      imiumerable 

boughs  «> 

The  strange,   deep  harmonies  that  haunt 

Tiis  breast ; 
Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly 

bows 
The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters 

pass, 
And    where    the    o'ershadowing   branches 

sweep  the  grass. 

The   faint  old   man   shall  lean  his   silver 
head 


To  feel  thee;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child 

asleep, 

And  dry  the   moistened  curls  that  over 
spread 
His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows 

more  deep; 
And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's 

bed, 

Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep, 
And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow  3' 
Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 

Go — but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 
Which  is  the  life  of  Nature,  shall  re 
store, 
With    sounds    and    scents    from    all    thy 

mighty   range, 
Thee  to  thy  birthplace  of  the  deep  once 

more; 
Sweet    odors   in    the    sea-air,    sweet    and 

strange, 
Shall  tell  the  home-sick  mariner  of  the 

shore; 
And,   listening   to   thy  murmur,   he   shall 

deem 
He  hears  the  rustling  leaf   and   running 

stream.  4° 


1829. 


Talisman,  1830. 


HYMN  OF  THE  CITY 


Not  in  the  solitude 
Alone  may  man  commune  with  Heaven, 

or  see, 

Only  in  savage  wood 
And  sunny  vale,  the  present  Deity; 

Or  only  hear  his  voice 
Where  the  winds  whisper  and  the  waves 
rejoice. 

Even  here  do  I  behold 
Thy    steps,    Almighty! — here,    amidst   the 

crowd 

Through  the  great  city  rolled, 
With  everlasting  murmur  deep  and  loud — 
Choking  the  ways  that  wind  "> 

'Mongst  the  proud  piles,  the  work  of  hu 
man  kind. 

Thy  golden  sunshine  comes 
From    the    round    heaven,    and    on    their 

dwellings  lies 

And  lights  their  inner  homes ; 
For   them   Thou    fill'st   with   air   the   un 
bounded   skies, 
And  givest  them  the  stores 
Of  ocean,  and  the  harvests  of  its  shores. 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Thy   Spirit  is  around, 
Quickening  the  restless  mass  that  sweeps 
along ;  2° 

And  this  eternal  sound — 
Voices   and    footfalls   of   the   numberless 

throng — 

Like  the  resounding  sea, 
Or  like  the  rainy  tempests,  speaks  of  Thee. 

And  when  the  hour  of  rest 
Comes,    like    a    calm    upon    the    mid-sea 

brine, 

Hushing  its  billowy  breast — 
The  quiet  of  that  moment  too  is  thine; 

It  breathes  of  Him  who  keeps 
The  vast  and  helpless  city  while  it  sleeps. 

3° 


1830? 


Christian  Examiner,  1830. 


SONG  OF  MARION'S   MEN' 

Our  band  is  few  but  true  and  tried, 

Our  leader  frank  and  bold; 
The  British  soldier  trembles 

When   Marion's  name   is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress-tree; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us, 

As  seamen  know  the  sea. 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass,  10 

Its   safe   and   silent  islands 

Within  the  dark  morass. 

Woe  to  the  English  soldiery 

That  little  dread  us  near! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear : 
When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again ;  2° 

And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp,  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

1  The  exploits  of  General  Francis  Marion,  the 
famous  partisan  warrior  of  South  Carolina, 
form  an  interesting  chapter  in  the  annals  of 
the  American  Revolution.  The  British  troops 
were  so  harassed  by  the  irregular  and  successful 
warfare  which  he  kept  up  at  the  head  of  a  few 
daring  followers,  that  they  sent  an  officer  to 
remonstrate  with  him  for  not  coming  into  the 
open  field  and  fighting  "like  a  gentleman  and 
a  Christian."  (Author's  Note.) 

For  Irving's  change  in  the  English  edition 
of  1832,  see  pages  131-3  of  W.  A.  Bradley's 
"Bryant"  (E.  M.  L.  Series.) 


Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil : 
We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout, 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up,  3° 

And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and   friendly  moon 

The  band  that  Marion  leads — 
The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds.  4° 

'Tis  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb 

Across  the  moonlight  plain ; 
'Tis  life  to  feel  the  night-wind 

That  lifts  the  tossing  mane. 
A  moment  in  the  British  camp — 

A   moment — and   away 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs ;  5° 

Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band 

With  kindliest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them   down  no  more 
Till  we   have   driven   the    Briton, 

Forever,  from  our  shore.  6° 

1831.  1831. 


Thou  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew, 
And  colored  with  the  heaven's  own  blue, 
That  openest  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night, 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 
O'er  wandering  brooks   and   springs  un 
seen,  • 
Or  columbines,  in  purple  dressed, 
Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden  nest. 

Thou  waitest  late  and  com'st  alone, 
When    woods    are    bare    and    birds    are 
flown,  I0 

And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  year  is  near  his  end. 

2  This  was  reprinted  in  The  Knickerbocker  Maga 
zine,  January,   1844. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 


185 


Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 
Blue— blue— as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower   from  its  cerulean  wall. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 


1829. 


"Poems,"  1832. 


SEVENTY-SIX 

What  heroes  from  the  woodland  sprung, 
When,     through     the     fresh-awakened 

land, 

The  thrilling  cry  of  warfare  rung 
And  to  the  work  of  warfare  strung 
The  yeoman's  iron  hand ! 

Hills  flung  the  cry  to  hills  around, 
And  ocean-mart  replied  to  mart, 

And  streams,  whose  springs  were  yet  un- 
found, 

Pealed  far  away  the  startling  sound 
Into  the   forest's  heart.  10 

Then  marched  the  brave  from  rocky  steep, 

From  mountain-river  swift  and  cold; 
The  borders  of  the  stormy  deep, 
The  vales  where  gathered  waters  sleep, 
Sent  up  the  strong  and  bold, — 

As  if  the  very  earth  again 

Grew  quick  with  God's  creating  breath ; 
And,  from  the  sods  of  grove  and  glen, 
Rose  ranks  of  lion-hearted  men 

To  battle  to  the  death.  20 

The   wife,   whose   babe   first   smiled   that 
day, 

The  fair  fond  bride  of  yestereve, 
And  aged  sire  and  matron  gray, 
Saw  the  loved  warriors  haste  away, 

And  deemed  it  sin  to  grieve. 

Already  had  the  strife  begun; 

Already  blood,  on  Concord's   plain, 
Along  the  springing  grass  had  run, 
And  blood  had  nowed  at  Lexington, 

Like  brooks  of  April  rain.  3° 

That  death-stain  on  the  vernal  sward 
Hallowed  to  freedom  all  the  shore; 

In  fragments  fell  the  yoke  abhorred — 

The  footstep  of  a  foreign  lord 
Profaned  the   soil  no   more. 


THE    BATTLE-FIELD 

Once  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands, 
Were  trampled  by  a  hurrying  crowd, 

And  fiery  hearts  and  armed  bands 
Encountered  in  the  battle-cloud. 

Ah !  never  shall  the  land  forget 

How    gushed    the     life-blood    of    her 
brave — 

Gushed,  warm  with  hope  and  courage  yet, 
Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save. 

Now  all  is  calm,  and  fresh,  and  still; 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird,  I0 

And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill, 

And  bell  of  wandering  kine,  are  heard. 

No  solemn   host  goes  trailing  by 
The  black-mouthed  gun  and  staggering 
wain; 

Men  start  not  at  the  battle-cry, 
Oh,  be  it  never  heard  again ! 

Soon  rested  those  who  fought;  but  thou 
Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 

For  truths  which  men  receive  not  now, 
Thy  warfare  .only  ends  with  life.          2° 

A   friendless  warfare!   lingering  long 
Through  weary  day  and  weary  year, 

A  wild  and  fnany-weaponed  throng 
Hang  on  thy  front,  and  flank,  and  rear. 

Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof, 
And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot. 

The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof, 
The  sage  may  frown — yet  faint  thou 
not. 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast, 
The  foul  and  hissing  bolt  of  scorn ;    3° 

For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 
The  victory  of  endurance  born. 

Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again, 
Th'  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers ; 

But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain, 
And  dies  among  his  worshippers.' 

Yea,  though  thou  lie  upon  the  dust, 
When  they  who  helped  thee  flee  in  fear, 

Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trjust, 
Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here.      40 

Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield, 
Another  hand  the  standard  wave, 

Till   from  the  trumpet's  mouth  is  pealed 
The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave. 


New   York   Mirror,   May,    1835       1837.          Democratic  Review,    Oct.,  1837. 


186 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


THE   ANTIQUITY   OF   FREEDOM 

Here  are  old  trees,  tall  oaks,  and  gnarled 

pines, 
That    stream    with    gray-green    mosses; 

here  the  ground 

Was  never  trenched  by  spade,  and  flow 
ers  spring  up 

Unsown,  and  die  ungathered.    It  is  sweet 
To  linger  here,  among  the  flitting  birds 
And  leaping  squirrels,  wandering  brooks, 

and  winds 
That  shake  the  leaves,  and  scatter,  as  they 

pass, 

A  fragrance  from  the  cedars,  thickly  set 
With  pale-blue  berries.  In  these  peaceful 

shades — 

Peaceful,  unpruned,  immeasurably  old — 
My  thoughts  go  up  the  long  dim  path  of 

years,  « 

Back  to  the  earliest  days  of  liberty. 

O  Freedom !  thou  art  not,  as  poets  dream, 
A  fair  young  girl,  with  light  and  delicate 

limbs, 

And  wavy  tresses  gushing  from  the  cap 
With  which  the  Roman  master  crowned 

his  slave 
When  he  took  off  the  gyves.    A  bearded 

man, 
Armed  to  the  teeth,  art  thou ;  one  mailed 

hand 
Grasps    the    broad    shield,    and    one    the 

sword;  thy  brow, 

Glorious  in  beauty  though  it  be,  is  scarred 
With  tokens  of  old  wars ;  thy  massive 

limbs  2I 

Are   strong   with    struggling.      Power   at 

thee  has  launched 
His  bolts,  and  with  his  lightnings  smitten 

thee; 
They  could  not  quench  the  life  thou  hast 

from  heaven ; 
Merciless    Power   has    dug   thy   dungeon 

deep, 
And  his  swart  armorers,  by  a  thousand 

fires, 
Have    forged   thy   chain ;    yet,    while   he 

deems  thee  bound, 

The  links  are  shivered,  and  the  prison- 
walls 
Fall    outward;     terribly    thou    springest 

forth, 

As  springs  the  flame  above  a  burning  pile, 
And  shoutest  to  the  nations,  who  return 
Thy  shoutings,  while  the  pale  oppressor 

flies.  32 


Thy  birthright  was  not  given  by  human 

hands : 

Thou  wert  twin-born  with  man.    In  pleas 
ant  fields, 
While  yet  our  race  was  few,  thou  sat'st 

with  him, 
To  tend  the   quiet  flock   and   watch   the 

stars, 

And  teach  the  reed  to  utter  simple  airs. 
Thou  by  his  side,  amid  the  tangled  wood, 
Didst  war  upon  the  panther  and  the  wolf, 
His  only  foes;  and  thou  with  him  didst 
draw  4«> 

The    earliest    furrow    on    the    mountain 
side, 

Soft  with  the  deluge.     Tyranny  himself, 
Thy  enemy,  although  of  reverend  look, 
Hoary  with  many  years,  and  far  obeyed, 
Is  later  born  tnan  thou ;  and  as  he  meets 
The  grave  defiance  of  thine  elder  eye, 
The  usurper  trembles  in  his  fastnesses. 

Thou  shalt  wax  stronger  with  the  lapse 

of  years, 

But  he  shall  fade  into  a  feebler  age —  ^ 
Feebler,  yet  subtler.     He  shall  weave  his 

snares,  s° 

And  spring  them  on  thy  careless  steps,  and 

clap 

His  withered  hands,  and  from  their  am 
bush  call 
His  hordes  to  fall  upon  thee.     He  shall 

send 
Quaint  maskers,  wearing  fair  and  gallant 

forms 
To  catch  thy  gaze,  and  uttering  graceful 

words 
To  charm  thy  ear;  while  his  sly  imps,  by 

stealth, 
Twine  round  thee  threads  of  steel,  light 

thread  on  thread, 
That  grow  to  fetters ;  or  bind  down  thy 

arms 
With  chains  concealed  in  chaplets.     Oh ! 

not  yet 
-Mayst  thou  unbrace  thy  corslet,  nor  lay 

by  & 

Thy  sword ;  nor  yet,  O   Freedom !  close 

thy  lids 

In  slumber ;  for  thine  enemy  never  sleeps, 
And  thou  must  watch  and  combat  till  the 

day 
Of    the    new    earth    and    heaven.      But 

wouldst  thou  rest 
Awhile   from   tumult   and   the    frauds   of 

men. 

These  old  and  friendly  solitudes  invite 
Thy  visit.    They,  while  yet  the  forest-trees 
Were  young  upon  the  unviolated  earth, 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 


187 


And  yet  the  moss-stains  on  the  rock  were 

new, 
Beheld    thy   glorious    childhood,    and    re 

joiced.  7° 

1842. 

Knickerbocker  Magazine,  Feb.,   1842. 

"O  MOTHER  OF  A  MIGHTY  RACE" 


Thine  eye,  with  every  coming  hour, 
Shall  brighten,  and  thy  form  shall  tower; 
And  when  thy  sisters,  elder  born, 
Would   brand   thy   name  with   words   of 
scorn, 

Before  thine  eye, 
Upon  their  lips  the  taunt  shall  die. 


O  mother  of  a  mighty  race, 
Yet  lovely  in  thy  youthful  grace  ! 
The  elder  dames,  thy  haughty  peers, 
Admire  and  hate  thy  blooming  years. 

With  words  of  shame 
And  taunts  of  scorn  they  join  thy  name. 

For  on  thy  cheeks  the  glow  is  spread 
That  tints  thy  morning  hills  with  red  ; 
Thy  step  —  the  wild-deer's  rustling  feet 
Within  thy  woods  are  not  more  fleet;     I0 

Thy  hopeful  eye 
Is  bright  as  thine  own  sunny  sky. 


Graham's  Magazine,  July,  1847. 


ROBERT  OF  LINCOL 


1846V 


Merrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed, 
Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 
Over  the  mountain-side  or  mead, 
Robert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  name: 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Snug  and  safe  is  that  nest  of  ours, 
Hidden  among  the  summer  flowers. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 


Robert  of  Lincoln  is  gayly  drest,  I0 

PJLv    Wearing  a  bright  black  wedding-coat; 
Ay,  let  them  rail — those  haughty  ones.^^^yvVhite    are   his    shoulders    and   white   his 


While  safe  thou  dwellest  with  thy  sons. 
They  do  not  know  how  loved  thou  art, 
How  many  a  fond  and  fearless  heart 

Would  rise  to  throw 
Its  life  between  thee  and  the  foe. 

They  know  not,  in  their  hate  and  pride, 
What  virtues  with  thy  children  bide;      2° 
How  true,  how  good,  thy  graceful  maids 
Make   bright,   like   flowers,   the   valley- 
shades  ; 

What  generous   men 
Spring,  like  thine  oaks,  by  hill  and  glen ; — 

What  cordial  welcomes  greet  the  guest 
By  thy  lone  rivers  of  the  West; 
How  faith  is  kept,  and  truth  revered, 
And  man  is  loved,  and  God  is  feared, 

In  woodland  homes, 
And  where  the  ocean  border  foams.       3f> 

There's  freedom  at  thy  gates  and  rest 
For  Earth's  down-trodden  and  opprest, 
A  shelter  for  the  hunted  head. 
For  the  starved  laborer  toil  and  bread. 

Power,  at  thy  bounds. 
Stops  and  calls  back  his  baffled  hounds. 

O  fair  young  mother !  on  thy  brow 
Shall  sit  a  nobler  grace  than  now. 
Deep  in  the  brightness  of  the  skies 
The  thronging  years  in  glory  rise,          4° 

And,  as  they  fleet, 
Dxop  strength  and  riches  at  thy  feet. 


crest. 

Hear  him  call  in  his  merry  note: 
Bob-o'-link,  6ob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Look,  what  a  nice  new  coat  is  mine, 
Sure  there  was  never  a  bird  so  fine. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln's  Quaker  wife, 

Pretty    and    quiet,    with    plain    brown 
wings,  2° 

Passing  at  home  a  patient  life, 
Broods  in  the  grass  while  her  husband 
sings : 

Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 

Brood,  kind  creature ;  you  need  not  fear 
Thieves  and  robbers  while  I  am  here. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she ; 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note. 
Braggart  and  prince  of  braggarts  is  he,   3° 
Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man ; 
Catch  me,  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can! 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  bed  of  hay, 

Flecked  with  purple,  a  pretty  sight ! 

There  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 

Robert  is  singing  with  all  his  might:  40 


188 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink;    * 
Nice  good  wife,  that  never  goes  out, 
Keeping  house  while  I   frolic  about. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell, 

Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food; 
Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 
Gathering  seeds  for  the  hungry  brood. 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link,  5° 

Spink,  spank,  spink; 
This  new  life  is  likely  to  be 
Hard  for  a  gay  young  fellow  like  me. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  at  length  is  made 

Sober  with  work,  and  silent  with  care; 
Off  is  his  holiday  garment  laid, 
Half  forgotten  that  merry  air: 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink;  6° 

Nobody  knows  but  my  mate  and  I 
Where  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  lie. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Summer  wanes;  the.children  are  grown; 

Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows; 
Robert  of  Lincoln's  a  humdrum  crone; 
Off  he  flies,  and  we  sing  as  he  goes : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 

When  you  can  pipe  that  merry  old  strain, 

Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again.      7l 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 


1855. 


Putnam's  Magazine,  June,  1855. 


THE    PLANTING   OF   THE   APPLE- 
TREE 

Come,  let  us  plant  the  apple-tree. 
Cleave  the  tough  greensward  with  the 

spade ; 

Wide  let  its  hollow  bed  be  made; 
There  gently  lay  the  roots,  and  there 
Sift  the  dark  mould  with  kindly  care, 

And  press  it  o'er  them  tenderly, 
As,  round  the  sleeping  infant's  feet, 
We  softly  fold  the  cradle-sheet; 

So  plant  we  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree?       I0 
Buds,  which  the  breath  of  summer  days 
Shall  lengthen  into  leafy  sprays;. 
Boughs   where   the  thrush,  with  crimson 

breast, 
Shall  haunt  and  sing  and  hide  her  nest; 


We  plant,  upon  the  sunny  lea, 
A  shadow  for  the  noontide  hour, 
A  shelter  from  the  summer  shower, 

When  we  plant  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree? 
Sweets  for  a  hundred  flowery  springs      2° 
To  load  the  May-wind's  restless  wings, 
When,  from  the  orchard-row;  he  pours 
Its  fragrance  through  our  open  doors; 

A  world  of  blossoms  for  the  bee, 
Flowers  for  the  sick  girl's  silent  room, 
For  the  glad  infant  sprigs  of  bloom, 

We  plant  with  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree? 
Fruits  that  shall  swell  in  sunny  June, 
And  redden  in  the  August  noon,  30 

And  drop,  when  gentle  airs  come  by, 
That  fan  the  blue  September  sky, 

While  children  come,  with  cries  of  glee, 
And  seek  them  where  the  fragrant  grass 
Betrays  their  bed  to  those  who  pass, 

At  the  foot  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  when,  above  this  apple-tree, 
The  winter  stars  are  quivering  bright, 
And  winds  go  howling  through  the  night, 
Girls,    whose    young    eyes    o'erflow    with 
mirth,  4° 

Shall   peel  its  fruit  by  cottage-hearth, 

And  guests  in  prouder  homes  shall  see, 
Heaped  with  the  grape  of  Cintra's  vine 
And  golden  orange  of  the  line, 

The  fruit  of  the  apple-tree. 

The  fruitage  of  this  apple-tree 
Winds  and  our  flag  of  stripe  and  star 
Shall  bear  to  coasts  that  lie  afar, 
Where  men  shall  wonder  at  the  view, 
And  ask  in  what  fair  groves  they  grew; 

And  sojourners  beyond  the  sea  si 

Shall  think  of  childhood's  careless  day, 
And  long,  long  hours  of  summer  play, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree. 

Each  year  shall  give  this  apple-tree 
A  broader  flush   of   roseate  bloom, 
A   deeper  maze  of  verdurous  gloom, 
And  loosen,  when  the  frost-clouds  lower, 
The  crisp  brown  leaves  in  thicker  shower. 

The  years  shall  come  and  pass,  but  we 
Shall  hear  no  longer,  where  we  lie,  6r 
The  summer's  songs,  the  autumn's  sigh, 

In  the  boughs  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  time  shall  waste  this  apple-tree. 
Oh,  when  its  aged  branches  throw 
Thin  shadows  on  the  ground  below, 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 


189 


Shall  fraud  and  force  and  iron  will 
Oppress  the  weak  and  helpless  still? 

What  shall  the  tasks  of  mercy.be, 
Amid  the  toils,  the  strifes,  the  tears       7° 
Of  those  who  live  when  length  of  years 

Is  wasting  this  little  apple-tree? 

"Who  planted  this  old  apple-tree?" 
The  children  of  that  distant  day 
Thus  to  some  aged  man  shall  say; 
And,  gazing  on   its  mossy  stem, 
The  gray-haired  man  shall  answer  them : 

"A  poet  of  the  land  was  he, 
Born  in  the  rude  but  good  old  times; 
'Tis  said  he  made  some  quaint  old  rhymes, 

On  planting  the  apple-tree."  8l 

1849.  Atlantic  Monthly,  Jan.,  1864. 


OUR  COUNTRY'S  CALL 

Lay  down  the  axe ;  fling  by  the  spade ; 

Leave  in  its  track  the  toiling  plough ; 
The  rifle  and  the  bayonet-blade 

For  arms  like  yours  were  fitter  now ; 
And  let  the  hands  that  ply  the  pen 

Quit  the  light  task,  and  learn  to  wield 
The  horseman's  crooked  brand,  and  rein 

The  charger  on  the  battle-field. 

Our  country  calls ;  away  !  away ! 

To    where    the    blood-stream    blots    the 
green.  10 

Strike  to  defend  the  gentlest  sway 

That  Time  in  all  his  course  has  seen. 
See,   from  a  thousand  coverts — see, 

Spring  the  armed  foes  that  haunt  her 

track ; 
They  rush  to  smite  her  down,  and  we 

Must  beat  the  banded  traitors  back. 

Ho !  sturdy  as  the  oaks  ye  cleave, 

And  moved  as  soon  to  fear  and  flight, 
Men  of  the  glade  and  forest !  leave          '9 

Your  woodcraft  for  the  field  of  fight. 
The  arms  that  wield  the  axe  must  pour 

An  iron  tempest  on  the  foe ; 
His  serried  ranks  shall  reel  before 

The  arm  that  lays  the  panther  low. 

And  ye   who   breast   the   mountain-storm 

By  grassy  steep  or  highland  lake, 
Come,  for  the  land  ye  love,  to  form 

A  bulwark  that  no  foe  can  break. 
Stand,  like  your  own  gray  cliffs  that  mock 

The  whirlwind,  stand  in  her  defence;   3° 
The  blast  as  soon  shall  move  the  rock 

As  rushing  squadrons  bear  ye  thence. 


And  ye  whose  homes  are  by  her  grand 

Swift  rivers,  rising   far  away, 
Come  from  the  depth  of  her  green  land, 

As  mighty  in  your  march  as  they; 
As  terrible  as  when  the  rains 

Have    swelled    them    over    bank    and  , 

bourne, 
With  sudden  floods  to  drown  the  plains 

And  sweep  along  the  woods  uptorn.      40 

And  ye  who  throng,  beside  the  deep, 
Her  ports  and  hamlets  of  the  strand, 

In  number  like  the  waves  that  leap 
On  his  long-murmuring  marge  of  sand — 

Come  like  that  deep,  when,  o'er  his  brim, 
He  rises,  all  his  floods  to  pour, 

And  flings  the  proudest  barks  that  swim, 
.  A  helpless  wreck,  against  the  shore ! 

Few,  few  were  they  whose  swords  of  old 

Won  the  fair  land  in  which  we  dwell ; 
But  we  are  many,  we  who  hold  si 

The  grim  resolve  to  guard  it  well, 
Strike,  for  that  broad  and  goodly  land, 

Blow  after  blow,  till  men  shall  see 
That  Might  and  Right  move  hand  in  hand, 

And  glorious  must  their  triumph  be ! 
September,  1861. 

New  York  Ledger,  Nov.  2,  1861. 


THE   SONG  OF  THE   SOWER 


The  maples  redden  in  the  sun ; 

In  autumn  gold  the  beaches  stand ; 
Rest,  faithful  plough,  thy  work  is  done 

Upon  the  teeming  land. 
Bordered  with  trees  whose  gay  leaves  fly 
On  every  breath  that  sweeps  the  sky, 
The  fresh  dark  acres  furrowed  lie, 

And  ask  the  sower's  hand. 
Loose  the  tired  steer  and  let  him  go 
To  pasture  where  the  gentians  blow,       10 
And  we,  who  till  the  grateful  ground, 
Fling  we  the  golden   shower  around. 


Fling  wide  the  generous  grain ;  we  fling 
O'er  the  dark  mould  the  green  of  spring. 
For  thick  the  emerald  blades  shall  grow, 
When  first  the  March  winds  melt  the  snow, 
And  to  the  sleeping  flowers,  below, 

The  early  bluebirds  sing. 
Fling  wide  the  grain;  we  give  the  fields 

The  ears  that  nod  in  summer's  gale,    2° 
The  shining  stems  that  summer  gilds, 

The  harvest  that  o'erflows  the  vale, 


190 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


And  swells,  an  amber  sea,  between 
The  full-leaved  woods,  its  shores  of  green. 
Hark !  from  the  murmuring  clods  I  hear 
Glad  voices  of  the  coming  year; 
The  song  of  him  who  binds  the  grain, 
The  shout  of  those  that  load  the  wain,   - 
And  from  the  distant  grange  there  comes 

The  clatter  of  the  thresher's  flail,       3° 
And  steadily  the  millstone  hums 

Down  in  the  willowy  vale. 


in 

Fling  wide  the  golden  shower;  we  trust 
The  strength  of  armies  to  the  dust. 
This   peaceful   lea  may  haply  yield 
Its  harvest  for  the  tented  field. 
Ha !   feel  ye  not  your  fingers  thrill, 

As  o'er  them,  in  the  yellow  grains, 
Glide  the  warm  drops  of  blood  that  fill, 

For  mortal  strife,  the  warrior's  veins; 
Such  as,  on  Solferino's  day,  41 

Slaked  the  brown  sand  and  flowed  away — 
Flowed  till  the  herds,  on  Mincio's  brink, 
Snuffed  the  red  stream  and  feared  to 

drink ; — 
Blood  that  in  deeper  pools  shall  lie, 

On  the  sad  earth,  as  time  grows  gray, 
When  men  by  deadlier  arts  shall  die, 
And  deeper  darkness  blot  the  sky 

Above  the  thundering  fray; 
And  realms,  that  hear  the  battle-cry,      5° 

Shall  sicken  with  dismay; 
And  chieftains  to  the  war  shall  lead 
Whole  nations,  with  the  tempest's  speed, 

To  perish  in  a  day; — 
Till  man,  by  love  an"d  mercy  taught, 
Shall  rue  the  wreck  his  fury  wrought, 

And  lay  the  sword  away !       , 
Oh  strew,  with  pausing,  shuddering  hand, 
The  seed  upon  the  helpless  land, 
As  if,  at  every  step,  ye  cast  6° 

The  pelting  hair1  and  riving  blast. 


IV 
Nay,  strew,  with  free  and  joyous  sweep, 

The  seed  upon  the  expecting  soil; 
For  hence  the  plenteous  year  shall  heap 

The  garners  of  the  men  who  toil. 
Strew  the  bright  seed  for  those  who  tear 
The  matted  sward  with  spade  and  share, 
And  those  whose  sounding  axes  gleam 
Beside  the  lonely  forest  stream, 

Till  its  broad  banks  lie  bare ;  7° 

And  him  who  breaks  the  quarry-ledge, 

With    hammer-blows,    plied    quick    and 

strong, 
And  him  who,  with  the  steady  sledge, 


Smites  the  shrill  anvil  all  day  long. 
Sprinkle  the  furrow's  even  trace 

For  those  whose  toiling  hands  uprear 
The  roof-trees  of  our  swarming  race, 

By   grove    and    plain,    by    stream    and 

mere; 
Who  forth,  from  crowded  city,  lead 

The  lengthening  street,  and  overlay      8° 
Green  orchard-plot  and  grassy  mead 

With  pavement  of  the  murmuring  way. 
Cast,  with  full  hands  the  harvest  cast, 
For  the  brave  men  that  climb  the  mast, 
When  to  the  billow  and  the  blast, 

It    swings    and    stoops,    with    fearful 

strain, 
And  bind  the  fluttering  mainsail  fast, 

Till  the  tossed  bark  shall  sit,  again, 

Safe  as  a  sea-bird  on  the  main. 


Fling  wide  the  grain  for  those  who  throw 
The  clanking  shuttle  to  and  fro,  9* 

In  the  long  row  of  humming  rooms, 

And  into  ponderous  masses  wind 
The  web  that,  from  a  thousand  looms, 

Comes  forth  to  clothe  mankind. 
Strew,    with    free   sweep,   the   grain    for 
them, 

By  whom  the  busy  thread 
Along  the  garment's  even  hem 

And  winding  seam  is  led; 
A  pallid  sisterhood,  that  keep  I0° 

The  lonely  lamp  alight, 
In  strife  with  weariness  and  sleep, 

Beyond  the  middle  night. 
Large  part  be  theirs  in  what  the  year 
Shall  ripen  for  the  reaper  here. 

VI 

Still,  strew,  with  joyous  hand,  the  wheat 
On  the  soft  mould  beneath  our  feet, 

For  even  now  I  seem 
To  hear  a  sound  that  lightly  rings 
From  murmuring  harp  and  viol's  strings, 

As  in  a  summer  dream.  IJI 

The  welcome  of  the  wedding-guest, 

The  bridegroom's  look  of  bashful  pride, 

The  faint  smile  of  the  pallid  bride, 
And  bridesmaid's  blush  at  matron's  jest, 
And  dance  and  song  and  generous  dower, 
Are  in  the  shining  grains  we  shower. 

VII 

Scatter  the  wheat   for  shipwrecked  men, 
Who,  hunger-worn,  rejoice  again 

In  the  sweet  safety  of  the  shore,  12° 
And  wanderers,  lost  in  woodlands  drear, 
Whose  pulses  bound  with  joy  to  hear 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 


191 


The  herd's   light  bell  once  more. 

Freely  the  golden  spray  be  shed 
For  him  whose  heart,  when  night  comes 

down 
On  the  close  alleys  of  the  town, 

Is  faint  for  lack  of  bread. 
In  chill  roof-chambers,  bleak  and  bare, 
Or  the  damp  cellar's  stifling  air, 
She  who  now  sees,  in  mute  despair,       !3° 

Her  children  pine  for  food, 
Shall  feel  the  dews  of  gladness  start 
To  lids  long  tearless,  and  shall  part 
The  sweet  loaf  with  a  grateful  heart, 

Among  her  thin  pale  brood. 
Dear,  kindly  Earth,  whose  breast  we  till! 
Oh,   for  thy  famished  children,  fill, 

Where'er  the  sower  walks, 
Fill  the  rich  ears  that  shade  the  mould 
With  grain  for  grain,  a  hundredfold,     J4° 

To   bend   the   sturdy  stalks. 

VIII 

Strew  silently  the  fruitful  seed, 

As  softly  o'er  the  tilth  ye  tread, 
For  hands  that  delicately  knead 

The  consecrated  bread — 
The  mystic  loaf  that  crowns  the  board, 
When,  round  the  table  of  their  Lord, 

Within  a  thousand  temples  set, 
In  memory  of  the  bitter  death 
Of  Him  who  taught  at  Nazareth,  '5° 

His  followers  are  met, 
And  thoughtful  eyes  with  tears  are  wet, 

As  of  the  Holy  One  they  think, 
The  glory  of  whose  rising  yet 

Makes    bright    the    grave's    mysterious 
brink. 

IX 

Brethren,  the  sower's  task  is  done. 
The  seed  is  in  its  winter  bed. 
Now  let  the  dark-brown  mould  be  spread, 

To  hide  it  from  the  sun, 
And  leave  it  to  the  kindly  care 
Of  the  still  earth  and  brooding  air,       l6° 
As  when  the  mother,  from  her  breast, 
Lays  the  hushed  babe  apart  to  rest, 
And  shades  its  eyes,  and  waits  to  see 
How  sweet  its  waking  smile  will  be. 
The  tempest  now  may  smite,  the  sleet 
All  night  on  the  drowned  furrow  beat, 
And  winds  that,  from  the  cloudy  hold, 
Of  winter  breathe  the  bitter  cold, 
Stiffen  to  stone  the  mellow  mould, 

Yet  safe  shall  lie  the  wheat;  J7° 

Till,  out  of  heaven's  unmeasured  blue, 

Shall  walk  again  the  genial  year, 
To  wake  with  warmth  and  nurse  with  dew 

The  germs  we  lay  to  slumber  here. 


Oh  blessed  harvest  yet  to  be! 

Abide  thou   with  the  Love  that  keeps, 
In   its  warm  bosom,  tenderly, 

The  Life  which  wakes  and  that  which 

sleeps. 

The  Love  that  leads  the  willing  spheres 
Along  the  unending  track  of  years,          l8° 
And  watches  o'er  the  sparrow's  nest, 
Shall  brood  above  thy  winter  rest, 
And  raise  thee  from  the  dust,  to  hold 

Light   whisperings    with   the   winds   of 

May, 
And  fill  thy  spikes  with  livmg  gold, 

From  summer's  yellow  ray; 
Then,  as  thy  garners  give  thee  forth, 

On  what  glad  errands  shalt  thou  go, 
Wherever,  o'er  the  waiting  earth, 

Roads  wind  and  rivers  flow;  J9° 

The  ancient  East  shall  welcome  thee 
To  mighty  marts  beyond  the  sea, 
And  they  who   dwell  where  palm-groves 

sound 

To  summer  winds  the  whole  year  round, 
Shall  watch,  in  gladness, 'from  the  shore, 
The  sails  that  bring  thy  glistening  store. 


1859. 


"Thirty  Poems,"   1864. 


THE    POET 

Thou  who  wouldst  wear  the  name 

Of  poet  'mid  thy  brethren  of  mankind, 

And  clothe  in  words  of  flame 

Thoughts  that  shall  live  within  the  gen 
eral  mind ! 

Deem  not  the  framing  of  a  deathless  lay 

The  pastime  of  a  drowsy  summer  day. 

But  gather  all  thy  powers 
And  wreak  them  on  the  verse  that  thou 

dost  weave, 
And  in  thy  lonely  hours, 

At  silent  morning  or  at  wakeful  eve,    I0 
While  the  warm  current  tingles  through 

thy  veins 

Set    forth   the    burning    words    in    fluent 
strains. 

No  smooth  array  of  phrase, 
Artfully  sought  and  ordered  though  it 

be, 
Which  the  cold  rhymer  lays 

Upon  his  page  with  languid  industry, 
Can    wake    the    listless    pulse    to    livelier 

speed, 

Or  fill   with   sudden  tears  the   eyes  that 
read. 


192 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


The  secret  wouldst  thou  know 
To  touch  the  heart  or  fire  the  blood  at 
will?  2° 

Let  thine  own  eyes  o'erflow ; 

Let  thy  lips  quiver  with  the  passionate 
-  thrill ; 
Seize  the  great  thought,  ere  yet  its  power 

be  past, 
And  bind,  in  words,  the  fleet  emotion  fast. 

Then,  should  thy  verse  appear 

Halting    and    harsh,    and    all    unaptly 

wrought, 
Touch  the  crude  line  with   fear, 

Save    in    the    moment    of    impassioned 

thought ; 
Then  summon  back  the  original  glow,  and 

mend 

The    strain    with    rapture    that    with    fire 
was  penned.  3° 

Yet  let  no  empty  gust 

Of  passion  find  an  utterance  in  thy  lay, 
A  blast  that  whirls  the  dust 

Along  the  howling  street  and  dies  away ; 
But   feelings  of  calm  power  and  mighty 

sweep, 

Like   currents   journeying   through   the 
windless  deep. 

Seek'st  thou,  in  living  lays, 
To   limn  the  beauty  of  the   earth   and 

sky? 
Before  thine  inner  gaze 

Let  all  that  beauty  in  clear  vision  lie;  4<> 
Look  on  it  with  exceeding  love,  and  write 
The  words  inspired  by  wonder  and   de 
light. 

Of  tempests  wouldst  thou  sing, 

Or  tell  of  battles — make  thyself  a  part 
Of  the  great  tumult;  cling 

To  the  tossed  wreck  with  terror  in  thy 

heart ; 

Scale,  with  the  assaulting  host,  the  ram 
part's  height, 

And   strike   and   struggle   in   the   thickest 
fight. 

So  shalt  thou  frame  a  lay 

That  haply  may  endure  from  age  to  age, 

And  they  who  read  shall  say:  si 

"What  witchery  hangs  upon  this  poet's 

page! 

What  art  is  his'  the  written  spells  to  find 
That  sway  from  mood  to  mood  the  will 
ing  mind !" 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN  i 

Oh,  slow  to  smite  and  swift  to  spare, 
Gentle  and  merciful  and  just! 

Who,  in  the  fear  of  God,  didst  bear 
The  sword  of  power,  a  nation's  trust! 

In  sorrow  by  thy  bier  we  stand, 
Amid  the  awe  that  hushes  all, 

And  speak  the  anguish  of  a  land 
That  shook  with  horror  at  thy  fall. 

Thy  task  is  done ;  the  bond  are  free : 
We  bear  thee  to  an  honored  grave,  I0 

Whose  proudest  monument  shall  be 
The  broken  fetters  of  the  slave. 

Pure  was  thy  life;  its  bloody  close 
Hath  placed  thee  with  the  sons  of  light, 

Among  the  noble  host  of  those 

Who  perished  in  the  cause  of  Right. 


April,  1865. 


January,  1866. 


1863. 


"Thirty  Poems,"  1864. 


CHRISTMAS    IN    1875 
Supposed   to    be   written    by   a    Spaniard 

No  trumpet-blast  profaned 
The  hour  in  which  the  Prince  of  Peace 

was  born; 

No  bloody  streamlet  stained 
Earth's  silver  rivers  on  that  sacred  morn ; 

But,  o'er  the  peaceful  plain, 
The  war-horse  drew  the  peasant's  loaded 
wain. 

The  soldier  had  laid  by 
The  sword  and  stripped  the  corselet  from 

his  breast, 

And  hung  his  helm  on  high — 
The  sparrow's  winter  home  and  summer 
nest;  I0 

And,  with  the  same  strong  hand 
That  flung  the  barbed  spear,  he  tilled  the 
land. 

Oh,  time  for  which  we  yearn ; 
Oh,  sabbath  of  the  nations  long  foretold ! 

Season  of  peace,  return, 
Like  a  late  summer  when  the  year  grows 

old, 

When  the  sweet  sunny  days 
Steeped  mead  and  mountain-side  in  gold 
en  haze. 

1  This    poem    was    written    for    the    day    of    the 
funeral  procession  of  Lincoln  in  New  York  City. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 


193 


For  now  two  rival  kings 
Flaunt,  o'er  our  bleeding  land,  their  hos 
tile  flags,  2° 
And  every  sunrise  brings 
The  hovering  vulture  from  his  mountain 

crags 

To  where  the  battle-plain 
Is  strewn  with  dead,  the  youth  and  flower 
of  Spain. 

Christ  is  not  come,  while  yet 
O'er  half  the  earth  the  threat  of  battle 

lowers,  * 

And  our  own  fields  are  wet, 
Beneath    the    battle-cloud,    with    crimson 

showers — 

The  life-blood  of  the  slain, 
Poured  out  where  thousands  die  that  one 
may  reign.  3° 

Soon,  over  half  the  earth, 
In  every  temple  crowds  shall  kneel  again 

To  celebrate  His  birth 
Who  brought  the  message  of  good-will  to 

men. 

And  bursts  of  joyous  song 
Shall  shake  the  roof  above  the  prostrate 
throng. 

Christ  is  not  come,  while  there 
The  men  of  blood  whose  crimes  affront 

the  skies 

Kneel  down  in  act  of  prayer, 
Amid  the  joyous  strains,  and  when  they 
rise  4° 

Go  forth,  with  sword  and  flame, 
To  waste  the  land  in  His  most  holy  name. 

Oh,  when  the  day  shall  break 
O'er  realms  unlearned  in  warfare's  cruel 

arts, 

And  all  their  millions  wake 
To  peaceful  tasks  performed  with  loving 

hearts, 

On  such  a  blessed  morn, 
Well  may  the  nations  say  that  Christ  is 

born. 
1875. 

New  York  Evening  Post,  Dec.,  1875. 


A    LIFETIME 


I  sit  in  the  early  twilight, 

And,  through  the  gathering  shade, 
I  look  on  the  fields  around  me 

Where  yet  a  child  I  played. 

And  I  peer  into  the  shadows, 
Till  they  seem  to  pass  away, 


And  the  fields  and  their  tiny  brooklet 
Lie  clear  in  the  light  of  day. 

A  delicate  child  and  slender, 

With  locks  of  light-brown  hair,  «> 

From  knoll  to  knoll  is  leaping 

In  the  breezy  summer  air. 

He  stoops  to  gather  blossoms 
Where  the  running  waters  shine; 

And  I  look  on  him  with  wonder, 
His  eyes  are  so  like  mine. 

I  look  till  the  fields  and  brooklet 

Swim  like  a  vision  by, 
And  a  room  in  a  lowly  dwelling 

Lies  clear  before  my  eye.  20 

There  stand,  in  the  clean-swept  fireplace, 
Fresh  boughs  from  the  wood  in  bloom, 

And  the  birch-tree's   fragrant  branches 
Perfume  the  humble  room. 

And  there  the  child  is  standing 

By  a  stately  lady's  knee, 
And  reading  of  ancient  peoples 

And  realms  beyond  the  sea : 

Of  the  cruel  King  of  Egypt 

Who  made  God's  people  slaves,  3° 

And  perished,  with  all  his  army, 
.    Drowned  in  the  Red  Sea  waves; 

Of  Deborah  who  mustered 
Her   brethren   long  oppressed, 

And  routed  the  heathen  army, 
And  gave  her  people  rest; 

And  the  sadder,  gentler  story 

How  Christ,  the  crucified, 
With  a  prayer  for  those  who  slew  Him, 

Forgave  them  as  He  died.  4° 

I  look  again,  and  there  rises 

A  forest  wide  and  wild, 
And  in  it  the  boy  is  wandering,  , 

No  longer  a  little  child. 

He  murmurs  his  own  rude  verses 
As  he  roams  the  woods  alone; 

And  again  I  gaze  with  wonder, 
His  eyes  are  so  like  my  own. 

I  see  him  next  in  his  chamber, 

Where  he  sits  him  down  to  write        5° 

The  rhymes  he  framed  in  his  ramble, 
And  he  cons  them  with  delight. 


194 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


A  kindly  figure  enters, 

A  man  of  middle  age, 
And  points  to  a  line  just  written, 

And   'tis    blotted    from   the   page. 

And  next,  in  a  hall  of  justice, 

Scarce  grown  to  manly  years, 
'Mid  the  hoary-headed   wranglers 

The  slender  youth  appears.  6° 

With  a  beating  heart  he  rises, 

And  with  a  burning  cheek, 
And  the  judges  kindly  listen 

To  hear  the  young  man  speak. 

Another  change,  and  I  see  him 

Approach  his  dwelling-place, 
Where  a  fair-haired  woman  meets  him, 

With  a  smile  on  her  young  face — 

A  smile  that  spreads  a  sunshine 

On  lip  and  cheek  and  brow ;  7° 

So  sweet  a  smile  there  is  not 
In  all  the  wide  earth  now. 

She  leads  by  the  hand  their  first-born, 

A  fair-haired  little  one, 
And  their  eyes  as  they  meet  him  sparkle 

Like  brooks  in  the  morning  sun. 

Another  change,  and  I  see  him 
Where  the  city's  ceaseless  coil 

Sends  up  a  mighty  murmur 
From  a  thousand  modes  of  toil.  8o- 

And  there,  'mid  the  clash  of  presses, 

He  plies  the  rapid  pen 
In  the  battles  of  opinion, 

That  divide  the  sons  of  men. 

I  look,  and  the  clashing  presses 
And  the  town  are  seen  no  more, 

But  there  is  the  poet  wandering 
A  strange  and  foreign  shore. 

He  has  crossed  the  mighty  ocean 
To  realms  that  lie  afar,  9° 

Jn  the  region  of  ancient  story, 
Beneath  the  morning  star. 

And  now  he  stands  in  wonder 

On  an  icy  Alpine  height; 
Now  pitches  his  tent  in  the  desert 

Where  the  jackal  yells  at  night; 

Now,  far  on  the  North  Sea  islands, 
Sees  day  on  the  midnight  sky, 

Now  gathers  the  fair  strange  fruitage  90 
Where  the  isles  of  the  Southland  lie. 


I  see  him  again  at  his  dwelling, 

Where,  over  the  little  lake, 
The  rose-trees  droop  in  their  beauty 

To  meet  the  image  they  make. 

Though  years  have  whitened  his  temples 
His  eyes  have  the  first  look  still, 

Save  a  shade  of  settled  sadness, 
A  forecast  of  coming  ill. 

For  in  that  pleasant  dwelling, 

On  the  rack  of  ceaseless  pain,  II0 

Liesfhe  who  smiled  so  sweetly, 

And  prays  for  ease  in  vain. 

And  I  know  that  his  heart  is  breaking, 

When,  over  those  dear  eyes, 
The  darkness  slowly  gathers, 

And  the  loved  and  loving  dies. 

A  grave  is  scooped  on  the  hillside 
Where  often,  at  eve  or  morn, 

He  lays  the  blooms  of  the  garden — 
He,  and  his  youngest  born.  I2° 

And  well  I  know  that  a  brightness 
From  his  life  has  passed  away, 

And  a  smile  from  the  green  earth's  beauty, 
And  a  glory  from  the  day. 

But  I  behold,  above  him, 

In  the  far  blue  deeps  of  air, 
Dim  battlements  shining  faintly, 

And  a  throng  of  faces  there ; 

See  over  crystal  barrier 

The  airy  figures  bend,  J3° 

Like  those  who  are  watching  and  waiting 

The  coming  of  a  friend. 

And  one  there  is  among  them, 

With  a  star  upon  her  brow, 
In  her  life  a  lovely  woman, 

A  sinless  seraph  now. 

I  know  the  sweet  calm  features; 

The  peerless  smile  I  know, 
And  I  stretch  my  arms  with  transport 

From  where  I  stand  below.  J4° 

And  the  quick  tears  drown  my  eyelids, 

But  the  airy  figures  fade, 
And  the  shining  battlements  darken 

And  blend  with  the  evening  shade. 

I  am  gazing  into  the  twilight 
Where  the  dim-seen  meadows  lie, 

And  the  wind  of  night  is  swaying 
The  trees  with  a  heavy. sigh. 


1876. 


"Poems,"  1876. 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 

(1803-1882) 


FROM  THE  POETi 


i. 

Right  upward  on  the  road  of  fame 
With  sounding  steps  the  poet  came ; 
Born  and  nourished  in  miracles, 
His  feet  were  shod  with  golden  bells, 
Or  where  he  stepped  the  soil  did  peal 
As  if  the  dust  were  glass  and  steel. 
The  gallant  child  where'er  he  came 
Threw  to  each  fact  a  tuneful  name. 
The  things  whereon  he  cast  his  eyes 
Could  not  the  nations  rebaptize,  10 

Nor  Time's  snows  hide  the  names  he  set, 
Nor  last  posterity  forget. 
Yet  every  scroll  whereon  he  wrote 
In  latent  fire  his  secret  thought, 
Fell  unregarded  to  the  ground, 
Unseen  by  such  as  stood  around. 
The  pious  wind  took  it  away, 
The  reverent  darkness  hid  the  lay. 
Methought  like  water-haunting  birds 
Divers  or  dippers  were  his  words,          x 
And  idle  clowns  beside  the  mere 
At  the  new  vision  gape  and  jeer. 
But  when  the  noisy  scorn  was  past, 
Emerge  the  winged  words  in  haste. 
New  -  bathed,   new  -  trimmed,   on   healthy 

wing, 

Right  to  the  heaven  they  steer  and  sing. 
A  Brother  of  the  world,  his  song 
Sounded  like  a  tempest  strong 
Which    tore    from    oaks    their    branches 

broad, 

And  stars  from  the  ecliptic  road.  3° 

Times  wore  he  as  his  clothing-weeds, 
He  sowed  the  sun  and  moon  for  seeds. 
As  melts  the  iceberg  in  the  seas, 
As  clouds  give  rain  to  the  eastern  breeze, 
As  snow-banks  thaw  in  April's  beam, 
The  solid  kingdoms  like  a  dream 
Resist  in  vain  his  motive  strain, 
They  totter  now  and  float  amain. 
For  the  Muse  gave  special  charge 
His  learning  should  be  deep  and  large,   4° 

1  This  poem  was  begun  as  early  as  1831,  prob 
ably  earlier,  and  received  additions  for  more 
than  twenty  years,  but  was  never  completed. 
In  its  early  form,  it  was  entitled,  "The  Discon 
tented  Poet,  A  Masque," 


195 


And  his  training  should  not  scant 

The  deepest  lore  of  wealth  or  want: 

His  flesh  should  feel,  his  eyes  should  read 

Every  maxim  of  dreadful  Need; 

In  its  fulness  he  should  taste 

Life's  honeycomb,  but  not  too  fast; 

Full  fed,  but  not  intoxicated ; 

He  should  be  loved ;  he  should  be  hated 

A  blooming  child  to  children  dear, 

His  heart  should  palpitate  with  fear.      so 

And  well  he  loved  to  quit  his  home 
And,  Calmuck,  in  his  wagon  roam 
To  read  new  landscapes  and  old  okies ; — 
But  oh,  to  see  his  solar  eyes 
Like  meteors  which  chose  their  way 
And  rived  the  dark  like  a  new  day! 
Not  lazy  grazing  on  all  they  saw, 
Each  chimney-pot  and  cottage  door, 
Farm-gear  and  village   picket-fence, 
But,  feeding  on  magnificence,  6° 

They  bounded  to  the  horizon's  edge 
And  searched  with  the  sun's  privilege. 
Landward  they  reached  the  mountains  old 
Where  pastoral  tribes  their  flocks  infold, 
Saw  rivers  run  seaward  by  cities  high 
And  the  seas  wash  the  low-hung  sky ; 
Saw  the  endless  rack  of  the  firmament 
And   the  sailing   moon   where   the  cloud 

was  rent, 
And  through  man  and  woman  and  sea  and 

star 
Saw  the   dance  of   Nature   forward  and 

far,  7° 

Through  worlds  and  races  and  terms  and 

times 
Saw  musical  order  and  pairing  rhymes. 

GOOD-BYE  2 

Good-bye,  proud  world  !  I'm  going  home  : 
Thou  art  not  my  friend,  and  I'm  not  thine. 
Long  through  thy  weary  crowds  I  roam ; 
A  river-ark  on  the  ocean  brine, 
Long    I've    been    tossed    like    the    driven 

foam ; 
But  now,  proud  world !    I'm  going  home. 

2  Written    while   Emerson    was   a   schoolmaster 
in  Boston  and  lived  in  Roxbury, 


196 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Good-bye  to  Flattery's  fawning  face; 
To  Grandeur  with  his  wise  grimace; 
To  upstart  Wealth's  averted  eye; 
To  supple  Office,  low  and  high ;  I0 

To  crowded  halls,  to  court  and  street; 
To  frozen  hearts  and  hasting  feet; 
To  those  who  go,  and  those  who  come;  , 
Good-bye,  proud  world !   I'm  going  home. 

I  am  going  to  my  own  hearth-stone, 
Bosomed  in  yon  green  hills  alone, — 
A  secret  nook  in  a  pleasant  land, 
Whose  groves  the  frolic  fairies  planned; 
Where  arches  green,  the  livelong  day, 
Echo  the  blackbird's  roundelay,  2° 

And  vulgar  feet  have  never  trod 
A  spot  that  is  sacred  to  thought  and  God. 

O,  when  I  am  safe  in  my  sylvan  home, 
I  tread  on  the  pride  of  Greece  and  Rome ; 
And   when   I    am   stretched   beneath   the 

pines, 

Where  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines, 
I  laugh  at  the  lore  and  the  pride  of  man, 
At   the    sophist   schools    and   the   learned 

clan; 

For  what  are  they  all,  in  their  high  con 
ceit, 

When  man   in   the  bush   with   God   may 
meet?  30 

1823.          Western  Messenger,  April,  1839. 


THINE   EYES    STILL    SHINED* 

Thine  eyes  still  shined  for  me,  though  far 
I  lonely  roved  the  land  or  sea : 

As  I  behold  yon  evening  star, 
Which  yet  beholds  not  me. 

This  morn  I  climbed  the  misty  hill 
And  roamed  the  pastures  through ; 

How  danced  thy  form  before  my  path 
Amidst  the  deep-eyed  dew ! 


When  the  redbird  spread  his  sable  wing, 
And  showed  his  side  of  flame;  « 

When  the  rosebud  ripened  to  the  rose, 
In  both  I  read  thy  name. 


1829  or  1830. 


"Poems,"  1847. 


WRITTEN  IN  NAPLES 

We  are  what  we  are  made;  each  follow 
ing  day 

Is  the  Creator  of  our  human  mould 
Not  less  than  was  the  first;  the  all-wise 

God 

Gilds  a  few  points  in  every  several  life, 
And  as  each  flower  upon  the  fresh  hillside, 
And  every  colored  petal  of  each  flower, 
Is  sketched  and  dyed,  each  with  a  new 

design, 

Its  spot  of  purple,  and  it's  streak  of  brown, 
So  each  man's  life  shall  have  its  proper 

lights, 

And  a  few  joys,  a  few  peculiar  charms,  10 
For  him  round-in  the  melancholy  hours 
And  reconcile  him  to  the  common  days. 
Not  many  men  see  beauty  in  the  fogs 
Of  close  low  pine-woods  in  a  river  town; 
Yet  unto  me  not  morn's  magnificence, 
Nor  the  red  rainbow  of  a  summer  eve, 
Nor  Rome,  nor  joyful  Paris,  nor  the  halls 
Of  rich  men  blazing  hospitable  light, 
Nor  wit,  nor  eloquence, — no,  nor  even  the 

song 

Of  any  woman  that  is  now  aliye, —         2° 
Hath  such  a  soul,  such  divine  influence, 
Such  resurrection  of  the  happy  past, 
As  is  to  me  when  I  behold  the  morn 
Ope  in  such  low  moist  roadside,  and  be 
neath 

Peep  the  blue  violets  out  of  the  black  loam, 
Pathetic  silent  poets  that  sing  to  me 
Thine  elegy,  sweet  singer,  sainted  wife. 


1833. 


"Poems,"  1884. 


WRITTEN  AT  ROME 


1  Emerson  married  Ellen  Tucker  in  Septem 
ber,  1829.  She  died  in  1831.  See  also  latter 
part  of  the  "Lines  Written  in  Naples." 


Alone  in   Rome.     Why,   Rome   is   lonely  - 

too ; — 

Besides,  you  need  not  be  alone;  the  soul 
Shall  have  society  of  its  own  rank. 
Be  great,  be  true,  and  all  the  Scipios, 
The  Catos,  the  wise  patriots  of  Rome, 
Shall  flock  to  you  and  tarry  by  your  side, 
And  comfort  you   with   their   high   com 
pany. 

Virtue  alone  is  sweet  society, 
It  keeps  the  key  to  all  heroic  hearts, 
And  opens  you  a  welcome  in  them  all.     I0 
You  must  be  like  them  if  you  desire  them. 
Scorn  trifles  and  embrace  a  better  aim 
Than  wine  or  sleep  or  praise; 
Hunt   knowledge    as    the    lover   wooes    a 

maid, 

And    ever    in    the    strife    of    your    own 
thoughts 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 


197 


Obey  the  nobler  impulse ;  that  is  Rome : 
That  shall  command  a  senate  to  your  side ; 
For  there  is  no  might  in  the  universe 
That  can   contend   with   love.     It   reigns 

forever. 
Wait  then,   sad   friend,  wait  in  majestic 

peace  2° 

The  hour  of  heaven.     Generously  trust 
Thy  fortune's  web  to  the  beneficent  hand 
That  until  now  has  put  his  world  in  fee 
To  thee.    He  watches  for  thee  still.    His 

love 
Broods   over  thee,  and   as   God  lives   in 

heaven, 

However  long  thou  walkest  solitary, 
The  hour  of  heaven  shall  come,  the  man 

appear.  „ 

1833.  "Poems,"  1884. 

WEBSTER  i 

111  fits  the  abstemious  Muse  a  crown  to 

weave  ] 

For  living  brows;  ill  fits  them  to  receive: 
And  yet,  if  virtue  abrogate  the  law, 
One    portrait — fact    or    fancy — we    may 

draw; 
A  form  which  Nature  cast  in  the  heroic 

mould 

Of  them  who  rescued  liberty  of  old; 
He,  when  the  rising  storm  of  party  roared, 
Brought  his  great  forehead  to  the  council 

board, 
There,    while    hot   heads    perplexed    with 

fears  the  state, 

Calm  as  the  morn  the  manly  patriot  sate ; 
Seemed,  when  at  last  his  clarion  accents 

broke,  " 

As  if  the  conscience  of  the  country  spoke. 
Not  on  its  base  Monadnoc  surer  stood, 
Than  he  to  common  sense  and  common 

good : 
No   mimic;    from   his   breast  his   counsel 

drew, 

Believed  the  eloquent  was  aye  the  true ; 
He  bridged  the  gulf  from  th'  alway  good 

and  wise 

To  that  within  the  vision  of  small  eyes. 
Self-centred ;  when  he  launched  the  gen 
uine  word 

It  shook  or  captivated  all  who  heard,      20 
Ran   from   his   mouth   to   mountains   and 

the  sea, 
And  burned  in  noble  hearts  proverb  and 

prophecy. 

1834.  "Poems,"  1884. 

1  From    the    Phi    Beta    Kappa    poem    of    1834. 
This    is   the    only    passage   preserved. 


THE  RHODORA: 
On  being  asked,  Whence  is  the  flower? 

In  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  soli 
tudes, 

I  found  the  fresh  Rhodora  in  the  woods, 
Spreading  its  leafless  blooms  in  a  damp 

nook, 
To    please   the    desert   and   the    sluggish 

brook. 

The  purple  petals,  fallen  in  the  pool, 
Made  the  black  water  with  their  beauty 

gay; 

Here  might  the  redbird  come  his  plumes 
to  cool, 

And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens  his 
— »    array. 

Rhodora !  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 

This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth  and 
sky, 

Tell  them,  dear,  that  if  eyes  were  made 
for  seeing, 

Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being : 

Why  thou  wert  there,  O  rival  of  the  rose! 

I  never  thought  to  ask,  I  never  knew  : 
,  But,  in  my  simple  ignorance,  suppose 
(The    self-same    Power    that    brought    me 
V        there  brought  you. 

1834.       ^jfrmrliMessenger,  July,  1839. 


\ 

id    y 

10 


nc 


Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked 

clown 

Of  thee  from  the  hill-top  looking  down; 
The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm, 
Far-heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm; 
The  sexton,  tolling  his  bell  at  noon, 
Deems  not  that  great  Napoleon 
Stops  his  horse,  and  lists  with  delight, 
Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  yon  Alpine 

height ; 

Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 
Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor's  creed  has  lent. 
/All  are  needed  by  each  one;    v  ll 

(  Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone.  \ 
I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 
/Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough; 
II  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even;\ 
/  He  sings  the  song,  but  it  cheers  not  now.   } 
I   For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  * 
\         sky  ;— 
He    sang   to   my   ear, — they    sang   to   my 

eye. 

The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore; 
The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave  20 

Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave, 


198 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


I  And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 
Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me. 
I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 
I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home; 
But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 
Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore 
With  the  sun  and  the  sand  and  the  wild 

uproar. 

>The  lover  watched  his  graceful  maid, 
'As  'mid  the  virgin  train  she  strayed,       3° 
Nor  knew  her  beauty's  best  attire 
Was  woven  still  by  the  snow-white  choir. 
At  last  she  came  to  his  hermitage, 
Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the 

cage ; — 

The  gay  enchantment  was  undone, 
A  gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none. 
Then  I  said,  "I  covet  truth ; 
Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat ; 
I    leave    it    behind    with    the    games    of 

youth :" — 

As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet  4° 

The  ground-pine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 
Running  over  the  club-moss  burrs; 
I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath; 
Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs ; 
Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground; 
Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 
Full  of  light  and  of  deity; 
Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard, 
The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird; — 
Beauty  through  my  senses  stole;  so 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 
-1834.    •  ^y— 

Western  Messenger,  Feb.,  1839. 


THE  APOLOGY 

Think  me  not  unkind  and  rude  -/O  lc> 
That  I  walk  alone  in  grove  and  glen; 

I  go  to  the  god  of  the  wood 
To  fetch  his  word  to  men. 

— ~  T-I    n 

Tax  not  my  sloth  that  I    \L)  J^t^C" 

Fold  my  arms  beside  the  brook; 
Each  cloud  that  floated  in  the  sky 
a  letter  in  my  book. 


Chide  me  not,  laborious  band, 
For  the  idle  flowers  I  brought; 

Every  aster  in  my  hand 
Goes  home  loaded  with  a  thought. 

There  was  never  mystery 

But  't  is  figured  in  the  flowers ; 

Was  never  secret  history 

But  birds  tell  it  in  the  bowers. 


One  harvest  from  thy  field 

Homeward  brought  the  oxen  strong; 
A  second  crop  thine  acres  yield, 

Which  I  gather  in  a  song.1 


1835? 


CONCORD  HYMN 


"Poems,"  1847. 
-I/' 


Sung  at  the  completion  of  the  Battle 
Monument,  July  4, 


By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 

Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood 
And    fired    the    shot    heard    round    the 
the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept  ; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps  ; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward 
creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 
We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone  ;  10 

That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 
When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  .are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die,  and  leave  their  children  free, 

Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 

1837.  16mo  sheet,  Concord,  1837. 


THE  HUMBLE-BEE 

Burly,  dozing,  humble-bee. 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me. 
'Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek 
I  will  follow  thee  alone, 
Thou  animated  torrid-zone ! 
Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer, 
Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines ; 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 
Joy  of  thy  dominion !       LA' 
Sailor  of  the  atmosphere; 
Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air; 
Voyager  of  light  and  noon; 
Epicurean  of  June ; 
Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
Within  earshot  of  thy  hum, — 
All  without  is  martyrdom. 
1  Compare  the  Dirge,  page  207. 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 


199 


When  the  south  wind,  in  May  days, 

With  a  net  of  shining  haze 

Silvers  the  horizon  wall, 

And  with  softness  touching  all, 

Tints  the  human  countenance 

With  a  color  of  romance, 

And  infusing  subtle  heats, 

Turns  the  sod  to  violets, 

Thou,  in  sunny  solitudes, 

Rover  of  the  underwoods, 

The  green  silence  dost  displace 

With  thy  mellow,  breezy  bass. 


Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 
Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours, 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flower 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found; 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 
Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean    -    V  .    w**^ 

Hath  my  insect' never  seen;      ..'••' 

But  violets  and  bilberry  bells, 

Maple-sap  and  daffodels, 

Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high, 

Succory  to  match  the  sky,  **  ml\ 

Columbine  with  horn  of  honey,  ' 

Scented  fern,  and  agrimony, 

Clover,  catchfly,  adder's-tongue 

And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among;       J^ 

All  beside  was  unknown  waste,  •  ; 

All  was  picture  as  he  passed,      J/f" 

Wiser  far  than  human  seer.j 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher,! 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 
Sipping  only  what  is  sweet, 
Thou  dost  mock  at  iate  and 
Leave  the  chaff,  ancT  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  northwestern  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep ; 
Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 

1837.        f  Western  Messenger/~Feb., 
THE  PROBLEM  i 


I  like  a  church;  I  like  a  cowl; 

I  love  a  prophet  of  the  soul ; 

And  on  my  heart  monastic  aisles 

Fall  like  sweet  strains,  or  pensive  smiles ; 

1  Many  of  the  thoughts  and  some  of  the 
phrasing  of  this  poem  can  be  found  in  the  essay 
on  Art.  This  double  treatment  of  ideas  and 
double  use  of  phrases  is  of.  frequent  occurrence 
in  Emerson's  writings. 


--,     Yet  not  for  all  his  faith  can  see 

Would  I  that  cowled  churchman  be. 

Why  should  the  vest  on  him  allure, 
Which  I  could  not  on  me  endure? 


Not  from  a  vain  or  shallow  thought 

His  awful  Jove  young  Phidias  brought;  I0 

Never  from  lips  of  cunning  fell 

The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle; 

Out  from  the  heart  of  nature  rolled 

\The  burdens  of  the  Bible  old; 

'.The  litanies  of  nations  came, 

'Jtfcike  the  volcano's  tongue  of  flame, 
^Jp  from  the  burning  core  below, — 
The  canticles  of  love  and  woe : 

'  The  hand  that  rounded  Peter's  dome 
And  groined  the  aisles  of  Christian  Rome 
Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity :  2I 

Himself  from  God  he  could  not  free,; 
He  builded  better  than  he  knew; — 
The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew. 
Know'st  thou  what  wove  yon  woodbird's 

^  1    nest 

i  Of  leaves,  and  feathers  from  her  breast? 
Or  how  the  fish  outbuilt  her  shell, 
Painting  with  morn  her  annual  cell? 
Or  how  the  sacred  pine-tree  adds 
To  her  old  leaves  new  myriads?  3° 

Such  and  so  grew  these  holy  piles, 
Whilst  love  and  terror  laid  the  tiles, 
rth  proudly  wears  the  Parthenon, 
the  best  gem  upon  her  zone, 
d  Morning  opes  with  haste  her  lids 
gaze  upon  the  Pyramids ; 
er  England's  abbeys  bends  the  sky, 
As  on  its  friends,  with  kindred  eye; 
For  out  of  Thought's  interior  sphere 
These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air;  4° 

And  Nature  gladly  gave  them  place, 
Adopted  them  into  her  race, 
And  granted  them  an  equal  date 
With  Andes  and  with  Ararat. 
These  temples  grew  as  grows  the  grass; 
Art  might  obey,  but  not  surpass. 
The  passrve~Master  lent  his  hand 
To  the  vast  soul  that  o'er  him  planned ; 
And  the  same  power  that  reared  the  shrine 
Bestrode  the  tribes  that  knelt  within.      5° 
Ever  the  fiery  Pentecost 
Girds  with  one  flame  the  countless  host, 
Trances  the  heart  through  chanting  choirs, 
And  through  the  priest  the  mind  inspires. 
The  word  unto  the  prophet  spoken 
Was  writ  on  tables  yet  unbroken; 
The  word  by  seers  or  sibyls  told, 
In  groves  of  oak,  or  fanes  of  gold, 
Still  floats  upon  the  morning  wind, 
Still  whispers  to  the  willing  mind.  6° 


200 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


One  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
The  heedless  world  hath  never  lost. 
I  know  what  say  the  fathers  wise, 
The  Book  itself  before  me  lies, 
Old  Chrysostom,  best  Augustine, 
Arid  he  who  blent  both  in  his  line, 
The  younger  Golden  Lips  or  mines, 
Taylor,  the  Shakespeare  of  divines. 
His  words  are  music  in  my  ear, 
I  see  his  cowled  portrait  dear; 
And  yet,  for  all  his  faith  could  see, 
I  would  not  the  good  bishop  be. 


1839. 


The  Dial,  July,  1840. 


WOODNOTES 


1 

When  the  pine  tosses  its  cones 

To  the  song  of  its  waterfall  tones, 

Who  speeds  to  the  woodland  walks? 

To  birds  and  trees  who  talks? 

Caesar  of  his  leafy  Rome, 

There  the  poet  is  at  home. 

He  goes  to  the  river-side, — 

Not  hook  nor  line  hath  he ; 

He  stands  in  the  meadows  wide, — 

Nor  gun  nor  scythe  to  see.  10 

Sure  some  god  his  eye  enchants : 

What  he  knows  nobody  wants. 

In  the  wood  he  travels  glad, 

Without  better  fortune  had, 

Melancholy  without  bad. 

Knowledge  this  man  prizes  best 

Seems  fantastic  to  the  rest : 

Pondering  shadows,  colors,  clouds, 

Grass-buds  and  caterpillar-shrouds, 

Boughs  on  which  the  wild  bees  settle,    2° 

Tints  that  spot  the  violet's  petal. 

Why  Nature  loves  the  number  five, 

And  why  the  star- form  she  repeats: 

Lpver  of  all  things  alive, 

Wonderer  at  all  he  meets, 

Wonderer  chiefly  at  himself, 

Who  can  tell  him  what  he  is? 

Or  how  meet  in  human  elf 

Coming  and  past  eternities? 


And  such  I  knew,  a  forest  seer,1  3° 

A  minstrel  of  the  natural  year, 
Foreteller  of  the  vernal  ides, 
Wise  harbinger  of  spheres  and  tides, 

1  The  section  on  the  forest-seer  is  a  close 
characterization  of  Thoreau  and  very  like  Em 
erson's  prose  tri  "He  written  after  Thoreau's 
death  in  1862. 


A  lover  true,  who  knew  by  heart 
Each  joy  the  mountain  dales  impart; 
It  seemed  that  Nature  could  not  raise 
A  plant  in  any  secret  place, 
In  quaking  bog,  on  snowy  hill, 
Beneath  the  grass  that  shades  the  rill, 
Under  the  snow,  between  the  rocks,        4° 
In  damp  fields  known  to  bird  and  fox, 
But  he  would  come  in  the  very  hour 
It  opened  in  its  virgin  bower, 
As  if  a  sunbeam  showed  the  place, 
And  tell  its  long-descended  race. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  breezes  brought  him, 
It  seemed  as  if  the  sparrows  taught  him; 
As  if  by  secret  sight  he  knew 
Where,  in  far  fields,  the  orchis  grew. 
Many  haps  fall  in  the  field  5° 

Seldom  seen  by  wishful  eyes, 
But  all  her  shows  did  Nature  yield, 
To  please  and  win  this  pilgrim  wise. 
He  saw  the  partridge  drum  in  the  woods ; 
He  heard  the  woodcock's  evening  hymn ; 
He  found  the  tawny  thrushes'  broods ; 
And  the  shy  hawk  did  wait  for  him; 
What  others  did  at  distance  hear, 
And  guessed  within  the  thicket's  gloom, 
Was  shown  to  this  philosopher,  6° 

And  at  his  bidding  seemed  to  come. 


In  unploughed  Maine  he  sought  the  lum 
berers'  gang 
Where  from  a  hundred  lakes  young  rivers 

sprang ; 
He    trode    the    unplanted    forest    floor, 

whereon 
The    all-seeing    sun    for    ages    hath    not 

shone ; 
Where   feeds   the   moose,   and   walks   the 

surly  bear, 

And  up  the  tall  mast  runs  the  woodpecker. 
He   saw   beneath   dim  aisles,    in  odorous 

beds, 
The    slight    Linnsea    hang    its    twin-born 

heads, 
And  blessed  the  monument  of  the  man  of 

flowers,  7° 

Which  breathes  his  sweet   fame  through 

the  northern  bowers. 

He  heard,  when  in  the  grove,  at  intervals. 
With    sudden    roar    the    aged    pine-tree 

falls,— 
One  crash,  the  death-hymn  of  the  perfect 

tree, 

Declares  the  close  of  its  green  century. 
Low  lies  the  plant  to  whose  creation  went 
Sweet  influence  from  every  element; 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 


201 


Whose  living  towers  the  years  conspired 

to  build. 
Whose  giddy  top  the  morning  loved   to 

gild. 
Through    these    green    tents,    by    eldest 

Nature  dressed, 
He  roamed,  content  alike  with  man  and 

beast. 
Where  darkness  found  him  he  lay  glad  at 

night ; 
There  the  red  morning  touched  him  with 

its  light. 
Three  moons  his  great  heart  him  a  hermit 

made, 
So  long  he  roved  at  will  the  boundless 

shade. 

The  timid  it  concerns  to  ask  their  way, 
And  fear  what  foe  in  caves  and  swamps 

can  stray, 

To  make  no  step  until  the  event  is  known, 
And  ills  to  come  as  evils  past  bemoan. 
Not   so   the  wise;    no   coward   watch   he 

keeps  9° 

To    spy    what    danger    on    his    pathway 

creeps ; 
Go   where   he   will,   the   wise   man   is    at 

home, 
His  hearth  the  earth, — his  hall  the  azure 

dome; 
Where  his  clear  spirit  leads  him,  there's 

his  road 

By  God's  own  light  illumined  and   fore 
showed. 

4 

'Twas  one  of  the  charmed  days 
When  the  genius  of  God  doth  flow; 
The  wind  may  alter  twenty  ways, 
A  tempest  cannot  blow ; 
It  may  blow  north,  it  still  is  warm;       I0° 
Or  south,  it  still  is  clear ; 
Or  east,  it  smells  like  a  clover- farm; 
Or  west,  no  thunder  fear. 
The  musing  peasant,  lowly  great, 
Beside  the  forest  water  sate; 
The  rope-like  pine-roots  crosswise  grown 
Composed  the  network  of  his  throne ; 
The  wide  lake,  edged  with  sand  and  grass, 
Was  burnished  to  a  floor  of  glass, 
Painted  with  shadows  green  and  proud  1I0 
Of  the  tree  and  of  the  cloud. 
He  was  the  heart  of  all  the  scene; 
On  him  the  sun  looked  more  serene; 
To  hill  and  cloud  his  face  was  known, — 
The  public  child  of  earth  and  sky. 
"You  ask,"  he  said,  "what  guide 
Me  through  trackless  thickets  led, 
Through  thick-stemmed  woodlands  rough 
and  wide.  I2° 

I  found  the  water's  bed. 


The  watercourses  were  my  guide; 

I  travelled  grateful  by  their  side, 

Or  through  their  channel  dry ; 

They  led  me  through  the  thicket  damp, 

Through  brake  and  fern,  the  beavers'  camp, 

Through  beds  of  granite  cut  my  road, 

And  their  resistless  friendship  showed. 

The  falling  waters  led  me, 

The  foodful  waters  fed  me,  '3° 

And  brought  me  to  the  lowest  land, 

Unerring  to  the  ocean  sand. 

The  moss  upon  the  forest  bark 

Was  pole-star  when  the  night  was  dark ; 

The  purple  berries  in  the  wood 

Supplied  me  necessary  food ; 

For  Nature  ever  faithful  is 

To  such  as  trust  her  faithfulness. 

When  the  forest  shall  mislead  me, 

When  the  night  and  morning  lie,  '4*> 

When  sea  and  land  refuse  to  feed  me, 

'Twill  be  time  enough  to  die; 

Then  will  yet  my  mother  yield 

A  pillow  in  her  greenest  field, 

Nor  the  June  flowers  scorn  to  cover 

The  clay  of  their  departed  lover." 

The  Dial,  Oct.,  1840. 


WOODNOTES 
II 

As  sunbeams  stream  through  liberal  space 

And  nothing  jostle  or  displace, 

So   waved   the   pine  -  tree    through   my 

thought 
And  fanned  the  dreams  it  never  brought. 

"Whether  is  better,  the  gift  or  the  donor? 

Come  to  me," 

Quoth  the  pine-tree, 

"I  am  the  giver  of  honor. 

My  garden  is  the  cloven  rock, 

And  my  manure  the  snow;  10 

And  drifting  sand-heaps  feed  my  stock, 

In  summer's  scorching  glow. 

He  is  great  who  can  live  by  me : 

The  rough  and  bearded  forester 

Is  better  than  the  lord ; 

God  fills  the  scrip  and  canister, 

Sin  piles  the  loaded  board. 

The  lord  is  the  peasant  that  was, 

The  peasant  the  lord  that  shall  be; 

The  lord  is  hay,  the  peasant  grass,          M 

One  dry,  and  one  the  living  tree. 

Who  liveth  by  the  ragged  pine 

Foundeth  a  heroic  line; 

Who  liveth  in  the  palace  hall 

Waneth  fast  and  spendeth  all. 


202 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


He  goes  to  my  savage  haunts, 
With  his  chariot  and  his  care ; 
My  twilight  realm  he  disenchants, 
And  finds  his  prison  there. 

What  prizes  the  town  and  the  tower  ?  30 
Only  what  the  pine-tree  yields; 
Sinew  that  subdued  the  fields ; 
The  wild-eyed  boy,  who  in  the  woods ' 
Chants  his  hymn  to  hills  and  floods, 
Whom  the  city's  poisoning  spleen 
Made  not  pale,  or  fat,  or  lean; 
Whom  the  rain  and  the  wind  purgeth, 
Whom  the  dawn  and  the  day-star  urgeth, 
In  whose  cheek  the  rose-leaf  blusheth, 
In  whose  feet  the  lion  rusheth  4° 

Iron  arms,  and  iron  mould, 
That  know  not  fear,  fatigue,  or  cold. 
I  give  my  rafters  to  his  boat, 
My  billets  to  his  boiler's. throat, 
And  I  will  swim  the  ancient  sea 
To  float  my  child  to  victory, 
And  grant  to  dwellers  with  the  pine 
Dominion  o'er  the  palm  and  vine. 
Who  leaves  the  pine-tree,  leaves  his  friend, 
Unnerves  his  strength,  invites  his  end.    so 
Cut  a  bough  from  my  parent  stem, 
And  dip  it  in  thy  porcelain  vase; 
A  little  while  each  russet  gem 
Will  swell  and  rise  with  wonted  grace ; 
But  when  it  seeks  enlarged  supplies, 
The  orphan  of  the  forest  dies. 
Whoso  walks  in  solitude 
And  inhabiteth  the  wood, 
Choosing  light,  wave,  rock  and  bird, 
Before  the  money-loving  herd,  6° 

Into  that  forester  shall  pass, 
From  these  companions,  power  and  grace. 
Clean  shall  he  be,  without,  within, 
From  the  old  adhering  sin, 
All  ill  dissolving  in  the  light 
Of  his  triumphant  piercing  sight: 
Not  vain,  sour,  nor  frivolous; 
Not  mad,  athirst,  nor  garrulous ; 
Grave,  chaste,  contented,  though  retired, 
And  of  all  other  men  desired.  7° 

On  him  the  light  of  star  and  moon 
Shall  fall  with  purer  radiance  down ; 
All  constellations  of  the  sky 
Shed  their  virtue  through  his  eye. 
Him  Nature  giveth  for  defence 
His  formidable  innocence; 
The  mountain  sap,  the  shells,  the  sea, 
All  spheres,  all  stones,  his  helpers  be; 
He  shall  meet  the  speeding  year, 
Without  wailing,  without  fear;  80 

He  shall  be  happy  in  his  love, 
Like  to  like  shall  joyful  prove; 


He  shall  be  happy  whilst  he  wooes, 
Muse-born,  a  daughter  of  the  Muse. 
But  if  with  gold  she  bind  her  hair, 
And  deck  her  breast  with  diamond, 
Take  off  thine  eyes,  thy  heart  forbear, 
Though  thou  lie  alone  on  the  ground. 

"Heed  the  old  oracles, 

Ponder  my  spells ;  90 

Song  wakes  in  my  pinnacles 

When  the  wind  swells. 

Soundeth  the  prophetic  wind, 

The  shadows  shake  on  the  rock  behind, 

And  the  countless  leaves  of  the  pine  are 

strings 
Tuned  to  the  lay  the  wood-god  sings. 

Hearken !     Hearken ! 
If  thou  wouldst  know  the  mystic  song 
Chanted  when  the  sphere  was  young. 
Aloft,  abroad,  the  paean  swells ;  10° 

O  wise  man!  hear'st  thou  half  it  tells? 
O  wise  man!  hear'st  thou  the  least  part? 
'Tis  the  chronicle  of  art. 
To  the  open  ear  it  sings 
Sweet  the  genesis  of  things, 
Of  tendency  through  endless  ages, 
Of  star-dust,  and  star-pilgrimages, 
Of  rounded  worlds,  of  space  arid  time, 
Of  the  old  flood's  subsiding  slime, 
Of  chemic  matter,  force  and  form,        II0 
Of  poles  and  powers,  cold,  wet,  and  warm  : 
The  rushing  metamorphosis 
Dissolving  all  that  fixture  is, 
Melts  things  that  be  to  things  that  seem, 
And  solid  nature  to  a  dream. 
O,  listen  to  the  undersong, 
The  ever  old,  the  .ever  young; 
And,  far  within  those  cadent  pauses, 
The  chorus  of  the  ancient  Causes ! 
Delights  the  dreadful  Destiny  I2° 

To  fling  his  voice  into  the  tree, 
And  shock  thy  weak  ear  with  a  note 
Breathed  from  the  everlasting  throat. 
In  music  he  repeats  the  pang 
Whence  the  fair  flock  of  Nature  sprang. 
O  mortal !  thy  ears  are  stones ; 
These  echoes  are  laden  with  tones 
Which  only  the  pure  can  hear ; 
Thou  canst  not  catch  what  they  recite 
Of  Fate  and  Will,  of  Want  and  Right,  13° 
Of  man  to  come,  of  human  life, 
Of    Death    and    Fortune,    Growth    and 
Strife." 

Once  again  the  pine-tree  sung : — 
"Speak  not  thy  speech  my  boughs  among : 
Put  off  thy  years,  wash  in  the  breeze; 
My  hours  are  peaceful  centuries. 
Talk  no  more  with  feeble  tongue; 


203 


No  more  the  fool  of  space  and  time, 

Come  weave  with  mine  a  nobler  rhyme. 

Only  thy  Americans  '4° 

Can  read  thy  line,  can  meet  thy  glance, 

But  the  runes  that  I   rehearse 

Understands  the  universe; 

The  least  breath  my  boughs  which  tossed 

Brings  again  the  Pentecost; 

To  every  soul  resounding  clear 

In  a  voice  of  solemn  cheer, — 

'Am  I  not  thine?    Are  not  these  thine?' 

And  they  reply,  'Forever  mine!' 

My  branches  speak  Italian,  |        '5° 

English,  German,   Basque,  Castilian, 

Mountain  speech  to  Highlanders, 

Ocean  tongues  to  islanders, 

To  Fin  and  Lap  and  swart  Malay, 

To  each  his  bosom-secret  say. 

"Come  learn  with  me  the  fatal  song 
Which  knits  the  world  in  music  strong, 
Come  lift  thine  eyes  to  lofty  rhymes, 
Of  things  with  things,  of  times  with  times, 
Primal  chimes  of  sun  and  shade,  l6° 

Of  sound  and  echo,  man  and  maid, 
The  land  reflected  in  the  flood, 
Body  with  shadow  still  pursued. 
For  Nature  beats  in  perfect  tune, 
And  rounds  with  rhyme  her  every  rune, 
Whether  she  work  in  land  or  sea, 
Or  hide  underground  her  alchemy. 
Thou  canst  not  wave  thy  staff  in  air, 
Or  dip  thy  paddle  in  the  lake, 
But  it  carves  the  bow  of  beauty  there,   J7<> 
And  the  ripples  in  rhymes  the  oar  forsake. 
The  wood  is  wiser  far  than  thou ; 
The  wood  and  wave  each  other  know 
Not  unrelated,  unaffied, 
But  to  each  thought  and  thing  allied, 
Is  perfect  Nature's  every  part, 
Rooted  in  the  mighty  Heart. 
But  thou,  poor  child !  unbound,  unrhymed, 
Whence  earnest  thou,  misplaced,  mistimed, 
Whence,  O  thou  orphan  and  defrauded? 
Is  thy  land  peeled,  thy  realm  marauded? 
Who  thee  divorced,  deceived  and  left?   l82 
Thee  of  thy  faith  who  hath  bereft, 
And  torn  the  ensigns  from  thy  brow, 
And  sunk  the  immortal  eye  so  low? 
Thy  cheek  too  white,  thy  form  too  slender, 
Thy  gait  too  slow,  thy  habits  tender 
For  royal  man; — they  thee  confess 
An  exile  from  the  wilderness, — 
The  hills  where  health  with  health  agrees, 
And  the  wise  soul  expels  disease.  '91 

Hark !  in  thy  ear  I  will  tell  the  sign 
By  which  thy  hurt  thou  may'st  divine. 
When  thou  shalt  climb  the  mountain  cliff, 
O,r  see  the  wide  shore  from  thy  skiff, 


To  thee  the  horizon  shall  express 

But  emptiness   on  emptiness ; 

There  lives  no  man  of  Nature's  worth 

In  the  circle  of  the  earth; 

And  to  thine  eye  the  vast  skies  fall,      20° 

Dire  and  satirical, 

On  clucking  hens  and  prating  fools, 

On  thieves,  on  drudges  and  on  dolls. 

And  thou  shalt  say  to  the  Most  High, 

'Godhead!   all  this   astronomy, 

And   fate  and  practice  and  invention, 

Strong  art  and  beautiful  pretension, 

This  radiant  pomp  of  sun  and  star, 

Throes  that  were,  and  worlds  that  are, 

Behold !  were  in  vain  and  in  vain ; —      2I° 

It  cannot  be, — I  will  look  again. 

Surely  now  will  the  curtain  rise. 

And  earth's  fit  tenant  me 'surprise; — 

But  the  curtain  doth  not _  rise, 

And   Nature  has  miscarried  wholly 

Into  failure,  into   folly.' 

"Alas !  thine  is  the  bankruptcy, 

Blessed  Nature  so  to  see. 

Come,  lay  thee  in  my  soothing  shade, 

And  heal  the  hurts  which  sin  has  made. 

I  see  thee  in  the  crowd  alone;  221 

I  will  be  thy  companion. 

Quit  thy  friends  as  the  dead  in  doom, 

And  build  to  them  a  final  tomb; 

Let  the  starred  shade  that  nightly  falls 

Still  celebrate  their  funerals, 

And  the  bell  of  beetle  and  of  bee 

Knell  their  melodious  memory. 

Behind  thee  leave  thy  merchandise, 

Thy  churches  and  thy  charities ;  23° 

And  leave  thy  peacock  wit  behind;  - 

Enough  for  thee  the  primal  mind 

That  flows   in  streams,  that  breathes   in 

wind : 

Leave  all  thy  pedant  lore  apart; 
God  hid  the  whole  world  in  thy  heart. 
Love  shuns  the  sage,  the  child  it  crowns, 
Give  all  to  them  who  all  renounce. 
The  rain  comes  when  the  wind  calls ; 
The  river  knows  the  way  to  the  sea; 
Without  a  pilot  it  runs  and  falls,  24<> 

Blessing  all  lands  with  its  charity; 
The  sea  tosses  and  foams  to  find 
Its  way  up  to  the  cloud  and 'wind; 
The  shadow  sits  close  to  the  flying  ball ; 
The  date  fails  not  on  the  palm-tree  tall; 
And  thou, — go  burn  thy  wormy  pages, — 
Shalt  outsee  seers,  and  outwit  sages. 
Oft  didst  thou  thread  the  woods  in  vain 
To  find  what  bird  had  piped  the  strain : — 
Seek  not,  and  the  little  eremite  2S<> 

Flies  gayly  forth  and  sings  in  sight. 


204 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


"Hearken  once  more! 

I  will  tell  thee  the  mundane  lore. 

Older  am  I  than  thy  numbers  wot', 

Change  I  may,  but  I  pass  not. 

Hitherto  all  things   fast  abide, 

And  anchored  in  the  tempest  ride. 

Trenchant  time  behoves  to  hurry 

All  to  yean  and  all  to  bury: 

All  the  forms  are  fugitive,  260 

But  the   substances   survive. 

Ever  fresh  the  broad  creation, 

A    divine    improvisation, 

From  the  heart  of  God  proceeds, 

A  single  will,  a  million  deeds. 

Once  slept  the  world  an  egg  of  stone, 

And  pulse,  and  sound,  and  light  was  none ; 

And    God   said,    'Throb !'   and   there   was 

motion 

And  the  vast  mass  became  vast  ocean. 
Onward  and  on,  the  eternal  Pan,  2?° 

Who  layeth  the  world's  incessant  plan, 
Halteth  never  in  one  shape, 
But  forever  doth  escape, 
Like  wave  or  flame,  into  new  forms 
Of  gem,  and  air,  of  pjants,  and  worms. 
I,  that  to-day  am  a  pine, 
Yesterday  was  a  bundle  of  grass. 
He  is   free  and  libertine, 
Pouring  of  his  power  the  wine 
To  every  age,  to  every  race;  280 

Unto  every  race  and  age 
He  emptieth  the  beverage; 
Unto  each,  and  unto  all, 
Maker  and  original. 
The  world  is  the   ring  of  his   spells, 
And  the  play  of  his   miracles. 
As  he  giveth  to  all  to  drink,  _ 
Thus  or  thus  they  are  and  think. 
With  one  drop  sheds  form  and  feature; 
With  the  next  a  special  nature;  29° 

The  third  adds  heat's  indulgent  spark; 
The  fourth  gives  light  which  eats  the 

dark; 

Into  the  fifth  himself  he  flings, 
And  conscious  Law  is  King  of  kings. 
As  the  bee  through  the  garden  ranges, 
From    world    to    world    the    godhead 

changes ;   .  I 

As  the  sheep  go  feeding  in  the  waste, 
From  form  to  form  He  maketh  haste; 
This  vault  which  glows  immense  with 

light  299 

Is  the  inn  where  he  lodges  for  a  night. 
What  recks  such  Traveller  if  the  bowers 
Which    bloom    and    fade    like    meadow 

flowers 

A  bunch  of  fragrant  lilies  be, 
Or  the  stars  of  eternity? 


Alike  to  him  the  better,  the  worse, — 

The  glowing  angel,  the  outcast  corse. 

Thou  metest  him  by  centuries, 

And  lo !  he  passes  like  the  breeze ; 

Thou   seek'st   in  globe   and   galaxy, 

He  hides  in  pure  transparency;  31° 

Thou  askest  in  fountains  and  in  fires, 

He  is  the  essence  that  inquires. 

He  is  the  axis  of  the  star; 

He  is  the  sparkle  of  the  spar ; 

He  is  the  heart  of  every  creature; 

He  is  the  meaning  of  each  feature; 

And  his  mind  is  the  sky, 

Than  all  it  holds  more  deep,  more  high." 


The  Dial,  Oct.,  1841. 

I/ 


THE    SNOW-STORM 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky,  r 
Arrives   the   snow,   and,   driving  o'er  the  ' 

fields, 

Seems  nowhere  to  alight :  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river,  and  the 

heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's 

end. 

The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  cou 
rier's  feet 

Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  house 
mates  sit 

Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed  \ 
In   a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 

Come  see  the  north  wind's  masonry.    I0 
Out  of  an  unseen  quarry  evermore 
Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected 

roof 

Round  every  windward  stake,  or  tree,  or 
\       door. 
Speeding,    the    myriad  -  handed,    his   wild 

work 

So  fanciful,  so  savage,  naught  care  he 
For  number  or  proportion.     Mockingly, 
On    coop   or   kennel    he    hangs    Parian 

wreaths ; 
A  swan  -  like   form  invests  the  hidden 

thorn ; 
Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  to 

wall,  20 

Maugre  the   farmer's    sighs;    and   at   the 

gate 

A  tapering  turret  overtops  the  work. 
And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and 

the  world 

Is  all  his  own,  retiring,  as  he  were  not, 
Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonished 

Art 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 


205 


To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  by 
stone, 

Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind's  night- 
work, 

The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 

Thi  Dial,  Jan.,  1841. 

HOLIDAYS 

From  fall  to  spring,  the  russet  acorn, 
Fruit  beloved  of  maid  and  boy, 

Lent    itself   beneath   the   forest, 
To  be  the  children's  toy. 

Pluck  it  now  !     In  vain, — thou  canst  not ; 

Its  root  has  pierced  yon  shady  mound; 
Toy  no  longer — it  has  duties ; 

It  is  anchored  in  the  ground. 

Year  by  year  the  rose-lipped  maiden, 
Playfellow  of  young  and  old,  I0 

Was  frolic  sunshine,  dear  to  all  men, 
More  dear  to  one  than  mines  of  gold. 

Whither  went  the  lovely  hoyden? 

Disappeared  in  blessed  wife; 
Servant  to  a  wooden  cradle, 

Living  in  a  baby's  life. 

Still  thou  playest; — short  vacation 
Fate  grants  each  to  stand  aside ; 

Now  must  thou  be  man  and  artist, — 
'Tis  the  turning  of  the  tide.  20 

The  Dial,  July,  1842. 

ART 

Give  to  barrows,  trays  and  pans 

Grace  and  glimmer  of  romance; 

Bring  the  moonlight  into  noon 

Hid  in  gleaming  piles  of  stone; 

On  the  city's  paved  street 

Plant  gardens  lined  with  lilacs  sweet ; 

Let  spouting  fountains  cool  the  air, 

Singing  in  the  sun-baked  square ; 

Let  statue,  picture,  park  and  hall, 

Ballad,   flag  and    festival,  I0 

The  past  restore,  the  day  adorn, 

And  make  to-morrow  a  new  morn. 

So  shall  the  drudge  in  dusty  frock 

Spy  behind  the  city  clock 

Retinues  of  airy  kings, 

Skirts  of  angels,  starry  wings, 

His  fathers  shining  in  bright  fables, 

His  children  fed  at  heavenly  tables. 

'Tis  the  privilege  of  Art 

Thuc  to  play  its  cheerful  part,  2° 


Man  on  earth  to  acclimate 
And  bend  the  exile  to  his  fate, 
And,  moulded  of  one  element 
With  the  days  and  firmament, 
Teach  him  on  these  as  stairs  to  climb, 
And  live  on  even  terms  with  Time; 
Whilst  upper  life  the  slender  rill 
Of  human  sense  doth  overfill. 

"Essays,"   first   series,   1841. 


COMPENSATION 

The  wings  of  Time  are  black  and  white, 
Pied  with  morning  and  with  night. 
Mountain  tall  and  ocean   deep 
Trembling  balance   duly  keep. 
In  changing  moon  and  tidal  wave 
Glows  the  feud  of  Want  and  Have. 
Gauge  of  more  and  less  through  space, 
Electric  star  or  pencil  plays, 
The  lonely  Earth  amid  the  balls 
That  hurry  through  the  eternal  halls,     10 
A  makeweight  flying  to  the,  void, 
Supplemental   asteroid, 
Or   compensatory   spark, 
Shoots  across  the  neutral  Dark. 

Man's  the  elm,  and  Wealth  the  vine; 
Stanch  and  strong  the  tendrils  twine : 
Though  the  frail  ringlets  thee  deceive, 
None  from  its  stock  .that  vine  can  reave. 
Fear  not,  then,  thou  child  infirm, 
There's  no  god  dare  wrong  a  worm ;     2° 
Laurel   crowns  cleave  to   deserts, 
And  power  to  him  who  power  exerts. 
Hast  not  thy  share?     On  winged   feet, 
Lo !  it  rushes  thee  to  meet ; 
And  all  that  Nature  made  thy  own, 
Floating  in  air  or  pent  in  stone, 
Will  rive  the  hills  and  swim  the  sea, 
And,  like  thy  shadow,   follow  thee. 

"Essays,"  first  series,  1841. 


FRIENDSHIP 

A  ruddy  drop  of  manly  blood 

The  surging   sea  outweighs, 

The  world  uncertain  comes  and  goes; 

The   lover   rooted   stays. 

I  fancied  he  was  fled, — 

And,  after  many  a  year, 

Glowed   unexhausted  kindliness, 

Like  daily  sunrise  there. 

My  careful  heart  was  free  again, 

O  friend,  my  bosom  said,  I0 


206 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Through  thee  alone  the  sky  is  arched, 

Through  thee  the  rose  is  red; 

All  things  through  thee  take  nobler  form, 

And  look  beyond  the  earth, 

The  mill-round  of  our  fate  appears 

A  sun-path  in  thy  worth. 

Me  too  thy  nobleness  has  taught 

To    master   my   despair;  * 

The  fountains  of  my  hidden  life 

Are  through  thy  friendship   fair.  20 

"Essays,"  first  series,  1841. 


FORBEARANCE 


Hast  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a 

gun? 
Loved  the  wood-rose,  and  left  it  on  its 

stalk? 
At    rich    men's    tables    eaten    bread    and 

pulse? 
Unarmed,   faced  danger  with  a  heart  of 

trust? 

And  loved  so  well  a  high  behavior, 
In  man  or  maid,  that  thou  from  speech 

refrained, 

Nobility  more  nobly  to  repay? 
O,   be   my    friend,    and    teach    me   to    be 

thine ! 

The  Dial,  Jan.,  1842. 


BLIGHT 

Give  me  truths ; 

For  I  am  weary  of  the  surfaces, 
And  die  of  inanition.     If  I  knew 
Only  the  herbs  and  simples  of  the  wood 
Rue,    cinquefoil,    gill,    vervain,    and   agri 
mony, 

Blue-vetch,  and  trillium,  hawkweed,   sas 
safras, 
Milkweeds     and     murky     brakes,     quaint 

pipes  and  sundue, 
And    rare   and   virtuous   roots,   which    in 

these  woods 
Draw    untold    juices    from    the    common 

earth, 

Untold,    unknown,    and    I    could    surely 

spell  I0 

Their     fragrance,     and     their     chemistry 

apply 

By  sweet  affinities  to  human   flesh, 
Driving    the    foe    and    stablishing    the 

friend, — 

O,  that  were  much,  and  I  could  be  a  part 
Of  the  round  day,  related  to  the  sun 


And  planted  world,  and  full  executor 

Of   their   imperfect   functions, 

But    these    young    scholars,    who    invade 

our  hills, 

Bold  as  the  engineer  who  fells  the  wood, 
And  travelling  often  in  the  cut  he  makes, 
Love  not  the  flower  they  pluck,  and  know 

it  not,  21 

And  all  their  botany  is  Latin  names. 
The  old  men  studied  magic  in  the  flow 
ers, 

And  human  fortunes  in  astronomy, 
And  an  omnipotence  in  chemistry, 
Preferring  things  to  names,  for  these 

were  men, 

Were  Unitarians  of   the   united   world, 
And,   wheresoever  their   clear   eye-beams 

fell, 
They  caught  the  footsteps  of  the  SAME. 

Our  eyes 
Are  armed,  but  we  are  strangers  to  the 

stars,  30 

And   strangers   to   the   mystic   beast   and 

bird, 
And   strangers   to   the  plant  and   to   the 

mine. 

The  injured  elements  say,  "Not  in  us"; 
And  haughtily  return  us  stare  for  stare. 
For  we  invade  them  impiously  for  gain ; 
We  devastate  them  unreligiously, 
And   coldly   ask   their  pottage,   not  their 

love. 
Therefore  they  shove  us  from  them,  yield 

to  us 

Only  what  to  our  griping  toil  is  due;     39 
But  the  sweet  affluence  of  love  and  song, 
The  rich  results  of  the  divine  consents 
Of  man  and  earth,  of  world  beloved  and 

lover, 

The  nectar  and  ambrosia,  are  withheld ; 
And  in  the  midst  of  spoils  and  slaves,  we 

thieves 

And  pirates  of  the  universe,  shut  out 
Daily  to  a  more  thin  and  outward  rind, 
Turn  pale  and  starve.    Therefore,  to  our 

sick  eyes, 
The  stunted  trees  look  sick,  the  summer 

short, 
Clouds  shade  the  sun,  which  will  not  tan 

our  hay, 
And  nothing  thrives  to  reach  its  natural 

term ;  so 

And  life,  shorn  of  its  venerable  length, 
Even  at  its  greatest  space  is  a  defeat, 
And  dies  in  anger  that  it  was  a  dupe; 
And,  in  its  highest  noon  and  wantonness, 
Is  early  frugal,  like  a  beggar's  child; 
Even  the  hot  pursuit  of  the  best  aims 
And  prizes  -of  ambition,  checks  its  hand, 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 


207 


Like    Alpine    cataracts    frozen    as    they 

leaped, 

Chilled   with   a   miserly   comparison 
Of  the  toy's  purchase  with  the  length  of 

life.  60 


1843. 


The  Dial,  Jan.,  1844. 


CHARACTER ' 

The  sun  set,  but  set  not  his  hope : 
Stars  rose ;  his  faith  was  earlier  up : 
Fixed  on  the  enormous  galaxy, 
Deeper   and   older   seemed  his   eye; 
And    matched    his   sufferance   sublime 
The  taciturnity  of  time. 
He  spoke,  and  words  more  soft  than  rain 
Brought  the  Age  of  Gold  again : 
His  action  won  such  reverence  sweet 
As  hid  all  measures  of  the  feat.  I0 

"Essays,"   second   series,    1844. 


POLITICS 

Gold  and  Iron  are  good 

To  buy  iron  and  gold ; 

All  earth's  fleece  and  food 

For  their  like  are  sold. 

Boded   Merlin  wise, 

Proved  Napoleon  great, 

Nor  kind  nor  coinage  buys 

Aught  above  its  rate. 

Fear,   Craft  and  Avarice 

Cannot  rear  a  State.  I0 

Out  of  dust  to  build 

What  is  more  than  dust, — 

Walls  Amphion  piled 

Phoebus  stablish  must. 

When  the  Muses  nine 

With  the  Virtues  meet, 

Find  to  their  design 

An  Atlantic  seat, 

By  green  orchard  boughs 

Fended  from  the  heat,  2° 

Where  the  statesman   ploughs 

Furrow  for  the  wheat, — 

When  the  Church  is  social  worth, 

When   the   state-house   is   the   hearth, 

Then  the  perfect  State  is  come, 

The  republican  at  home. 

"Essays,"   second   series,    1844. 

1 A  part  of  this  motto  was  taken  from  "The 
Poet,"  an  early  poem  never  published  by  Emer 
son. 


DIRGE  2 
Concord,  1838 


/ 


I  reached  the  middle  of  the  mount 
Up  which  the  incarnate  soul  must  climb, 

And  paused  for  them,  and  looked  around, 
With  me  who  walked  through  space  and 
time. 

Five  rosy  boys  with  morning  light 
Had   leaped   from  one   fair   mother's 

arms, 

Fronted  the  sun  with  hope  as  bright, 
And    greeted    God    with    childhood's 
psata,  _  . 

Knows  he  who  tills  this  lonely  field      , 
To  reap  its  scanty  corn,  10 

What  mystic  fruit  his  acres  yield 
At  midnight  and  at  morn? 

In  the  long  sunny  afternoon 
The  plain  was  full  of  ghosts; 

I  wandered  up,  I  wandered  down, 
Beset  by  pensive  hosts. 

The  winding  Concord  gleamed  below, 

Pouring  as  wide  a  flood 
As  when  my  brothers,  long  ago, 

Came  with  me  to  the  wood.  » 

But  they  are  gone, — the  holy  ones 
Who  trod  with  me  this  lovely  vale; 

The  strong,   star-bright  companions 
Are  silent,  low  and  pale. 

My  good,  my  noble,  in  their  prime, 

Who  made  this  world  the  feast  it  was, 

Who  learned  with  me  the  lore  of  time, 
Who  loved  this  dwelling-place ! . 

They  took  this  valley  for  their  toy, 
They  played  with  it  in  every  mood;    3«> 

A  cell  for  prayer,  a  hall  for  joy, — 
They  treated  nature  as  they  would. 

They  colored  the  horizon  round; 

Stars  flamed  and   faded  as  they  bade, 
All  echoes  hearkened   for  their  sound. — 

They  made  the  woodlands  glad  or  mad. 

I  touch  this  flower  of  silken  leaf, 
Which  once  our  childhood  knew ; 

Its  soft  leaves  wound  me  with  a  grief 
Whose  balsam  never  grew.  4° 

1  Emerson  was  one  of  five  sons.  The  death 
of  his  youngest  brother,  Charles,  in  1836,  left 
him  the  sole  survivor. 


208 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Hearken   to   yon   pine-warbler 

Singing  aloft  in  the  tree! 
Hearest  thou,  O  traveller, 

What  he  singeth  to  me? 

Not  unless  God  made  sharp  thine  ear 

With  sorrow  such  as  mine, 
Out  of  that  delicate  lay  could  st  thou 

Its  heavy  tale  divine. 

"Go,  lonely  man,"  it  saith; 

"They  loved  thee  from  their  birth;  5° 
Their  hands  were  pure,  and  pure  their 
faith  — 

There  are  no  such  hearts  on  earth. 

"Ye  drew  one  mother's  milk, 

One  chamber  held  ye  all; 
A  very  tender  history 

Did  in  your  childhood   fall. 

"You  cannot  unlock  your  heart, ,1 
The  key  is  gone  with  them ;  "j 

The  silent  organ  loudest  chants 
The  master's  requiem." 

1838. 

The  Gift:    A   Christmas,  New  Year  and 
Birthday  Present,  Philadelphia,  1845. 


FABLE 

The  mountain  and  the  squirrel 

Had  a  quarrel, 

And  the   former  called  the  latter  "Little 

Prig" ; 
Bun  replied, 

"You  are  doubtless  very  big; 
But  all  sorts  of  things  and  weather 
Must  be  taken  in  together, 
To  make  up  a  year 
And  a  sphere. 
And  I  think  it  no  disgrace 
To  occupy  my  place. 
If  I'm  not  so  large  as  you, 
You  are  not  so  small  as  I, 
And  not  half  so  spry. 
I'll  not  deny  you  make 
A  very  pretty  squirrel  track ; 
Talents  differ;  all  is  well  and  wisely  put; 
If  I  cannot  carry  forests  on  my  back, 
Neither  can  you  crack  a  nut." 

The  Diadem  for  1846 :   A  Present  for  all 
Seasons,  Philadelphia,  1846 


THRENODY i 

The  South-wind  brings 

Life,  sunshine  and  desire, 

And  on  every  mount  and  meadow 

Breathes  aromatic  fire; 

But  over  the  dead  he  has  no  power, 

The  lost,  the  lost,  he  cannot  restore; 

And,  looking  over  the  hills,  I   mourn 

The  darling  who  shall  not  return. 

I  see  my  empty  house, 

I  see  my  trees  repair  their  boughs;       10 

And  he,  the  wondrous  child, 

Whose  silver  warble  wild 

Outvalued  every  pulsing  sound 

Within   the  air's   cerulean   round, — 

The  hyacinthine  boy,   for  whom 

Morn  well  might  break  and  April  bloom, 

The  gracious  boy,  who  did  adorn 

The  world  whereinto  he  was  born, 

And  by  his  countenance  repay 

The  favor  of  the  loving  Day, —  2° 

Has  disappeared  from  the  Day's  eye ; 

Far  and  wide  she  cannot  find  him ; 

My  hopes  pursue,  they  cannot  bind  him. 

Returned  this   day,   the    South  -  wind 

searches, 
And    finds    young    pines    and    budding 

birches ; 

But  finds  not  the  budding  man; 
Nature,  who  lost,  cannot  remake  him ; 
Fate  let  him  fall,  Fate  can't  retake  him; 
Nature,  Fate,  men,  him  seek  in  vain. 

And   whither  now,   my   truant  wise  and 
sweet  3° 

O,  whither  tend  thy  feet? 
I  had  the  right,  few  days  ago, 
Thy  steps  to  watch,  thy  place  to  know : 
How   have   I    forfeited   the   right? 
Hast  thou   forgot  me  in  a  new  delight? 
I  hearken  for  thy  household  cheer, 
O  eloquent  child ! 

Whose   voice,   an   equal   messenger, 
Conveyed   thy    meaning   mild. 
What  though  the  pains  and  joys  4° 

Whereof    it    spoke    were   toys 
Fitting  his  age  and  ken, 
Yet   fairest  dames  and  bearded  men, 
Who  heard  the  sweet  request, 
So  gentle,  wise  and  grave, 
Bended  with  joy  to  his  behest 
And  let  the  world's  affairs  go  by, 
A  while  to  share  his  cordial  game, 
Or  mend  his  wicker  wagon- frame, 


Oe 


1  Emerson's    first    son,    Waldo,    was    born    in 
'ctober,   1836,  and  died  in  January,  1842. 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 


209 


Still  plotting  how  their  hungry  ear          so 
That  winsome  voice  again  might  hear ; 
For  his  lips  could  well  pronounce 
Words  that  were  persuasions. 
Gentlest  guardians  marked  serene 
His  early  hope,  his  liberal  mien ; 
Took  counsel  from  his  guiding  eyes 
To  make  this  wisdom  earthly  wise. 
Ah,  vainly  do  these  eyes  recall 
The  school-march,   each   day's   festival, 
When  every  morn  my  bosom  glowed      *° 
To  watch  the  convoy  on  the  road ; 
The  babe  in  willow  wagon  closed, 
With  rolling  eyes  and  face  composed ; 
With  children   forward  and  behind, 
Like  Cupids  studiously  inclined; 
And  he  the  chieftain  paced  beside, 
The  centre  of  the  troop  allied, 
With  sunny  face  of  sweet  repose. 
To  guard  the  babe  from  fancied  foes. 
The  little  captain  innocent  7° 

Took  the  eye  with  him  as  he  went ; 
Each  village  senior  paused  to  scan 
And  speak  the  lovely  caravan. 
From  the  window  I  look  out 
To  mark  thy  beautiful  parade, 
Stately  marching  in  cap  and  coat 
To  some  tune  by  fairies  played; — 
A  music  heard  by  thee  alone 
To  works  as  noble  led  thee  on. 

Now  Love  and  Pride,'  alas !  in  vain,      8° 
Up  and  down   their  glances   strain. 
The  painted  sled  stands  where  it  stood ; 
The  kennel  by  the  corded  wood; 
His  gathered  sticks  to  stanch  the  wall 
Of   the    snow-tower,    when    snow    should 

fall; 

The  ominous  hole  he  dug  in  the  sand. 
And  childhood's  castles  built  or  plartned ; 
His  daily  haunts  I  well  discern, — 
The  poultry-yard,  the  shed,  the  barn, — 
And  every  inch  of  garden  ground          9° 
Paced  by  the  blessed  feet  around, 
From  the  roadside  to  the  brook 
Whereinto  he  loved  to  look. 
Step    the    meek    fowls    where    erst    they 

ranged ; 

The  wintry  garden  lies  unchanged ; 
The  brook  into  the  stream  runs  on; 
But  the  deep-eyed  boy  is  gone. 

On  that  shaded  day, 

Dark  with  more  clouds  than  tempests  are, 

When    thou    didst    yield    thy    innocent 

breath  I0° 

In  birdlike  heavings  unto  death, 
Night  came,  and  Nature  had  not  thee; 
I  said,  "We  are  mates  in  misery." 


The  morrow  dawned  with  needless  glow; 
Each  snowbird  chirped,   each   fowl  must 

crow; 

Each  tramper  started ;  but  the  feet 
Of  the  most  beautiful  and  sweet 
Of  human  youth  had  left  the  hill 
And  garden, — they  were  bound  and  still. 
There's  not  a  sparrow  or  a  wren,          1I0 
There's   not  a  blade  of  autumn  grain, 
Which  the   four  seasons  do  not  tend 
And  tides  of  life  and  increase  lend; 
And  every  chick  of  every  bird, 
And  weed  and  rock-moss  is  preferred. 
O   ostrichlike    forgetfulness ! 
O  loss  of  larger  in  the  less ! 
Was  there  no  star  that  could  be  sent, 
No  watcher  in  the  firmament, 
No  angel  from  the  countless  host  I2° 

That  loiters  round  the  crystal  coast, 
Could  stoop  to  heal  that  only  child, 
Nature's  sweet  marvel  undented, 
And  keep  the  blossom  of  the  earth, 
Which  all  her  harvests  were  not  worth? 
Not  mine, — I  never  called  thee  mine, 
But  Nature's  heir, — if  I  repine, 
And  seeing  rashly  torn  and  moved 
Not  what  I  made,  but  what  I  loved, 
Grow  early  old  with  grief  that  thou     '3° 
Must  to  the  wastes  of  Nature  go, — 
'Tis  because  a  general  hope 
Was  quenched,   and  all  must  doubt  and 

grope. 

For  flattering  planets  seemed  to  say 
This  child  should  ills  of  ages  stay. 
By  wondrous  tongue,  and  guided  pen, 
Bring  the  flown   Muses  back  to  men. 
Perchance  not  he  but  Nature  ailed, 
The  world  and  not  the  infant  failed. 
It  was  not  ripe  yet  to  sustain  '4» 

A  genius  of  so  fine  a  strain, 
Who  gazed  upon  the  sun  and  moon 
As  if  he  came  unto  his  own, 
And,  pregnant  with  his  grander  thought, 
Brought  the  old  order  into  doubt. 
His  beauty  once  their  beauty  tried; 
They  could  not  feed  him,  and  he  died, 
And  wandered  backward  as  in  scorn, 
To  wait  an  aeon  to  be  born. 
Ill  day  which  made  this  beauty  waste,    jso 
Plight  broken,  this  high   face  defaced ! 
Some  went  and  came  about  the  dead ; 
And  some  in  books  of  solace  read; 
Some  to  their  friends  the  tidings  say; 
Some  went  to  write,  some  went  to  pray; 
One  tarried  here,  there  hurried  one; 
But  their  heart  abode  with  none. 
Covetous  death  bereaved  us  all, 
To  aggrandize  one   funeral. 


210 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


The  eager  fate  which  carried  thee          l6° 

Took  the  largest  part  of  me: 

For  this  losing  is  true  dying; 

This  is  lordly  man's  down-lying, 

This  his  slow  but  sure  reclining, 

Star  by  star  his  world  resigning. 

0  child  of  paradise, 

Boy  who  made  dear  his  father's  home, 

In  whose  deep  eyes 

Men  read  the  welfare  of  the  times  to  come, 

1  am  too  much  bereft.  J7° 
The  world  dishonored  thou  has  left. 

O  truth's  and  nature's  costly  lie ! 
O  trusted  broken  prophecy ! 

0  richest  fortune  sourly  crossed ! 
Born  for  the  future,  to  the  future  lost ! 

The  deep  Heart  answered,  "Weepest  thou  ? 
Worthier  cause  for  passion  wild 
If  I  had  not  taken  the  child. 
And  deemest  thou  as  those  who  pore, 
With  aged  eyes,  short  way  before, —      l8° 
Think'st  Beauty  vanished  from  the  coast 
Of  matter,  and  thy  darling  lost? 
Taught  he  not  thee — the  man  of  eld, 
Whose  eyes  within  his  eyes  beheld 
Heaven's   numerous   hierarchy   span 
The  mystic  gulf  from  God  to  man? 
To  be  alone  wilt  thou  begin 
When  worlds  of  lovers  hem  thee  in? 
To-morrow,  when  the  masks  shall   fall 
That  dizen  Nature's  carnival,  J9° 

The  pure  shall  see  by  their  own  will, 
Which   overflowing   Love   shall   fill, 
'Tis  not  within  the  force  of  fate 
The  fate-conjoined  to  separate. 
But  thou,  my  votary,  weepest  thou? 

1  gave  thee  sight — where  is  it  now? 

I  taught  thy  heart  beyond  the  reach     ' 

Of  ritual,  bible,  or  of  speech; 

Wrote  in  thy  mind's  transparent  table, 

As  far  as  the  incommunicable ;  20° 

Taught  thee  each  private  sign  to  raise 

Lit  by  the  supersolar  blaze. 

Past  utterance,  and  past  belief, 

And  past  the  blasphemy  of  grief, 

The  mysteries  of  Nature's  heart; 

And  though  no  Muse  can  these  impart, 

Throb    thine    with    Nature's    throbbing 

breast, 
And  all  is  clear  from  east  to  west. 

"I  came  to  thee  as  to  a  friend; 
Dearest,  to  thee  I  did  not  send  2I° 

Tutors,  but  a  joyful  eye, 
Innocence  that  matched  the  sky, 
Lovely  locks,  a  form  of  wonder. 
Laughter  rich  as  woodland  thunder, 


That  thou  might'st  entertain  apart 

The  richest  flowering  of  all  art: 

And,  as  the  great  all-loving  Day 

Through  smallest  chambers  takes  its  way, 

That  thou  might'st  break  thy  daily  bread 

With  prophet,  savior  and  head;  22° 

That  thou  might'st  cherish  for  thine  own 

The  riches  of  sweet  Mary's  Son, 

Boy-Rabbi,  Israel's  paragon. 

And  thoughtest  thou  such  guest 

Would  in  thy  hall  take  up  his  rest? 

Would  rushing  life  forget  her  laws, 

Fate's  glowing  revolution   pause? 

High  omens  ask  diviner  guess ; 

Not  to  be  conned  to  tediousness. 

And  know  my  higher  gifts  unbind          23° 

The  zone  that  girds  the  incarnate  mind. 

When  the  scanty  shores  are  full 

With  Thought's  perilous,  whirling  pool; 

When  frail  Nature  can  no  more, 

Then  the  Spirit  strikes  the  hour : 

My  servant  Death,  with   solving  rite, 

Pours  finite  into  infinite. 

Wilt  thou  freeze  love's  tidal  flow. 

Whose  streams  through  Nature  circling  go  ? 

Nail  the  wild  star  to  its  track  24° 

On  the  half-climbed  zodiac? 

Light  is  light  which  radiates, 

Blood  is  blood  which  circulates, 

Life  is  life  which  generates, 

And  many-seeming  life  is  one, — 

Wilt  thou  transfix  and  make  it  none? 

Its  onward  force  too  starkly  pent 

In  figure,  bone  and  lineament? 

Wilt  thou,  uncalled,  interrogate, 

Talker  !  the  unreplying  Fate  ?  25° 

Nor  see  the  genius  of  the  whole 

Ascendant  in  the  private  soul, 

Beckon  it  when  to  go  and  come, 

Self-announced   its   hour  of  doom? 

Fair  the  soul's  recess  and  shrine, 

Magic-built  to  last  a  season; 

Masterpiece  of  love  benign. 

Fairer    that    expansive    reason 

Whose  omen  'tis,  and  sign. 

Wilt  thou  not  ope  thy  heart  to  know    26° 

What  rainbows  teach,  and  sunsets  show? 

Verdict  which  accumulates 

From  lengthening  scroll  of  human  fates, 

Voice  of  earth  to  earth  returned, 

Prayer  of  saints  that  inly  burned, — 

Saying,   What  is  excellent, 

As  God  lives,  is  permanent; 

Hearts  are  dust,  hearts'  loves  remain; 

Heart's  love  will  meet  thee  again. 

Revere  the  Maker;  fetch  thine  eye          2~° 

Up  to  his  style,  and  manners  of  the  sky. 

Not  of  adamant  and  gold 

Built  he  heaven  stark  and  cold; 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 


211 


No,  but  a  nest  of  bending  reeds, 
Flowering  grass  and  scented  weeds 
Or  like  a  traveller's  fleeing  tent, 
Or  bow  above  the  tempest  bent; 
Built  of  tears  and  sacred  flames, 
And  virtue  reaching  to  its  aims; 
Built  of  furtherance  and  pursuing, 
Not  of  spent  deeds,  but  of  doing. 
Silent  rushes  the  swift  Lord 
Through  ruined  systems  still  restored, 
Broadsowing,   bleak  and  void  to  bless, 
Plants  with  worlds  the  wilderness; 
Waters  with  tears  of  ancient  sorrow 
Apples   of   Eden   ripe  to-morrow. 
House  and  tenant  go  to  ground, 
Lost  in  God,  in  Godhead  found." 


-80 


1842-1846. 


"Poems,"  1847. 


ODE  i 
Inscribed   to    W.  H.   Channing 

Though  loath  to  grieve 
The  evil  time's  sole  patriot, 
I  cannot  leave 
My  honeyed  thought 
For  the  priest's  cant, 
Or  statesman's  rant. 


If  I  refuse 

My  study  for  their  politique, 

Which  at  the  best  is  trick, 

The  angry  Muse 

Puts  confusion  in  my  brain. 


But  who  is  he  that  prates 
Of  the  culture  of  mankind, 
Of  better  arts  and  life? 
Go,  blindworm,  go, 
Behold   the   famous   States 
Harrying  Mexico 
With  rifle  and  with  knife! 
Or  who,  with  accent  bolder, 
Dare    praise    the    freedom-loving    moun 
taineer?  20 
I  found  by  thee,  O  rushing  Contoocook ! 
And  in  thy  valleys,   Agiochook ! 

The  jackals  of  the  negro-holder. 

• 

1  W.  H.  Channing  (1780-1842)  though  a  gentle 
scholarly  man,  was  among  the  early,  fearless 
enemies  of  slavery.  Emerson  hated  slavery,  but 
no  more  than  many  another  human  evil.  Ac 
cording  to  Emerson's  son  this  poem  was  prob 
ably  addressed  to  W.  H.  Channing  the  younger, 
a  nephew,  who  was  also  an  urgent  anti-slavery 
advocate. 


The  God  who  made  New  Hampshire 

Taunted  the  lofty  land 

With  little  men;— 

Small  bat  and   wren 

House  in  the  oak: — 

If  earth-fire  cleave 

The  upheaved  land,  and  bury  the  folk,    3° 

The  southern  crocodile  would  grieve. 

Virtue  palters ;  Right  is  hence ; 

Freedom  praised,  but  hid; 

Funeral  eloquence         *» 

Rattles  the  coffin-lid. 

What  boots  thy  zeal, 

O   glowing    friend, 

That  would  indignant  rend 

The  northland   from  the  south? 

Wherefore?  to  what  good  end?  4° 

Boston  Bay  and  Bunker  Hill 

Would   serve   things   still; — 

Things  are  of  the  snake. 

The  horseman  serves  the  horse, 
The  neatherd  serves  the  neat, 
The  merchant  serves  the  purse, 
The  eater  serves  his  meat; 
'Tis  the  day  of  the  chattel, 
Web  to  weave,  and  corn  to  grind; 
Things  are  in  the  saddle,  5° 

And  ride  mankind. 

There  are  two  laws  discrete, 

Not  reconciled, — 

Law  for  man,  and  law  for  thing; 

The  last   builds  town   and  fleet, 

But  it  runs  wild, 

And  doth  the  man  unking. 

'Tis  fit  the  forest  fall, 

The  steep  be  graded, 

The  mountain  tunnelled,  &> 

The  sand  shaded, 

The  orchard  planted, 

The  glebe  tilled, 

The  prairie  granted, 

The  steamer  built. 

Let  man  serve  law  for  man ; 

Live  for  friendship,  live  for  love, 

For  truth's  and  harmony's  behoof; 

The  state  may  follow  how  it  can, 

As  Olympus  follows  Jove.  70 

Yet  do  not  I  implore 
The   wrinkled   shopman   to   my  sounding 

woods, 

Nor  bid  the  unwilling  senator 
Ask  votes  of  thrushes  in  the  solitudes. 
Every  one  to  his  chosen  work; — 


212 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Foolish  hands  may  mix  and  mar; 
Wise  and  sure  the  issues  are. 
Round  they  roll  till  dark  is  light, 
Sex  to  sex,  and  even  to  odd; — 
The  over-god  8° 

Who  marries  Right  to  Might, 
Who  peoples,  unpeoples, — 
He  who  exterminates 
Races  by  stronger  races, 
Black  by  white  faces, — 
Knows  to  bring  honey 
Out  of  the  lion; 
Grafts  gentlest  scion 
On  pirate  and  Turk. 

The  Cossack  eats  Poland,  9<> 

Like  stolen  fruit; 
Her  last  noble  is  ruined, 
Her  last  poet  mute : 
Straight,  into  double  band 
The  victors  divide; 
Half  for  freedom  strike  and  stand ; — 
The  astonished  Muse  finds  thousands  at 
her  side. 

"Poems,"  1847. 


THE  WORLD-SOUL 

Thanks  to  the  morning  light, 

Thanks  to  the  foaming  sea, 
To  the  uplands  of  New  Hampshire, 

To  the  green-haired  forest  free; 
Thanks  to  each  man  of  courage, 

To  the  maids  of  holy  mind, 
To  the  boy  with  his  games  undaunted 

Who  never  looks  behind. 

pities  of  proud  hotels, 

Houses  of  rich  and  great, 
Vice  nestles  in  your  chambers, 

Beneath  your  roofs  of  slate. 
It  cannot  conquer  folly, — 

Time-and-space-conquering  steam, — 
And  the  light-outspeeding  telegraph 

Bears  nothing  on  its  beam. 

The  politics  are  base; 

The  letters  do  not  cheer; 
And  'tis  far  in  the  deeps  of  history, 

The  voice  that  speaketh  clear. 
Trade  and  the  streets  ensnare  us, 

Our  bodies  are  weak  and  worn ; 
We  plot  and  corrupt  each  other, 

And  we  despoil  the  unborn. 

Yet  there  in  the  parlor  sits 
Some  figure  of  noble  guise, — 

Our  angel,  in  a  stranger's  form, 
Or  woman's  pleading  eyes; 


Or  only  a  flashing  sunbeam 

In  at  the  window-pane;  3° 

Or  Music  pours  on  mortals 

Its  beautiful  disdain. 

The  inevitable  morning 

Finds  them  who  in  cellars  be ; 
And  be  sure  the  all-loving  Nature 

Will  smile  in  a  factory. 
Yon  ridge  of  purple  landscape, 

Yon  sky  between  the  walls, 
Hold  all  the  hidden  wonders 

In  scanty  intervals.  4° 

Alas !  the  Sprite  that  haunts  us 

Deceives  our  rash  desire ; 
It  whispers  of  the  glorious  gods, 

And  leaves  us  in  the  mife. 
We  cannot  learn  the  cipher 

That's  writ  upon  our  cell ; 
Stars  taunt  us  by  a  mystery 

Which  we  could  never  spell. 

If  but  one  hero  knew  it, 

The  world  would  blush  in  flame;          so 
The  sage,  till  he  hit  the  secret, 

Would  hang  his  head  for  shame. 
Our  brothers  have  not  read  it, 

Not  one  has  found  the  key ; 
And  henceforth  we  are  comforted, — 

We  are  but  such  as  they. 

Still,  still  the  secret  presses; 

The  nearing  clouds  draw  down; 
The  crimson  morning  flames  into 

The  fopperies  of  the  town.  6° 

Within,  without  the  idle  earth, 

Stars  weave  eternal  rings ; 
The  sun  himself  shines  heartily, 

And  shares  the  joy  he  brings. 

And  what  if  Trade  sow  cities 

Like  shells  along  the  shore, 
And  thatch  with  towns  the  prairie  broad 

With  railways  ironed  o'er? — 
They  are  but  sailing  foam-bells 

Along  Thought's  causing  stream,         7» 
And  take  their  shape  and  sun-color 

From  him  that  sends  the  dream. 

For  Destiny  never  swerves 

Nor  yields  to  men  the  helm; 
He  shoots  his  thought,  by  hidden  nerves, 

Throughout  the  solid  realm. 
The  patient  Daemon  sits, 

With  roses  and  a  shroud ; 
He  has  his  way,  and  deals  his  gifts, — 

But  ours  is  not  allowed.  8° 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 


213 


He  is  no  churl  nor  trifler, 

And  his  viceroy  is  none, — 
Love-withput-weakness, — 

Of  Genius  sire  and  son. 
And  his  will  is  not  thwarted; 

The  seeds  of  land  and  sea 
Are  the  atoms  of  his  body  bright, 

And  his  behest  obey. 

He  serveth  the  servant, 

The  brave  he  loves  amain;  9° 

He  kills  the  cripple  and  the  sick, 

And  straight  begins  again; 
For  gods  delight  in  gods, 

And  thrust  the  weak  aside; 
To  him  who  scorns  their  charities 

Their  arms  fly  open  wide. 

When  the  old  world  is  sterile 

And  the  ages  are  effete, 
He  will  from  wrecks  and  sediment 

The  fairer  world  complete.  10° 

He  forbids  to  despair; 

His  cheeks  mantle  with  mirth; 
And  the  unimagined  good  of  men 

Is  yeaning  at  the  birth. 

Spring  still  makes  spring  in  the  mind 

When  sixty  years  are  told ; 
Love  wakes  anew  this  throbbing  heart, 

And  we  are  never  old ; 
Over  the  winter  glaciers 

I  see  the  summer  glow,  no 

And  through  the  wild-piled  snow-drift 

The  warm  rosebuds  below. 

The  Diadem:   A  Present  for  All  Sea 
sons,  Philadelphia,  1847. 


•  MERLIN 

Thy  trivial  harp  will  never  please 

Or  fill  my  craving  ear; 

Its  chords  should  ring  as  blows  the  breeze, 

Free,  peremptory,  clear. 

No  jingling  serenader's  art, 

Nor  tinkle  of  piano  strings, 

Can  make  the  wild  blood  start 

In  its  mystic  springs. 

The  kingly  bard 

Must  smite  the  chords  rudely  and  hard,  I0 

As  with  hammer  or  with  mace; 

That  they  may  render  back 

Artful  thunder,  which  conveys 

Secrets  of  the  solar  track, 

Sparks  of  the  supersolar  blaze, 

Merlin's  blows  are  strokes  of  fate, 


Chiming  with  the  forest  tone, 

When  boughs  buffet  boughs  in  the  wood ; 

Chiming  with  the  gasp  and  moan 

Of  the  ice-imprisoned  flood;  2° 

With  the  pulse  of  manly  hearts; 

With  the  voice  of  orators; 

With  the  din  of  city  arts; 

With  the  cannonade  of  wars; 

With  the  marches  of  the  brave; 

And  prayers  of  might  from  martyrs'  cave. 

Great  is  the  art, 

Great  be  the  manners,  of  the  bard. 

He  shall  not  his  brain  encumber 

With  the  coil  of  rhythm  and  number;    3° 

But,  leaving  rule  and  pale  forethought, 

He  shall  aye  climb 

For  his  rhyme. 

"Pass  in,  pass  in,"  the  angels  say, 

"In  to  the  upper  doors, 

Nor  count  compartments  of  the  floors, 

But  mount  to  paradise 

By  the  stairway  of  surprise." 

Blameless  master  of  the  games, 

King  of  sport  that  never  shames,  4° 

He  shall  daily  joy  dispense 

Hid  in  song's  sweet  influence. 

Forms  more  cheerly  live  and  go, 

What  time  the  subtle  mind 

Sings  aloud  the  tune  whereto 

Their  pulses  beat, 

And  march  their  feet, 

And  their  members  are  combined. 

By  Sybarites  beguiled, 

He  shall  no  task  decline.  5° 

Merlin's  mighty  line 

Extremes  of  nature  reconciled, — 

Bereaved  a  tyrant  of  his  will, 

And  made  the  lion  mild. 

Songs  can  the  tempest  still, 

Scattered  on  the  stormy  air, 

Mould  the  year  to  fair  increase, 

And  bring  in  poetic  peace. 

He  shall  not  seek  to  weave, 

In  weak,  unhappy  times,  6° 

Efficacious  rhymes ; 

Wait  his  returning  strength. 

Bird  that  from  nadir's  floor 

To  the  zenith's  top  can  soar, — 

The   soaring  orbit  of  the   muse   exceeds 

that  journey's  length. 
Nor  profane  affect  to  hit 
Or  compass  that,  by  meddling  wit, 
Which  only  the  propitious  mind 
Publishes  when  'tis  inclined. 
There  are  open  hours  7° 


214 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


When  the  God's  will  sallies  free, 

And  the  dull  idiot  might  see 

The   flowing    fortunes    of    a   thousand 

years ; — 

Sudden,  at  unawares, 
Self-moved,  fly  to  the  doors, 
Nor  sword  of  angels  could  reveal 
What  they  conceal. 


1845-46. 


"Poems,"  1847. 


HAMATREYA 


Bulkeley,  Hunt,  Willard,  Hosmer,  Meri> 

am,  Flint 1 
Possessed  the  land  which  rendered  to  their 

toil 
Hay,  corn,  roots,  hemp,  flax,  apples,  wool 

and  wood. 
Each   of   these   landlords    walked   amidst 

his  farm, 
Saying,    "  "Tis    mine,    my    children's    and 

my  name's. 
How  sweet  the  west  wind  sounds  in  my 

own  trees ! 
How   graceful   climb   those   shadows    on 

my  hill ! 

I  fancy  these  pure  waters  and  the  flags 
Know  me,  as  does  my  dog :   we  sympa 
thize  ; 
And,  I  affirm,  my  actions  smack  of  the 

soil."  I0 

Where  are  these  men?  Asleep  beneath 
their  grounds : 

And  strangers,  fond  as  they,  their  fur 
rows  plough. 

Earth  laughs  in  flowers,  to  see  her  boast 
ful  boys 

Earth-proud,  proud  of  the  earth  which 
is  not  theirs; 

Who  steer  the  plough,  but  cannot  steer 
their  feet 

Clear  of  the  grave. 

They  added  ridge  to  valley,  brook  to  pond, 

And  sighed  for  all  that  bounded  their 
domain ; 

"This  suits  me  for  a  pasture;  that's  my 
park; 

We  must  have  clay,  lime,  gravel,  granite- 
ledge,  2° 

And  misty  lowland,  where  to  go  for  peat. 

The  land  is  well, — lies  fairly  to  the  south. 

'Tis  good,  when  you  have  crossed  the  sea 
and  back, 

1  All  early  settlers  in  Concord.  Peter  Bulkley, 
a  direct  ancestor  of  Emerson,  was  the  first  minister 
of  the  parish. 


To  find  the  sitfast  acres  where  you  left 

them."  i 

Ah !  the  hot  owner  sees  not  Death,  who 

adds 
Him  to  his  land,  a  lump  of  mould  the 

more. 
Hear  what  the  Earth  says:— 

EARTH-SONG 

"Mine  and  yours; 

Mine,  not  yours. 

Earth  endures;  3° 

Stars  abide — 

Shine  down  in  the  old  sea; 

Old  are  the  shores ; 

But  where  are  old  men? 

I  who  have  seen  much, 

Such  have  I  never  seen. 

"The  lawyer's  deed 

Ran  sure, 

In  tail, 

To  them,  and  to  their  heirs  4° 

Who  shall  succeed, 

Without  fail, 

Forevermore. 

"Here  is  the  land, 

Shaggy  with  wood, 

With  its  old  valley, 

Mound  and  flood. 

But  the  heritors? — 

Fled  like  the  flood's  foam. 

The  lawyer,  and  the  laws,  so 

And  the  kingdom,* 

Clean  swept  herefrom. 

"They  called  me  theirs, 

Who  so  controlled  me; 

Yet  every  one 

Wished  to  stay,  and  is  gone, 

How  am  I  theirs,      » 

If  they  cannot  hold  me, 

But  I  hold  them?" 

When  I  heard  the  Earth-song  6° 

I  was  no  longer  brave; 

My  avarice  cooled 

Like  lust  in  the  chill  of  the  grave. 

"Poems,"  1847. 
MUSKETAQUID 

Because   I   was   content   with   these   poor 

fields, 
Low,   open   meads,    slender    and    sluggish 

streams, 
And  found  a  home  in  haunts  which  others 

scorned, 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 


'215 


The  partial  wood-gods  overpaid  my  love, 
And  granted  me  the  freedom  of  their 

state, 

And  in  their  secret  senate  have  prevailed 
With  the  dear,  dangerous  lords  that  rule 

our  life, 
Made  moon  and  planets  parties  to  their 

bond, 

And  through  my  rock-like,  solitary  wont 
Shot  million  rays  of  thought  and  tender 
ness.  I0 
For  me,  in  showers,  in  sweeping  showers, 

the  Spring 
Visits     the     valley;  —  break     away     the 

clouds, — 

I  bathe  in  the  morn's  soft  and  silvered  air, 
And  loiter  willing  by  yon  loitering  stream. 
Sparrows  far  off,  and  nearer,  April's  bird, 
Blue-coated, — flying  before  from  tree  to 

tree, 

Courageous  sing  a  delicate  overture 
To  lead  the  tardy  concert  of  the  year. 
Onward  and  nearer  rides  the  sun  of  May ; 
And   wide   around,   the   marriage    of   the 

plants  *° 

Ir  sweetly  solemnized.  Then  flows  amain 
The  surge  of  summer's  beauty;  dell  and 

crag, 

Hollow  and  lake,  hillside  and  pine  arcade, 
Are  touched  with  genius.  Yonder  ragged 

cliff 
Has  thousand  faces  in  a  thousand  hours. 


Beneath  low  hills,  in  the  broad  interval 
Through  which  at  will  our  Indian  rivulet 
Winds    mindful    still    of   sannup    and    of 

squaw, 
Whose  pipe  and  arrow  oft  the  plough  un- 

bunes, 
Here  in  pine  houses  built  of  new-fallen 

trees,  3° 

Supplanters    of    the    tribe,    the    farmers 

dwell. 
Traveller,   to   thee,   perchance,   a  tedious 

road, 

Or,  it  may  be,  a  picture ;  to  these  men, 
The  landscape  is  an  armory  of  powers, 
Which,  one  by  one,  they  know  to  draw 

and  use. 
They  harness  beast,  bird,  insect,  to  their 

work; 
They  prove  the  virtues  of  each  bed  of 

rock, 

And,  like  the  chemist  'mid  his  loaded  jars, 
Draw  from  each  stratum  its  adapted  use 
To  drug  their  crops  or  weapon  their  arts 

withal.  40 


They   turn   the   frost   upon   their   chemic 

heap, 
They  set  the  wind  to  winnow  pulse  and 

grain, 
They  thank  the  spring-flood  for  its  fertile 

slime,    , 

And,  on  cheap  summit-levels  of  the  snow, 
Slide  with  the  sledge  to  inaccessible  woods 
O'er  meadows  bottomless.  So,  year  by 

year, 

They  fight  the  elements  with  elements 
(That  one  would  say,  meadow  and  forest 

walked, 
Transmuted   in   these   men   to    rule   their 

like), 

And  by  the  order  in  the  field  disclose  so 
The  order  regnant  in  the  yeoman's  brain. 

What  these  strong  masters  wrote  at  large 

in   miles, 

I  followed  in  small  copy  in  my  acre; 
For  there's  no  rood  has  not  a  star  above 

it; 

The  cordial  quality  of  pear  or  plum 

Ascends  as  gladly  in  a  single  tree 

As  in  broad  orchards  resonant  with  bees; 

And  every  atom  poises  for  itself, 

And  for  the  whole.     The  gentle  deities 

Showed   me   the   lore   of   colors   and   of 

sounds,  60 

The  innumerable  tenements  of  beauty, 
The  miracle  of  generative  force, 
Far-reaching  concords  of  astronomy 
Felt    in    the   plants   and    in    the   punctual 

birds ; 

Better,  the  linked  purpose  of  the  whole, 
And,  chiefest  prize,  found  I  true  liberty 
In   the   glad   home   plain-dealing   Nature 

gave. 

The  polite  found  me  impolite;  the  great 
Would  mortify  me,  but  in  vain;  for  still 
I  am  a  willow  of  the  wilderness,  7° 

Loving  the  wind  that  bent  me.     All  my 

hurts 
My  garden  spade  can  heal.     A  woodland 

walk, 
A    quest     of     river-grapes,     a    mocking 

thrush, 

A  wild-rose,  or  rock-loving  columbine, 
Salve  my  worst  wounds. 
For  thus  the  wood-gods  murmured  in  my 

par: 
"Dost    love    our    manners?      Canst    thou 

silent  lie? 
Canst  thou,  thy  pride  forgot,  like  Nature 

pass 

Into  the  winter  night's  extinguished  mood? 
Canst  thou  shine  now,  then  darkle,  8° 
And  being  latent,  feel  thyself  no  less? 


216 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


As,    when    the    all-worshipped    moon    at 
tracts  the  eye, 

The  river,  hill,  stems,  foliage  are  obscure, 
Yet  envies  none,  none  are  unenviable." 

"Poems,"  1847. 


ETIENNE  DE  LA  BOECE  1 

I  serve  you  not,  if  you  I  follow, 

Shadowlike,  o'er  hill  and  hollow ; 

And  bend  my  fancy  to  your  leading, 

All  too  nimble  for  my  treading. 

When  the  pilgrimage  is  done, 

And  we've  the  landscape  overrun, 

I  am  bitter,  vacant,  thwarted, 

And  your  heart  is  unsupported. 

Vainly  valiant,  you  have  missed 

The  manhood  that  should  yours  resist, — I0 

Its  complement,  but  if  I  could, 

In  severe  or  cordial  mood, 

Lead  you  rightly  to  my  altar, 

Where  the  wisest  muses  falter, 

And  worship  that  world-warning  spark 

Which  dazzles  me  in  midnight  dark, 

Equalizing  small  and  large, 

While  the  soul  it  doth  surcharge, 

Till  the  poor  is  wealthy  grown, 

And  the  hermit  never  alone, —  2° 

The  traveller  and  the  road  seem  one 

With  the  errand  to  be  done, — 

That  were  a  man's  and  lover's  part, 

That  were  Freedom's  whitest  chart. 


1833. 


"Poems,"  1847. 


BRAHMA  2 


' 


If  the  red  slayer  thinks  he  slays, 
Or  if  the  slain  think  he  is  slam, 

They  know  not  well  the  subtle  ways' 
I  keep,  and  pass,  and  turn  again." 

Far  or  forgot  to  me  is  near; 

Shadow  and  sunlight  are  the  same; 
The  vanished  gods  to  me  appear ; 

And  one  to  me  are  shame  and  fame. 

They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out; 

When  me  they  fly,  I  am  the  wings ; 
I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt,          ,    " 

And  I  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings. 

1  The  friendship  between  Etienne  de  La  Boece 
and    Montaigne    has    become    proverbial.       It    is 
described    by    Montaigne    himself    in    the    twenty- 
seventh  chapter  of  his  "Essays." 

2  For  a  good  brief  discussion  of  this  much  dis 
cussed  poem,  see  C.   F.  Richardson's  '"American 
Literature,"  p.   161  et  seq. 


The  strong  gods  pine  for  my  abode, 
And  pine  in  vain  the  sacred  Seven; 
But  thou,  meek  lover  of  the  good ! 
Find  me,  and  turn  thy  back  on  heaven. 

1857. 
DAYS 

Daughters  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days, 
Muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  dervishes, 
And  marching  single  in  an  endless  file, 
Bring  diadems  and  fagots  in  their  hands. 
To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will, 
Bread,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  sky  that  holds 

them  all. 
I,   in   my  pleached   garden,   watched   the 

pomp, 

Forgot  my  morning  wishes,  hastily 
Took  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  and  the  Day 
Turned  and  departed  silent.     I,  too  late,  10 
Under  her  solemn  fillet  saw  the  scorn. 

1851.  Atlantic  Monthly,  Nov.,  1857. 

THE  ROMANY  GIRL 

The  sun  "goes  down,  and  with  him  takes 
The  coarseness  of  my  poor  attire; 
The  fair  moon  mounts,  and  aye  the  flame 
Of  Gypsy  beauty  blazes  higher. 

Pale  Northern  girls !  you  scorn  our  race ; 
You  captives  of  your  air-tight  halls, 
Wear  out  in-doors  your  sickly  days, 
But  leave  us  the  horizon  walls. 

And  if  I  take  you,  dames,  to  task, 
And  say  it  frankly  without  guile,  10 

Then  you  are  Gypsies  in  a  mask, 
And  I  the  lady  all  the  while. 

If  on  the  heath,  below  the  moon, 
I  court  and  play  with  paler  blood. 
Me  false  to  mine  dare  whisper  none, — 
One  sallow  horseman  knows  me  good. 

Go,  keep  your  cheek's  rose  from  the  rain, 
For  teeth  and  hair  with  shopmen  deal ; 
My  swarthy  tint  is  in  the  grain, 
The  rocks  and  forest  know  it  real.         x 

The  wild  air  bloweth  in  our  lungs, 
The  keen  stars  twinkle  in  our  eyes. 
The  birds  gave  us  our  wily  tongues, 
The  panther  in  our  dances  flies. 

You  doubt  we  read  the  stars  on  high, 
Nathless  we  read  your  fortunes  true; 
The  stars  may  hide  in  the  upper  sky, 
But  without  glass  we  fathom  you. 

1854.  Atlantic  Monthly,  Nov.,  1857. 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 


217 


SEASHORE i 

I  heard  or  seemed  to  hear  the  chiding  Sea 
Say,  Pilgrim,  why  so  late  and  slow  to 

come? 

Am  I  not  always  here,  thy  summer  home? 
Is  not  my  voice  thy  music,  morn  and  eve? 
My  breath  thy  healthful  climate  in  the 

heats, 

My  touch  thy  antidote,  my  bay  thy  bath? 
Was  ever  building  like  my  terraces? 
Was  ever  couch  magnificent  as  mine? 
Lie  on  the  warm  rock-ledges,  and  there 

learn 

A  little  hut  suffices  like  a  town.  I0 

I  make  your  sculptured  architecture  vain, 
Vain  beside  mine.  I  drive  my  wedges 

home, 
And   carve   the  coastwise   mountain    into 

caves. 
Lo !    here    is    Rome    and    Nineveh    and 

Thebes, 

Karnak  and  Pyramid  and  Giant's  Stairs 
Half  piled  or  prostrate ;  and  my  newest 

slab 
Older  than  all  thy  race. 

Behold  the  Sea, 

The  opaline,  the  plentiful  and  strong, 
Yet  beautiful  as  is  the  rose  in  June, 
Fresh  as  the  trickling  rainbow  of  July;  20 
Sea  full  of  food,  the  nourisher  of  kinds, 
Purger  of  earth,  and  medicine  of  men; 
Creating  a  sweet  climate  by  my  breath, 
Washing  out  harms  and  griefs  from  mem 
ory, 

And,  in  my  mathematic  ebb  and  flow, 
Giving  a  hint  of  that  which  changes  not. 
Rich  are  the  sea-gods : — who  gives  gifts 

but  they? 
They  grope  the  sea  for  pearls,  but  more 

than  pearls : 
They  pluck  Force  thence,  and  give  it  to 

the  wise. 

For  every  wave  is  wealth  to  Daedalus,  3° 
Wealth  to  the  cunning  artist  who  can 

work 
This  matchless  strength.    Where  shall  he 

find.  O  waves ! 
A  load  your  Atlas  shoulders  cannot  lift? 

1  This  poem,  as  E.  W.  Emerson  records,  is  a 
striking  illustration  of  Emerson's  oneness  in 
method  and  point  of  view  in  his  writing  of  prose 
and  verse.  The  day  after  a  two-weeks'  visit  to 
Cape  Ann  in  1857  he  entered  in  his  journal 
a  prose  passage,  which  with  almost  no  changes 
he  recast  into  this  blank  verse.  The  original 


I  with  my  hammer  pounding  evermore 
The  rocky  coast,  smite  Andes  into  dust, 
Strewing  my  bed,  and,  in  another  age, 
Rebuild  a  continent  of  better  men. 
Then  I  unbar  the  doors  :  my  paths  lead  out 
The  exodus  of  nations :  I  disperse 
Men  to  all  shores  that   front  the  hoary 
"main.  40 

I  too  have  arts  and  sorceries; 
Illusion  dwells  forever  with  the  wave. 
I  know  what  spells  are  laid.     Leave  me 

to  deal 

With  credulous  and  imaginative  man ; 
For,   though   he   scoop   my   water   in  his 

palm, 
A    few   rods   off  he  deems   it   gems   and 

clouds. 
Planting  strange    fruits  and  sunshine  on 

the  shore, 

I  make  some  coast  alluring,  some  lone  isle, 
To  distant  men,  who  must  go  there,  or 

die. 

1857.       The  Boatswain's  Whistle,  Boston, 
Nov.   18,   1864. 


TWO  RIVERS 

Thy  summer  voice,  Musketaquit, 
Repeats  the  music  of  the  rain ; 
But  sweeter  rivers  pulsing  flit 
Through  thee,  as  thou  through  Concord 
Plain. 

Thou  in  thy  narrow  banks  art  pent: 
The  stream  I  love  unbounded  goes 
Through  flood  and  sea  and  firmament; 
Through   light,   through    life,   it    forward 
flows. 

I  see  the  inundation  sweet, 

I  hear  the  spending  of  the  stream  I0 

Through  years,  through  men,  through  Na 
ture  fleet, 

Through  love  and  thought,  through  power 
and  dream. 

Musketaquit,  a  goblin  strong, 
Of  shard  and  flint  makes  jewels  gay; 
They  lose  their  grief  who  hear  his  song, 
And  where  he  winds  is  the  day  of  day. 

So  forth  and  brighter  fares  my  stream, — 
Who  drink  it  shall  not  thirst  again ; 
No  darkness  stains  its  equal  gleam 
And  ages  drop  in  it  like  rain.  2° 


cord,"  pp.  232,  3. 


1856. 


Atlantic  Monthly,  Jan.,  1858. 


218 


WALDEINSAMKEIT 
spend 


AMERICA^ 

w 


I  do  not  count  the  hours  I 
In  wandering  by  the  sea; 
The  forest  is  my  loyal  friend, 
Like  God  it  useth  me. 

In  plains  that  room  for  shadows  make 
Of  skirting  hills  to  lie, 
Bound  in  by  streams  which  give  and  take 
Their  colors  from  the  sky; 

Or  on  the  mountain-crest  sublime, 

Or  down  the  oaken  glade,  I0 

O  what  have  I  to  do  with  time? 

For  this  the  day  was  made. 

Cities  of  mortals  woe-begone 
Fantastic  care  derides, 
But  in  the  serious  landscape  lone 
Stern  benefit  abides. 

Sheen  will  tarnish,  honey  cloy, 

And  merry  is  only  a  mask  of  sad, 

But,  sober  on  a  fund  of  joy, 

The  woods  at  heart  are  glad.  2° 

There  the  great  Planter  plants 
Of  fruitful  worlds  the  grain, 
And  with  a  million  spells  enchants 
The  souls  that  walk  in  pain. 

Still  on  the  seeds  of  all  he  made 

The  rose  of  beauty  burns; 

Through  times  that  wear  and  forms  that 

fade, 
Immortal  youth  returns. 

The  black  ducks  mounting  from  the  lake, 
The  pigeon  in  the  pines,  3° 

The  bittern's  boom,  a  desert  make 
Which  no  false  art  refines. 

Down  in  yon  watery  nook, 

Where  bearded  mists  divide, 

The  gray  old  gods  whom  Chaos  knew, 

The  sires  of  Nature,  hide. 

Aloft,  in  secret  veins  of  air, 
Blows  the  sweet  breath  of  song, 
O,  few  to  scale  those  uplands  dare, 
Though  they  to  all  belong!  4° 

See  thou  bring  not  to  field  or  stone 
The  fancies  found  in  books ; 
Leave  authors'  eyes,  and  fetch  your  own, 
To  brave  the  landscape's  looks. 


POETRY 

Oblivion  here  thy  wisdom  is, 
Thy  thrift,  the  sleep  of  cares; 
For  a  proud  idleness  like  this 
Crowns  all  thy  mean  affairs. 

1857.  Atlantic  Monthly,  Oct.,  1858. 


WORSHIP 

This  is  he,  who,  felled  by  foes, 
Sprung  harmless  up,  refreshed  by  blows: 
He  to  captivity  was  sold, 
But  him  no  prison-bars  would  hold : 
Though  they  sealed  him  in  a  rock, 
Mountain  chains  he  can  unlock: 
Thrown  to  lions  for  their  meat, 
The  crouching  lion  kissed  his  feet; 
Bound  to  the  stake,  no  flames  appalled, 
But  arched  o'er  him  an  honoring  vault.  I0 
This  is  he  men  miscall  Fate, 
Threading  dark  ways,  arriving  late, 
But  ever  coming  in  time  to  crown 
The  truth,  and  hurl  wrong-doers  down. 
He  is  the  oldest,  and  best  known, 
More   near   than   aught   thou   call'st 

own 

Yet,  greeted  in  another's  eyes, 
Disconcerts  with  glad  surprise. 
This  is  Jove,  who,  deaf  to  prayers, 
Floods  with  blessings  unawares. 
Draw,  if  thou  canst,  the  mystic  line 
Severing  rightly  his  from  thine, 
Which  is  human,  which  divine. 


thy 


"Conduct  of  Life,"  1860. 


THE  TEST 
(Musa  loquitur.) 

I  hung  my  verses  in  the  wind, 

Time  and  tide  their  faults  may  find. 

All  were  winnowed  through  and  through, 

Five  lines  lasted  sound  and  true; 

Five  were  smelted  in  a  pot 

Than  the  South  more  fierce  and  hot; 

These  the  siroc  could  not  melt, 

Fire  their  fiercer  flaming  felt, 

And  the  meaning  was  more  white 

Than  July's  meridian  light.  10 

Sunshine  cannot  bleach  the  snow, 

Nor  time  unmake  what  poets  know. 

Have  you  eyes  to  find  the  five 

Which  five  hundred  did  survive? 

Atlantic  Monthly,  Jan.,  1861. 


RALPH    WA 


EMERSON 


219 


THE  TITMOUSE 

You  shall  not  be  overbold 
When  you  deal  with  arctic  cold, 
As  late  I   found  my  lukewarm  blood 
Chilled  wading  in  the  snow-choked  wood. 
How  should  I  fight?  my  foeman  fine 
Has  million  arms  to  one  of  mine : 
East,  west,  for  aid  I  looked  in  vain, 
East,  west,  north,  south,  are  his  domain. 
Miles  off,  three  dangerous  miles,  is  home; 
Must  borrow  his  winds  who  there  would 

come.  I0 

Up  and  away  for  life!  be  fleet! — 
The  frost-king  ties  my  fumbling  feet, 
Sings  in  my  ears,  my  hands  are  stones, 
Curdles  the  blood  to  the  marble  bones, 
Tugs  at  the  heart  -  strings,  numbs  the 

sense, 

And  hems  in  life  with  narrowing  fence. 
Well,  in  this  broad  bed  lie  and  sleep, — 
The  punctual  stars  will  vigil  keep, — 
Embalmed  by  purifying  cold; 
The  winds   shall  sing  their  dead -march 

old,  20 

The  snow  is  no  ignoble  shroud, 
The  moon  thy  mourner,  and  the  cloud. 

Softly, — but  this  way  fate  was  pointing, 
'Twas  coming  fast  to  such  anointing, 
When  piped  a  tiny  voice  hard  by, 
Gay  and  polite,  a  cheerful  cry, 
Chic-chic-a-dee-dee!  saucy  note 
Out  of  sound  heart  and  merry  throat, 
As  if  it  said,  "Good  day,  good  sir! 
Fine  afternoon,  old  passenger !  30 

Happy  to  meet  you  in  these  places, 
Where  January  brings  few  faces." 

This  poet,  though  he  live  apart, 
Moved  by  his  hospitable  heart, 
Sped,  when  I  passed  his  sylvan  fort, 
To  do  the  honors  of  his  court, 
As  fits  a  feathered  lord  of  land ; 
Flew    near,    with    soft    wing   grazed    my 

hand. 

Hopped  on  the  bough,  then,  darting  low, 
Prints  his  small  impress  on  the  snow,    4° 
Shows  feats  of  his  gymnastic  play, 
Head  downward,  clinging  to  the  spray. 

Here  was  this  atom  in  full  breath, 
Hurling  defiance  at  vast  death; 
This  scrap  of  valor  just  for  play 
Fronts  the  north-wind  in  waistcoat  gray, 
As  if  to  shame  my  weak  behavior; 
I  greeted  loud  my  little  savior, 
"You  pet!  what  dost  here?  and  what  for? 
In  these  woods,  thy  small  Labrador,      so 
At  this  pinch,  wee  San  Salvador ! 


What  fire  burns  in  that  little  chest 
So  frolic,  stout  and  self-possest? 
Henceforth  I  wear  no  stripe  but  thine; 
Ashes  and  jet  all  hues  outshine. 
Why  are  not  diamonds  black  and  gray, 
To  ape  thy  dare-devil  array? 
And  I  affirm,  the  spacious  North 
Exists  to  draw  thy  virtue  forth. 
I  think  no  virtue  goes  with  size; 
The  reason  of  all  cowardice 
Is,  that  men  are  overgrown, 
And,  to  be  valiant,  must  come  down 
To  the  titmouse  dimension." 


'Tis  good  will  makes  intelligence, 
And  I  began  to  catch  the  sense 
Of  my  bird's  song :    "Live  out  of  doors 
In  the  great  woods,  on  prairie  floors. 
I  dine  in  the  sun;  when  he  sinks  in  the 

sea,  ' 

I  too  have  a  hole  in  a  hollow  tree ;          7° 
And  I  like  less  when  Summer  beats 
With  stifling  beams  on  these  retreats. 
Than    noontide    twilights    which    snow 

makes 

With  tempest  of  the  blinding  flakes. 
For  well  the  soul,  if  stout  within, 
Can  arm  impregnably  the  skin ; 
And  polar  frost  my  frame  defied, 
Made  of  the  air  that  blows  outside." 

With  glad  remembrance  of  my  debt, 
I  homeward  turn ;  farewell,  my  pet !       *> 
When  here  again  thy  pilgrim  comes, 
He  shall  bring  store  of  seeds  and  crumbs. 
Doubt  not,  so  long  as  earth  has  bread, 
Thou  first  and  foremost  shalt  be  fed; 
The  Providence  that  is  most  large 
Takes  hearts  like  thine  in  special  charge, 
Helps  who  for  their  own  need  are  strong, 
And  the  sky  doats  on  cheerful  song. 
Henceforth  I  prize  thy  wiry  chant 
O'er  all  that  mass  and  minster  vaunt;    9° 
For  men  mis-hear  thy  call  in  Spring, 
As  'twould  accost  some  frivolous  wing, 
Crying  out  of  the  hazel  copse,  Phe-be! 
And,  in  winter,  Chic-a-dee-dee! 
I  think  old  Caesar  must  have  heard 
In  northern  Gaul  my  dauntless  bird, 
And,  echoed  in  some  frosty  wold, 
Borrowed  thy  battle-numbers  bold. 
And  I  will  write  our  annals  new, 
And  thank  thee  for  a  better  clew,          T°° 
I,  who  dreamed  not  when  I  came  here 
To  find  the  antidote  of  fear, 
Now  hear  thee  say  in  Roman  key, 
Paean!     Ven\,  vidi,  vici. 

1862.  Atlantic  Monthly,  May,  1862. 


220 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


VOLUNTARIES 


Low  and  mournful  be  the  strain, 
Haughty  thought  be  far  from  me; 
Tones  of  penitence  and  pain, 
Moanings  of  the  tropic  sea; 
Low  and  tender  in  the  cell 
Where  a  captive  sits  in  chains, 
Crooning  ditties  treasured  well 
From  his  Afric's  torrid  plains. 
Sole  estate  his  sire  bequeathed, — 
Hapless  sire  to  hapless  son, —  I0 

Was  the  wailing  song  he  breathed, 
And  his  chain  when  life  was  done. 

What  his  fault,  or  what  his  crime? 
Or  what  ill  planet  crossed  his  prime? 
Heart  too  soft  and  will  too  weak 
To  front  the  fate  that  crouches  near, — 
Dove  beneath  the  vulture's  beak; — 
Will  song  dissuade  the  thirsty  spear? 
Dragged   from  his  mother's  arms   and 

breast, 

Displaced,  disfurnished  here,  2° 

His  wistful  toil  to  do  his  best 
Chilled  by  a  ribald  jeer. 

Great  men  in  the  Senate  sate, 
Sage  and  hero,  side  by  side, 
Building  for  their  sons  the  State, 
Which  they  shall  rule  with  pride. 
They  forbore  to  break  the  chain 
Which  bound  the  dusky  tribe, 
Checked  by  the  owners'  fierce  disdain, 
Lured  by  "Union"  as  the  bribe.  3° 

Destiny  sat  by,  and  said, 
"Pang  for  pang  your  seed  shall  pay, 
Hide  in  false  peace  your  coward  head, 
I  bring  round  the  harvest  day." 


Freedom  all  winged  expands, 
Nor  perches  in  a  narrow  place ; 
Her  broad  van  seeks  unplanted  lands ; 
She  loves  a  poor  and  virtuous  race. 
Clinging  to  a  colder  zone 
Whose    dark    sky    sheds    the    snowflake 
down,  40 

The  snowflake  is  her  banner's  star, 
Her  stripes  the  boreal  streamers  are. 
Long  she  loved  the  Northman  well; 
Now  the  iron  age  is  done, 
She  will  not  refuse  to  dwell 
With  the  offspring  of  the  Sun; 
Foundling  of  the  desert  far,  ' 
Where  palms  plume,  siroccos  blaze, 
He  roves  unhurt  the  burning  ways 
In  climates  of  the  summer  star.  5° 


He  has  avenues  to  God 

Hid  from  men  of  Northern  brain, 

Far  beholding,  without  cloud, 

What  these  with  slowest  steps  attain. 

If  once  the  generous  chief  arrive 

To  lead  him  willing  to  be  led, 

For  freedom  he  will  strike  and  strive, 

And  drain  his  heart  till  he  be  dead. 


Ill 

In  an  age  of  fops  and  toys, 
Wanting  wisdom,  void  of  right,  6° 

Who  shall  nerve  heroic  boys 
To  hazard  all  in  Freedom's  fight, — 
Break  sharply  off  their  jolly  games, 
Forsake  their  comrades  gay 
And  quit  proud  homes  and  youthful  dames 
For  famine,  toil  and  fray? 
Yet  on  the  nimble  air  benign 
Speed  nimbler  messages, 
That  waft  the  breath  of  grace  divine 
To  hearts  in  sloth  and  ease.  7° 

So..njgh  is  grandeur  to  our  dust, 
So  near  is  God  to  man. 
When  Duty  whispers  low,  Thou  must, 
The  youth  replies,  /  can. 


IV 

Oh,  well  for  the  fortunate  soul 

Which  Music's  wings  infold, 

Stealing  away  the  memory 

Of  sorrows  new  and  old! 

Yet  happier  he  whose  inward  sight, 

Stayed  on  his  subtile  thought,  80 

Shuts  his  sense  on  toys  of  time, 

To  vacant  bosoms  brought. 

But  best  befriended  of  the  Sod 

He  who,  in  evil  times, 

Warned  by  an  inward  voice, 

Heeds  not  the  darkness  and  the  dread, 

Biding  by  his  rule  and  choice, 

Feeling  only  the  fiery  thread 

Leading  over  heroic  ground, 

Walled  with  mortal  terror  round,  9° 

To  the  aim  which  him  allures, 

And  the  sweet  heaven  his  deed  secures. 

Peril  around,  all  else  appalling, 

Cannon  in  front  and  leaden  rain 

Him  duty  through  the  clarion  calling 

To  the  van  called  not  in  vain. 


Stainless  soldier  on  the  walls, 
Knowing  this, — and  knows  no  more, — 
Whoever  fights,  whoever  falls, 
Justice  conquers  evermore,  I0° 

Justice  after  as  before, — 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 


221 


And  he  who  battles  on  her  side, 
God,  though  he  were  ten  times  slain, 
Crowns  him  victor  glorified, 
Victor  over  death  and  pain. 


Blooms  the  laurel  which  belongs 

To  the  valiant  chief  who  fights; 

I  see  the  wreath,  I  hear  the  songs 

Lauding  the  Eternal  Rights, 

Victors  over  daily  wrongs :  "° 

Awful  victors,  they  misguide 

Whom  they  will  destroy, 

And  their  coming  triumph  hide 

In  our  downfall,  or  our  joy : 

They  reach  no  term,  they  never  sleep, 

In  equal  strength  through  space  abide; 

Though,  feigning  dwarfs,  they  crouch  and 

creep, 

The  strong  they  slay,  the  swift  outstride: 
Fate's  grass  grows  rank  in  valley  clods, 
And  rankly  on  the  castled  steep, —         I2° 
Speak  it  firmly,  these  are  gods, 
All  are  ghosts  beside. 

1863.  Atlantic  Monthly,  Oct.,  1863. 


MY  GARDEN 

If  I  could  put  my  woods  in  song 
And  tell  what's  there  enjoyed, 
All  men  would  to  my  gardens  throng, 
And  leave  the  cities  void. 


In  my  plot  no  tulips  blow, — 
Snow-loving  pines  and  oaks  instead; 
And  rank  the  savage  maples  grow 
From  Spring's  faint  flush  to  Autumn  red. 


Waters  that  wash  my  garden-side 
Play  not  in  Nature's  lawful  web, 
They  heed  not  moon  or  solar  tide,  — 
Five  years  elapse  from  flood  to  ebb. 

Hither  hasted,  in  old  time,  Jove, 
And  every  god,  —  none  did  refuse; 
And  be  sure  at  last  came  Love, 
And  after  Love,  the  Muse. 

Keen  ears  can  catch  a  syllable, 

As  if  one  spake  to  another, 

In  the  hemlocks  tall,  untamable, 

And  what  the  whispering  grasses  smother. 


3° 


harps  in  the  pine 
Ring  with  the  song  of  the  Fates; 
Infant  Bacchus  in  the  vine, — 
Far  distant  yet  his  chorus  waits. 

Canst  thou  copy  in  verse  one  chime 
Of  the  wood-bell's  peal  and  cry, 
Write  in  a  book  the  morning's  prime, 
Or  match  with  words  that  tender  sky?  4» 

Wonderful  verse  of  the  gods, 
Of  one  import,  of  varied  tone; 
They  chant  the  bliss  of  their  abodes 
To  man  imprisoned  in  his  own. 

Ever  the  words  of  the  gods  resound; 
But  the  porches  of  man's  ear 
Seldom  in  this  low  life's  round 
Are  unsealed,  that  he  may  hear. 

Wandering  voices  in  the  air 

And  murmurs  in  the  wold  so 

Speak  what  I  cannot  declare, 

Yet  cannot  all  withhold. 


My  garden  is  a  forest  ledge 
Which  older  forests  bound;  I0 

The  banks  slope  down  to  the  blue  lake- 
edge, 
Then  plunge  to  depths  profound. 

Here  once  the  Deluge  ploughed, 
Laid  the  terraces,  one  by  one; 
Ebbing  later  whence  it  flowed, 
They  bleach  and  dry  in  the  sun. 

The  sowers  make  haste  to  depart, — 
The  wind  and  the  birds  which  sowed  it ; 
Not  for  fame,  nor  by  rules  of  art, 
Planted  these,  and  tempests  flowed  it.    2° 


When  the  shadow  fell  on  the  lake, 
The  whirlwind  in  ripples  wrote 
Air-bells  of  fortune  that  shine  and  break, 
And  omens  above  thought. 

But  the  meanings  cleave  to  the  lake, 
Cannot  be  carried  in  book  or  urn ; 
Go  thy  ways  now,  come  later  back, 
On  waves  and  hedges  still  they  burn.      &> 

These  the  fates  of  men  forecast, 
Of  better  men  than  live  to-day; 
If  who  can  read  them  comes  at  last 
He  will  spell  in  the  sculpture,  "Stay." 


1846. 


Atlantic  Monthly,  Dec.,  1866. 


222 


TERMINUS 


It  is  time  to  be  old, 

To  take  in  sail : — 

The  god  of  bounds, 

Who  sets  to  seas  a  shore, 

Came  to  me  in  his  fatal  rounds, 

And  said :    "No  more ! 

No  farther  shoot 

Thy  broad  ambitious  branches,   and   thy 

root. 

Fancy  departs :  no  more  invent ; 
Contract  thy  firmament  I0 

To  compass  of  a  tent. 
There's  not  enough  for  this  and  that, 
Make  thy  option  which  of  two; 
Economize  the  failing  river, 
Not  the  less  revere  the  Giver, 
Leave  the  many  and  hold  the  few. 
Timely  wise  accept  the  terms, 
Soften  the  fall  with  wary  foot; 
A  little  while 

Still  plan  and  smile,  2° 

And, — fault  of  novel  germs, — 
Mature  the  un fallen  fruit. 
Curse,  if  thou  wilt,  thy  sires,- 
Bad  husbands  of  their  fires, 
Who,  when  they  gave  thee  breath, 
Failed  to  bequeath 
The  needful  sinew  stark  as  once, 
The  Baresark  marrow  to  thy  bones, 
But  left  a  legacy  of  ebbing  veins, 
Inconstant  heat  and  nerveless  reins, —    3° 
Amid  the  Muses,  left  thee  deaf  and  dumb, 
Amid  the  gladiators,  halt  and  numb." 

As  the  bird  trims  her  to  the  gale, 
I  trim  myself  to  the  storm  of  time, 
I  man  the  rudder,  reef  the  sail, 
Obey  the  voice  at  eve  obeyed  at  prime : 
"Lowly  faithful,  banish  fear, 
Right  onward  drive  unharmed; 
The  port,  well  worth  the  cruise,  is  near, 
And  every  wave  is  charmed."  4° 

1866.  Atlantic  Monthly,  Jan.,  1867. 

FRAGMENTS 

The  sun  set,  but  set  not  his  hope : — 
Stars  rose,  his  faith  was  earlier  up : 
Fixed  on  the  enormous  galaxy. 
Deeper  and  older  seemed  his  eye, 
And  matched  his  sufferance  sublime 
The  taciturnity  of  Time. 


POETRY 

I  grieve  that  better  souls  than  mine 

Docile  read  my  measured  line : 

High  destined  youths  and  holy  maids 

Hallow  these  my  orchard  shades; 

Environ  me  and  me  baptize 

With   light    that   streams    from   gracious 

eyes. 

I  dare  not  be  beloved  and  known, 
I  ungrateful,  I  alone. 

Ever  find  me  dim  regards, 

Love  of  ladies,  love  of  bards,  I0 

Marked  forbearance,  compliments, 

Tokens  of  benevolence. 

What  then,  can  I  love  myself? 

Fame  is  profitless  as  pelf, 

A  good  in  Nature  not  allowed 

They  love  me,  as*  I  love  a  cloud 

Sailing  falsely  in  the  sphere, 

Hated  mist  if  it  came  near. 


For  thought,  and  not  praise; 

Thought  is  the  wages 

For  which  I  sell  days, 

Will  gladly  sell  ages 

And  willing  grow  old 

Deaf  and  dumb  and  blind  and  cold, 

Melting  matter  into  dreams, 

Panoramas  which  I  saw 

And  whatever  glows  or  seems 

Into  substance,  into  law. 


Let  me  go  where'er  I  will 
I  hear  a  sky-born  music  still : 
It  sounds  from  all  things  old, 
It  sounds  from  all  things  young, 
From  all  that's  fair,  from  all  that's  foul, 
Peals  out  a  cheerful  song. 
It  is  not  only  in  the  rose, 
It  is  not  only  in  the  bird, 
Not  only  where  the  rainbow  glows, 
Nor  in  the  song  of  woman  heard,  1 

But  in  the  darkest,  meanest  things 
There  alway,  alway  something  sings. 
'Tis  not  in  the  high  stars  alone, 
Nor  in  the  cups  of  budding  flowers, 
Nor  in  the  redbreast's  mellow  tone, 
Nor  in  the  bow  that  smiles  in  showers, 
But  in  the  mud  and  scum  of  things 
There  alway,  alway  something  sings. 


1  Emerson  was  sixty-three  years  old  when  he 
wrote  this  poem.  His  powers  of  mind  began  to 
decline  a,bout  five  years  later,  although  he  lived 
in  vigorous  health  for  fifteen  years. 


For  what   need  I  of  book  or  priest, 
Or  sibyl  from  the  mummied  East, 
When  every  star  is  Bethlehem  star? 
I  count  as  many  as  there  are 
Cinquefoils  or  violets  in  the  grass, 
So  many  saints  and  saviours, 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 


223 


So  many  high  behaviors 
Salute  the  bard  who  is  alive 
And  only  sees  what  he  doth  give. 


Hold  of  the  Maker,  not  the  Made; 
Sit  with  the  Cause,  or  grim  or  glad. 


I  have  no  brothers  and  no  peers, 
And  the  dearest  interferes : 
When  I  would  spend  a  lonely  day, 
Sun  and  moon  are  in  my  way. 


He  planted  where  the  deluge  ploughed, 
His  hired  hands  were  wind  and  cloud; 
His  eyes  detect  the  Gods  concealed 
In  the  hummock  of  the  field. 


That  book  is  good 

Which  puts  me  in  a  working  mood. 

Unless  to  Thought  is  added  Will, 

Apollo  is  an  imbecile. 


What    parts,    what    gems,    what    colors 

shine, — 
Ah,  but  I  miss  the  grand  design. 


Shun  passion,  fold  the  hands  of  thrift, 

Sit  still  and  Truth  is  near : 
Suddenly  it  will  uplift 

Your  eyelids  to  the  sphere : 
Wait  a  little,  you  shall  see 
The  portraiture  of  things  to  be. 


Teach  me  your  mood,  O  patient  stars ! 

Who  climb  each  night  the  ancient  sky, 
Leaving  on  space  no  shade,  no  scars, 

No  trace  of  age,  no  fear  to  die. 


His  instant  thought  a  poet  spoke, 
And  filled  the  age  his  fame; 
An  inch  of  ground  the  lightning  strook 
But  lit  the  sky  with  flame. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

(1809-1849) 


TAMERLANE  1 

Kind  solace  in  a  dying  hour ! 

Such,  father,  is  not  (now)  my  theme — 
I  will  not  madly  deem  that  power 

Of  Earth  may  shrive  me  of  the  sin 
Unearthly  pride  hath  revell'd  in — 

I  have  no  time  to  dote  or  dream : 
You  call  it  hope — that  fire  of  fire ! 
It  is  but  agony  of  desire : 
If  I  can  hope — O  God!   I  can — 

Its  fount  is  holier — more  divine —       I0 
I  would  not  call  thee  fool,  old  man, 

But  such  is  not  a  gift  of  thine. 

Know  thou  the  secret  of  a  spirit 
Bow'd  from  its  wild  pride. into  shame. 

O  yearning  heart !     I  did  inherit 
Thy  withering  portion  with  the  fame, 

The  searing  glory  which  hath  shone 

Amid  the  Jewels  of  my  throne, 

Halo  of  Hell !  and  with  a  pain 

Not  Hell  shall  make  me  fear  again —     20 

0  craving  heart,  for  the  lost  flowers 
And  sunshine  of  my  summer  hours! 
The  undying  voice  of  that  dead  time, 
With  its  interminable  chime, 
Rings,  in  the  spirit  of  a  spell, 

Upon  thy  emptiness — a  knell. 

1  have  not  always  been  as  now : 
The  fever'd  diadem  on  my  brow 

I  claim'd  and  won  usurpingly — 
Hath  not  the  same  fierce  heirdom  given  3° 
Rome  to  the  Caesar — this  to  me? 
The  heritage  of  a  kingly  mind, 
And  a  proud  spirit  which  hath  striven 
Triumphantly  with  human  kind. 

1  "Tamerlane"  appeared  first  in  Tamerlane 
and  Other  Poems,  1827,  but  was  entirely  re-  ' 
written  for  the  1829  volume,  Al  Aaraf,  Tamer 
lane,  and  Minor  Poems.  The  text  here  used  is 
practically  that  of  the  1829  volume.  A  compari 
son  of  the  two  versions  is  valuable,  as  showing 
Poe's  growth  in  poetic  power  if  not  in  narrative 
strength. 

As  Poe  conceives  the  story,  Tamerlane  is  lured 
from  his  shepherd  home  in  the  mountains  and 
from  his  early  love  by  ambition.  He  conquers 
the  entire  Eastern  world,  and  returns  home  to 
find  that  his  love  has  died  of  neglect.  The 
opening  lines  of  the  1827  version  give  the  set 
ting  more  clearly. 


On  mountain  soil  I  first  drew  life : 
The  mists  of  the  Taglay  have  shed2 
Nightly  their  dews  upon  my  head, 
And,  I  believe,  the  winged  strife 
And  tumult  of  the  headlong  air 
Have  nestled  in  my  very  hair.  4° 

So  late  from  Heaven — that  dew — it  fell 

('Mid  dreams  of  an  unholy  night) 
Upon  me  with  the  touch  of  Hell, 

While  the  red  flashing  of  the  light 
From  clouds  that  hung,  like  banners,  o'er, 

Appeared  to  my  half-closing  eye 

The  pageantry  of  monarchy, 
And  the  deep  trumpet-thunder's  roar 

Came  hurriedly  upon  me,  telling 
Of  human  battle,  where  my  voice,  5° 

My  own  voice,  silly  child  ! — was  swelling 

(O !  how  my  spirit  would  rejoice, 
And  leap  within  me  at  the  cry) 
The  battle-cry  of  Victory ! 

The  rain  came  down  upon  my  head 
Unshelter'd — and  the  heavy  wind 
Rendered  me  mad  and  deaf  and  blind. 
It  was  but  man,  I  thought,  who  shed 

Laurels  upon  me :  and  the  rush — 
The  torrent  of  the  chilly  air  6° 

Gurgled  within  my  ear  the  crash 

Of  empires — with  the  captive's  prayer — 
The  hum  of  suitors — and  the  tone 
Of  flattery  'round  a  sovereign's  throne. 

My  passions,  from  that  hapless  hour, 

Usurp'd  a  tyranny  which  men 
Have    deem'd,    since    I    have    reach'd    to 

power, 

My  innate  nature — be  it  so : 
But,  father,  there  liv'd  one  who,  then, 
Then — in  my  boyhood — w.hen  their  fire  7° 

Burn'd  with  a  still  intenser  glow 
(For  passion  must,  with  youth,  expire) 
E'en  then  who  knew  this  iron  heart 
In  woman's  weakness  had  a  part. 

*  The  mountains  of  Belur  Taglay  are  a  -branch 
of  the  Imaus,  in  the  southern  part  of  Independ 
ent  Tartary.  They  are  celebrated  for  the  singu 
lar  wildness  and  beauty  of  their  valleys.  (PoE, 
1827.) 


224 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE 


225 


I  have  no  words — alas  ! — to  tell 

The  loveliness  of  loving  well ! 

Nor  would  I  now  attempt  to  trace 

The  more  than  beauty  of  a  face 

Whose  lineaments,  upon  my  mind, 

Are — shadows  on  th'  unstable  wind:       8° 

Thus  I  remember  having  dwelt 

Some  page  of  early  lore  upon, 
With  loitering  eye,  till  I  have  felt 
The  letters — with  their  meaning — melt 

To  fantasies — with  none. 


O,  she  was  worthy  of  all  love ! 

Love — as  in  infancy  was  mine — 
'Twas  such  as  angel  minds  above 

Might  envy;  her  young  heart  the  shrine 
On  which  my  every  hope  and  thought    9° 

Were  incense — then  a  goodly  gift, 

For  they  were  childish  and  upright — 
Pure — as  her  young  example  taught : 

Why  did  I  leave  it,  and,  adrift, 
Trust  to  the  fire  within,  for  light? 

We  grew  in  age — and  love — together — 
Roaming  the  forest,  and  the  wild ; 

My  breast  her  shield  in  wintry  weather — 
And,  when  the  friendly  sunshine  smil'd, 

And  she  would  mark  the  opening  skies,  I0° 

/  saw  no  Heaven — but  in  her  eyes. 

Young  Love's  first  lesson  is — the  heart : 

For    'mid    that    sunshine,    and    those 

smiles, 
When,  from  our  little  cares  apart. 

And  laughing  at  her  girlish  wiles, 
I'd  throw  me  on  her  throbbing  breast, 

And  pour  my  spirit  out  in  tears — 
There  was  no  need  to  speak  the  rest — 

No  need  to  quiet  any  fears 
Of  her — who  ask'd  no  reason  why,        "° 
But  turn'd  on  me  her  quiet  eye ! 
Yet  more  than  worthy  of  the  love 
My  spirit  struggled  with,  and  strove, 
When,  on  the  mountain  peak,  aloni, 
Ambition  lent  it  a  new  tone — 
I  had  no  being — but  in  thee : 

The  world,  and  all  it  did  contain 
In  the  earth — the  air — the  sea — 

Its  joy — its  little  lot  of  pain 
That  was  new  pleasure — the  ideal,         I2° 

Dim  vanities  of  dreams  by  night — 
And  dimmer  nothings  which  were  real — 

(Shadows — and  a  more  shadowy  light!) 
Parted  upon  their  misty  wings, 
And,  so,  confusedly,  became 
Thine  image  and — a  name — a  name ! 
Two  separate — yet  most  intimate  things. 


I  was  ambitious — have  you  known 

The  passion,  father?    You  have  not: 
A  cottager,  I  mark'd  a  throne  X3«> 

Of  half  the  world  as  all  my  own, 

And  murmur'd  at  such  lowly  lot — 
But,  just  like  any  other  dream, 

Upon  the  vapor  of  the  dew 
My  own  had  past,  did  not  the  beam 

Of  beauty  which  did  while  it  thro' 
The  minute — the  hour — the  day — oppress 
My  mind  with  double  loveliness. 
We  walk'd  together  on  the  crown 
Of  a  high  mountain  which  look'd  down 
Afar  from  its  proud  natural  towers       *4i 

Of  rock  and  forest,  on  the  hills — 
The  dwindled  hills !  begirt  with  bowers 
And  shouting  with  a  thousand  rills. 

I  spoke  to  her  of  power  and  pride, 

But  mystically — in  such  guise 
That  she  might  deem  it  nought  beside 

The  moment's  converse;  in  her  eyes 
I  read,  perhaps  too  carelessly— 

A  mingled  feeling  with  my  own —  15° 
The  flush  on  her  bright  cheek,  to  me 

Seem'd  to  become  a  queenly  throne 
Too  well  that  I  should  let  it  be 

Light  in  the  wilderness  alone. 

I  wrapp'd  myself  in  grandeur  then 
And  donn'd  a  visionary  crown — 
Yet  it  was  not  that  Fantasy 
Had  thrown  her  mantle  over'  me — 
But  that,  among  the  rabble — men, 

Lion  ambition  is  chain'd  down —     l6° 
And  crouches  to  a  keeper's  hand — 
Not  so  in  deserts  where  the  grand — 
The  wild — the  terrible  conspire 
With  their  own  breath  to  fan  his  fire. 

Look  'round  thee  now  on  Samarcand !  * — 

Is  she  not  queen  of  Earth?  her  pride 
Above  all  cities?  in  her  hand 

Their  destinies?  in* all  beside 
Of  glory  which  the  world  hath  known 
Stands  she  not  nobly  and  alone?  J7° 

Falling — her  veriest  stepping-stone 
Shall  form  the  pedestal  of  a  throne — 
And  who  her  sovereign?    Timour  2 —  he- 

Whom  the  astonished  people  saw 
Striding  o'er  empires  haughtily 

A  diadem'd  outlaw ! 

1 1  believe  it  was  after  the  battle  of  Angora 
that  Tamerlane  made  Samarcand  his  residence. 
It  became  for  a  time  the  seat  of  learning  and 
the  arts.  (PoE,  1827.) 

*  He  was  called  Timur  Bek  as  well  as  Tamer 
lane.  (PoE,  1827.) 


226 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


O,  human  love !  thou  spirit  given, 
On  Earth,  of  all  we  hope  in  Heaven! 
Which  fall'st  into  the  soul  like  rain 
Upon  the  Siroc-wither'd  plain,  l8° 

And,  failing  in  thy  power  to  bless, 
But  leav'st  the  heart  a  wilderness ! 
Idea!  which  bindest  life  around 
With  music  of  so  strange  a  sound 
And  beauty  of  so  wild  a  birth — 
Farewell!  for  I  have  won  the  Earth. 

When  Hope,  the  eagle  that  tower'd,  could 

see 

No  cliff  beyond  him  in  the  sky, 
His  pinions  were  bent  droopingly — 
And  homeward  turn'd  his  soften'd  eye. 
'Twas  sunset :  when  the  sun  will  part 
There  comes  a  sullenness  of  heart          *92 
To  him  who  still  would  look  upon 
The  glory  of  the  summer  sun. 
That  soul  will  hate  the  ev'ning  mist 
So  often  lovely,  and  will  list 
To   the    sound   of   the   coming    darkness 

(known 

To  those  whose  spirits  harken)  as  one 
Who,  in  a  dream  of  night,  would  fly 
But  cannot  from  a  danger  nigh.  2°° 

What  tho'  the  moon — the  white  moon 
Shed  all  the  splendor  of  her  noon, 
Her  smile  is  chilly — and  her  beam, 
In  that  time  of  dreariness,  will  seem 
(So  like  you  gather  in  your  breath) 
A  portrait  taken  after  death. 

And  boyhood  is  a  summer  sun 
Whose  waning  is  the  dreariest  one — 
For  all  we  live  to  know  is  known 
And  all  we  seek  to  keep  hath  flown —  2I° 
Let  life,  then,  as  the  day-flower,  fall 
With  the  noon-day  beauty — which  is  all. 

I  reach'd  my  home — my  home  no  more — 
For  all  had  flown  who  made  it  so. 

I  pass'd  from  out  its  -mossy  door, 
And,  tho'  my  tread  was  soft  and  low, 

A  voice  came  from  the  threshold  stone 

Of  one  whom  I  had  earlier  known — 
O,  I  defy  thee,  Hell,  to  show 
On  beds  of  fire  that  burn  below,        22° 
An  humbler  heart — a  deeper  woe. 

Father,  I  firmly  do  believe — 
I  know — for  Death  who  comes  for  me 
From  regions  of  the  blest  afar, 

Where  there  is  nothing  to  deceive, 

Hath  left  his  iron  gate  ajar, 
And  rays  of  truth  you  cannot  see 
Are  flashing  thro'  Eternity — 


I  do  believe  that  Eblis  hath 

A  snare  in  every  human  path —  230 

Else  how,  when  in  the  holy  grove 

I  wandered  of  the  idol,  Love, 

Who  daily  scents  his  snowy  wings 

With  incense  of  burnt  offerings 

From  the  most  unpolluted  things, 

Whose  pleasant  bowers  are  yet  so  riven 

Above  with  trellic'd  rays  from  Heaven 

No  mote  may  shun — no  tiniest  fly — 

The  light'ning  of  his  eagle  eye — 

How  was  it  that  Ambition  crept,  24° 

Unseen,  amid  the  revels  there, 
Till  growing  bold,  he  laughed  and  leapt 

In  the  tangles  of  Love's  very  hair? 

In  "Tamerlane  and  Other  Poems,"  1829. 


TO 

I  saw  thee  on  thy  bridal  day — 

When  a  burning  blush  came  o'er  thee, 

Though  happiness  around  thee  lay, 
The  world  all  love  before  thee : 


And  in  thine  eye  a  kindling  light 

(Whatever  it  might  be) 
Was  all  on  Earth  my  aching  sight 

Of  Loveliness  could  see. 

That  blush,  perhaps,  was  maiden  shame — 
As  such  it  well  may  pass —  I0 

Though    its    glow    hath    raised    a    fiercer 

flame 
In  the  breast  of  him,  alas ! 

Who  saw  thee  on  that  bridal  day, 
When  that  deep  blush  would  come  o'er 
thee, 

Though  happiness  around  thee  lay, 
The  world  all  love  before  thee. 

1826. 
In  "Tamerlane  and  Other  Poems,"  1829. 


A    DREAM    WITHIN    A    DREAM 

Take  this  kiss  upon  the  brow ! 

And,  in  parting  from  you  now, 

Thus  much  let  me  avow — 

You  are  not  wrong,  who  deem 

That  my  days  have  been  a  dream; 

Yet  if  hope  has  flown  away 

In  a  night,  or  in  a  day, 

In  a  vision,  or  in  none, 

Is  it  therefore  the  less  gone? 

All  that  we  see  or  seem 

Is  but  a  dream  within  a  dream. 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE 


227 


I  stand  amid  the  roar 
Of  a  surf-tormented  shore, 
And  I  hold  within  my  hand 
Grains  of  the  golden  sand — 
How  few !  yet  how  they  creep 
Through  my  fingers  to  the  deep, 
While  I  weep — while  I  weep ! 
O  God !  can  I  not  grasp 
Them  with  a  tighter  clasp? 
O  God !  can  I  not  save 
One  from  the  pitiless  wave? 
Is  all  that  we  see  or  seem 
But  a  dream  within  a  dream? 

As    "Imitation"    in    "Tamerlane 
Other  Poems,"  1827. 


and 


To  seek  for  treasure  in  the  jewelled  skies, 
Albeit  he  soared  with  an  undaunted  wing? 
Hast  thou  not  dragged  Diana  from  her 

car? 
And    driven    the    Hamadryad    from    the 

wood  I0 

To  seek  a  shelter  in  some  happier  star? 
Hast  thou  not  torn  the  Naiad  from  her 

flood, 
The  Elfin  from  the  green  grass,  and  from 

me 
The  summer  dream  beneath  the  tamarind 

tree? 

In  "Al  Aaraf,  Tamerlane  and  Minor 
Poems,"  1829. 


ROMANCE 

Romance,  who  loves  to  nod  and  sing, 

With  drowsy  head  and  folded  wing, 

Among  the  green  leaves  as  they  shake 

Far  down  within  some  shadowy  lake, 

To  me  a  painted  paroquet 

Hath  been — a  most  familiar  bird — 

Taught  me  my  alphabet  to  say — 

To  lisp  my  very  earliest  word 

While  in  the  wild  wood  I  did  lie, 

A  child — with  a  most  knowing  eye.        *» 

Of  late,  eternal  Condor  years 

So  shake  the  very  Heaven  on  high 

With  tumult  as  they  thunder  by, 

I  have  no  time  for  idle  cares 

Through  gazing  on  the  unquiet  sky. 

And  when  an  hour  with  calmer  wings 

Its  down  upon  my  spirit  flings — 

That  little  time  with  lyre  and  rhyme 

To  while  away — forbidden  things  ! 

My  heart  would  feel  to  be  a  crime          2° 

Unless  it  trembled  with  the  strings. 

Preface  to  "Al  Aaraf,  Tamerlane  and 
Minor  Poems,"  1829. 


SONNET— TO    SCIENCE 

Science!  true  daughter  of  Old  Time  thou 
art! 

Who  alterest  all  things  with  thy  peering 
eyes. 

Why  preyest  thou  thus  upon  the  poet's 
heart, 

Vulture,  whose  wings  are  dull  realities? 

How  should  he  love  thee?  or  how  deem 
thee  wise, 

Who  wouldst  not  leave  him  in  his  wan 
dering 


TO  

The  bowers  whereat,  in  dreams,  I  see 

The  wantonest  singing  birds, 
Are  lips — and   all   thy   melody 

Of  lip-begotten   words — 

Thine  eyes,  in  Heaven  of  heart  enshrined 

Then  desolately   fall, 
O  God !  on  my  funereal  mind 

Like  starlight  on  a  pall — 

Thy  heart— thy  heart!— I  wake  and  sigh, 
And  sleep  to  dream  till  day  '° 

Of  the  truth  that  gold  can  never  buy — 
Of  the  baubles  that  it  may. 

In  "Al  Aaraf,  Tamerlane  and  Minor 
Poems,"  1829. 


TO  HELEN      • 

Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 
Like  those  Nicean  barks  of  yore, 

That   gently,   o'er  a   perfumed   sea, 
The   weary,   way-worn    wanderer   bore 
To  his  own  native  shore. 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 

Thy  Naiad  airs  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece, 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome.      I0 

Lo !  in  yon  brilliant  window-niche 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 

The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand! 

Ah,  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  Holy-Land! 

In  "Poems,"  1831. 


228 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


ISRAFEL i 

In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 
"Whose   heart-strings   are   a   lute ;" 
None   sung  so   wildly   well 
As  the  angel  Israfel, 
And  the  giddy  stars   (so  legends  tell) 
Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamored  moon  I0 

Blushes  with  love, 

While,   to  listen,   the   red   levin 

(With  the  rapid  Pleiads,  even, 

Which  were  seven,) 

Pauses  in  Heaven. 

•* 
And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 

And  the  other  listening  things) 
That  Israfeli's  fire 
Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings —  2° 

The  trembling  living  wire    " 
Of  those  unusual  strings. 

But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 
Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty — 

Where  Love's  a  grown-up  God — 
Where  the  Houri  glances  are 

Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 
Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 

Therefore,  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest  3° 

An  unimpassioned   song; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bar,d,  because  the  wisest! 
Merrily  live,  and  long! 

The  ecstasies  above 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit — 
Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 

With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute — 

Well  may  the  stars  be  mute ! 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine;  but  this  4° 

Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours; 
Our  flowers  are  merely — flowers, 

And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

1  And  the  angel  Israfel,  whose  heart-strings 
are  a  lute,  and  who  has  the  sweetest  voice  of 
all  God's  creatures. — KORAN.  (Poe's  note,  1845.) 

Poe  added  the  words  "Whose  heart-strings  are 
a  lute"  to  a  phrase  quoted  by  Thomas  Moore 
in  "Lalla  Rookh"  from  Sale's  "Preliminary  Dis 
course"  to  the  Koran. 


If  I  could  dwell 
Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody,  49 

While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 

In  "Poems,"  1831. 


THE  CITY  IN  THE  SEA 

Lo !  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 
In  a  strange  city  lying  alone 
Far  down  within  the  dim  West, 
Where   the    good    and    the   bad    and    the 

worst  and  the  best 
Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest. 
There  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 
(Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  not!) 
Resemble  nothing  that  is  ours. 
Around,  by  lifting  winds  forgot, 
Resignedly  beneath  the  sky  i° 

The  melancholy  waters  lie. 


No  rays  from  the  holy  heaven  come  down 
On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town; 
But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea 
Streams  up  the  turrets   silently — 
Gleams  up  the  pinnacles  far  and  free — 
Up   domes — up   spires — up   kingly   halls — 
Up    fanes — up   Babylon-like   walls — 
Up  shadowy  long- forgotten  bowers 
Of  sculptured  ivy  and  stone  flowers —    2° 
Up  many  and  many  a  marvellous  shrine 
Whose  wreathed  friezes  intertwine 
The  viol,  the  violet,  and  the  vine. 
Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 
The  melancholy  waters  lie. 
So  blend  the  turrets  and  shadows  there 
That  all  seem  pendulous  in  air, 
While  from  a  proud  tower  in  the  town 
Death  looks  gigantically  down. 

There  open  fanes  and  gaping  graves      3° 

Yawn  level  with  the  luminous  waves 

But  not  the  riches  there  that  lie 

In   each   idol's   diamond   eye — 

Not  the  gayly-jewelled  dead 

Tempt  the  waters  from  their  bed; 

For  no  ripples  curl,  alas ! 

Along  that  wilderness  of  glass — 

No  swellings  tell  that  winds  may  be 

Upon  some   far-off  happier  sea — 

No  heavings  hint  that  winds  have  been   4° 

On  seas  less  hideously  serene. 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE 


229 


But  lo,  a  stir  in  the  air! 
The  wave — there  is  a  movement  there ! 
As  if  the  towers  had  thrust  aside, 
In   slightly  sinking,   the   dull   tide — 
As  if  their  tops  had  feebly  given 
A  void  within  the  filmy  Heaven. 
The  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow — 
The  hours  are  breathing  faint  and  low — 
And  when,  amid  no  earthly  moans,        5° 
Down,  down  that  town  shall  settle  hence, 
Hell,  rising  from  a  thousand  thrones, 
Shall  do  it  reverence. 

As  "The  Doomed  City"  in  "Poems,"  1831. 


THE   SLEEPER 

At  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June, 
I  stand  beneath  the  mystic  moon. 
An   opiate   vapor,    dewy,    dim, 
Exhales  from  out  her  golden  rim, 
And,  softly  dripping,  drop  by  drop, 
Upon  the  quiet  mountain  top, 
Steals   drowsily  and  musically 
Into  the  universal  valley. 
The  rosemary  nods  upon  the  grave; 
The  lily  lolls  upon  the  wave;  I0 

Wrapping  the  fog  about  its  breast, 
The  ruin  moulders  into  rest ; 
Looking  like  Lethe,  see !  the  lake 
A  conscious  slumber  seems  to  take, 
And  would  not,  for  the  world,  awake. 
All  Beauty  sleeps ! — and  lo !  where  lies 
Irene,  with  her  Destinies ! 

Oh,  lady  bright !  can  it  be  right — 
This  window  open  to  the  night? 
The  wanton  airs,   from  the  tree-top,       2° 
Laughingly  through  the  lattice  drop — 
The  bodiless  airs,  a  wizard  rout, 
Flit  through   thy  chamber  in  and  out, 
And  wave  the  curtain  canopy 
So  fitfully — so   fearfully — 
Above  the  closed  and  fringed  lid 
'Neath  which  thy  slumb'ring  soul  lies  hid, 
That,  o'er  the  floor  and  down  the  wall, 
Like  ghosts  the  shadows  rise  and  fall ! 
Oh,  lady  dear,  hast  thou  no  fear?  3° 

Why  and  what  art  thou  dreaming  here? 
Sure  thou  art  come  o'er  far-off  seas, 
A  wonder  to  these  garden  trees ! 
Strange  is  thy  pallor !  strange  thy  dress ! 
Strange,  above  all,  thy  length  of  tress, 
And  this  all  solemn  silentness ! 

The  lady  sleeps !     Oh,  may  her  sleep, 
Which  is  enduring,  so  be  deep ! 
Heaven  have  her  in  its  sacred  keep! 


This  chamber  changed  for  one  more  holy, 
This  bed  for  one  more  melancholy,        <n 
1  pray  to  God  that  she  may  lie 
Forever  with  unopened  eye, 
While  the  pale  sheeted  ghosts  go  by ! 

My  love,  she  sleeps !     Oh,  may  her  sleep, 
As  it  is  lasting,  so  be  deep ! 
Soft  may  the  worms  about  her  creep! 
Far  in  the  forest,  dim  and  old, 
For  her  may  some  tall  vault  unfold —  4 
Some  vault  that  oft  hath  flung  its  black 
And  winged  panels  fluttering  back,          si 
Triumphant,   o'er  the  crested  palls, 
Of  her.  grand  family,  funerals — 
Some  sepulchre,  remote,  alone, 
Against  whose  portal  she  hath  thrown, 
In  childhood,  many  an  idle  stone — 
Some  tomb  from  out  whoJr  sounding  door 
She  ne'er  shall  force  an  echo  more, 
Thrilling  to  think,  poor  child  of  sin! 
It  was  the  dead  who  groaned  within.      6° 

As  "Irene"  in  "Poems,"  1831. 


LENORE i 

Ah,  broken  is  the  golden  bowl !  the  spirit 

flown  forever! 
Let  the  bell  toll ! — a  saintly  soul  floats  on 

the  Stygian  river; 
And,  Guy  De  Vere,  hast  thou  no  tear? — 

weep  now  or  never  more ! 
See !  on  yon  drear  and  rigid  bier  low  lies 

thy    love,    Lenore ! 
Come !    let   the    burial    rite   be   read — the 

funeral  song  be  sung! — 
An  anthem  for  the  queenliest  dead  that 

ever  died  so  young — 
A  dirge  for  her  the  doubly  dead  in  that 

she  died  so  young. 

"Wretches !  ye  loved  her  for  her  wealth 

and  hated  her  for  her  pride, 
And  when   she    fell   in    feeble  'health,  ye 

blessed    her — that   she   died ! 
How   shall   the    ritual,    then,   be   read? — 

the  requiem  how  be  sung  i° 

By  you — by  yours,  the  evil  eye, — by  yours, 

the   slanderous   tongue 
That  did  to  death  the  innocence  that  died, 

and  died  so  young?" 

1  The  poem  is  a  dialogue  between  the  relatives 
of  the  dead  Lenore  and  her  lover,  Guy  De 
Vere. 

The  poem  appeared  in  1843  in  a  short  line 
version.^  A  comparison  of  the  two  forms  is 
interesting.  The  general  opinion  seems  to  be 
that  the  earlier  is  the  better  version. 


230 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Peccavimus;  but  rave  not  thus !  and  let  a 

Sabbath  song 
Go  up  to  God  so  solemnly  the  dead  may 

feel  no  wrong ! 
The   sweet   Lenore   hath    "gone   before," 

with  Hope,  that  flew  beside, 
Leaving  thee  wild  for  the  dear  child  that 

should  have  been  thy  bride — 
For  her,  the  fair  and  debonair,  that  now 

so  lowly  lies, 
The   life   upon   her   yellow   hair   but  not 

within  her  eyes — 
The   life   still  there,   upon   her   hair — the 

death  upon  her  eyes. 

"Avaunt !  to-night  my  heart  is  light.     No 

dirge  will  I  upraise.  2° 

But  waft  the  angel  on  her  flight  with  a 

paean  of  old  days! 
Let    no    bell    toll — lest    her    sweet    soul, 

amid    its    hallowed    mirth, 
Should  catch  the  note,  as  it  doth  float  up 

from   the    damned    Earth. 
To  friends  above,  from  fiends  below,  the 

indignant  ghost  is  riven — 
From    Hell    unto    a    high    estate    far   up 

within  the  Heaven — 
From  grief  and  groan,  to  a  golden  throne, 

beside  the  King  of  Heaven." 

1831.         As  "A  Paean"  in  "Poems,"  1831. 


THE   VALLEY   OF   UNREST 

Once  it  smiled  a  silent  dell 

Where  the  people  did  not  dwell; 

They  had  gone  unto  the  wars, 

Trusting  to  the  mild-eyed  stars, 

Nightly,  from  their  azure  towers, 

To  keep  watch  above  the  flowers, 

In  the  midst  of  which  all  day 

The  red  sun-light  lazily  lay. 

Now  each  visitor  shall  confess 

The  sad  valley's  restlessness.  10 

Nothing  there  is  motionless — 

Nothing  save  the  airs  that  brood 

Over  the  magic  solitude. 

Ah,  by  no  wind  are  stirred  those  trees 

That  palpitate  like  the  chill  seas 

Around  the  misty  Hebrides ! 

Ah,  by  no  wind  those  clouds  are  driven 

That  rustle  through  the  unquiet  Heaven 

Uneasily,  from  morn  till  even, 

Over  the  violets  there  that  lie 

In  myriad  types  of  the  human  eye — 

Over  the  lilies  there  that  wave 

And  weep  above  a  nameless  grave! 


They  wave : — from  out  their  fragrant  tops 
Eternal  dews  come  down  in  drops. 
They  weep : — from  off  their  delicate  stems 
Perennial  tears  descend  in  gems. 

As  "The  Valley  Nis,"  in  "Poems,"  1831. 


TO    ONE   IN    PARADISE  i 

Thou  wast  all  that  to  me,  love, 
For  which  my  soul  did  pine — 

A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 
A  fountain  and  a  shrine, 

All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flow 
ers, 
And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 

Ah,  dream  too  bright  to  last! 

Ah,  starry  Hope !  that  didst  arise 
But  to  be  overcast ! 

A  voice  from  out  the  Future  cries,       10 
"On  !  on !" — but  o'er  the  Past 

(Dim  gulf!)    my  spirit  hovering  lies 
Mute,  motionless,  aghast ! 

For,  alas !  alas !  with  me 

The  light  of  Life  is  o'er! 

"No  more — no  more — no  more — " 
(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 

To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 
Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree, 

Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar !  2° 

And  all  my  days  are  trances, 

And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  gray  eye  glances, 
And  where  thy  footstep  gleams — 
In  what  ethereal  dances, 

By  what  eternal  streams. 

Godey's  Lady's  Book,  Jan.,   1831. 


THE   COLISEUM 

Type  of  the   antique   Rome !     Rich  reli 
quary 

Of  lofty  contemplation  left  to  Time 
By  buried  centuries  of  pomp  and  power ! 
At  length — at  length — after  so  many  days 
Of  weary  pilgrimage  and  burning  thirst, 
(Thirst    for  the   springs   of  lore   that   in 

thee  lie,) 

I  kneel,  an  altered  and  an  humble  man, 
Amid  thy  shadows,  and  so  drink  within 
My  very  soul  thy  grandeur,  gloom,  and 
glory ! 

1  From  the  tale  now  called  "The  Assignation." 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


231 


Vastness !  and  Age !  and  Memories  of 
Eld !  '° 

Silence !  and  Desolation  !  and  dim  Night ! 

I  feel  ye  now — I  feel  ye  in  your  strength — 

O  spells  more  sure  than  e'er  Judaean  king 

Taught  in  the  gardens  of  Gethsemane ! 

O   charms   more   potent   than   the   rapt 
Chaldee 

Ever  drew  down  from  out  the  quiet  stars ! 

Here,  where  a  hero  fell,  a  column  falls ! 

Here,  where  the  mimic  eagle  glared  in 
gold, 

A  midnight  vigil  holds  the  swarthy  bat ! 

Here,  where  the  dames  of  Rome  their 
gilded  hair  2° 

Waved  to  the  wind,  now  wave  the  reed 
and  thistle ! 

Here,  where  on  golden  throne  the  mon 
arch  lolled, 

Glides,  spectre-like,  unto  his  marble  home. 

Lit  by  the  wan  light  of  the  horned  moon, 

The  swift  and  silent  lizard  of  the  stones! 


But  stay !  these  walls — these  ivy-clad  ar 
cades — 

These  mouldering  plinths — these  sad  and 
blackened  shafts — 

These  vague  entablatures — this  crumbling 
frieze — 

These  shattered  cornices — this  wreck — 
this  ruin — 

These  stones — alas !  these  gray  stones — 
are  they  all —  3° 

All  of  the  famed,  and  the  colossal  left 

By  the  corrosive  Hours  to  Fate  and  me? 


HYMN 

At  morn — at  noon — at  twilight  dim — 
Maria !   thou  hast  heard  my  hymn ! 
In  joy  and  woe — in  good  and  ill — 
Mother  of  God,  be  with  me  still ! 
When  the  Hours  flew  brightly  by, 
And  not  a  cloud  obscured  the  sky, 
My  soul,  lest  it  should  truant  be, 
Thy  grace  did  guide  to  thine  and  thee; 
Now,  when  storms  of  Fate  o'ercast 
Darkly  my  Present  and  my  Past,  10 

Let  my  Future  radiant  shine 
With  sweet  hopes  of  thee  and  thine! 

Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1835. 


TO  F 1 

Beloved !  amid  the  earnest  woes 

That  crowd  around  my  earthly  path — 
(Drear  path,  alas!  where  grows 
Not  even  one  lonely  rose)  — 

My  soul  at  least  a  solace  hath 
In  dreams  of  thee,  and  therein  knows 
An  Eden  of  bland  repose. 

• 
And  thus  thy  memory  is  to  me 

Like  some  enchanted  far-off  isle 
In  some  tumultuous  sea —  I0 

Some  ocean  throbbing  far  and  free 

With    storms — but    where    meanwhile 
Serenest  skies  continually 

Just  o'er  that  one  bright  island  smile. 

Southern  Literary  Messenger,  July,  1835. 


"Not  all" — the  Echoes   answer   me — "not 

all! 

Prophetic  sounds  and  loud,  arise  forever 
From   us,    and    from   all   Ruin,    unto   the 

wise, 

As  melody  from  Memnon  to  the  Sun. 
We  rule  the  hearts  of  mightiest  men — we 

rule 

With  a  despotic  sway  all  giant  minds. 
\Ve  are  not  impotent — we  pallid  stones. 
Not  all  our  power  is  gone — not  all  our 

fame —  40 

Not  all  the  magic  of  our  high  renown — 
Not  all  the  wonder  that  encircles  us — 
Not  all  the  mysteries  that  in  us  lie — 
Not  all  the  memories  that  hang  upon 
And  cling  around  about  us  as  a  garment. 
Clothing  us  in  a  robe  of  more  than  glory." 


SONNET    TO    ZANTE 

Fair    isle,    that    from    the    fairest    of    all 

flowers, 
Thy  gentlest  of  all  gentle  names   dost 

take! 
How    many    memories    of    what    radiant 

hours 
At    sight    of    thee    and    thine    at   once 

awake ! 

How  many  scenes  of  what  departed  bliss ! 
How  many  thoughts  of  what  entombed 

hopes ! 

How  many  visions  of  a  maiden  that  is 
No   more — no   more   upon   thy   verdant 
slopes ! 


1  In    1835    the    title    of    this    poem    was    "To 
Mary,"    in    1842    "To    One    Departed,"    in    1845 

The  Baltimore  Saturday   Visitor,  1833.      "To  F ." 


232 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


N~o  more!  alas,  that  magical  sad  sound 

Transforming   all !      Thy   charms    shall 

please  no  more —  I0 

Thy  memory  no  more!    Accursed  ground 

Henceforth  I  hold  thy  flower-enamelled 

shore, 

O  hyacinthine  isle !     O  purple  Zante ! 
"Isola  d'oro  !     Fior  di  Levante !" 

Southern  Literary  Messenger,  Jan.,  1837. 


THE  HAUNTED  PALACE  i 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 

By  good   angels   tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace — 

Radiant  palace — reared  its  head. 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion — 

It  stood  there ! 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair ! 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  g'olden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow,  I0 

(This — all    this — was    in    the    olden 

Time  long  ago,) 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odor  went  away. 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley, 

Through   two    luminous   windows,    saw 
Spirits  moving  musically, 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law,  2° 

Round  about  a  throne  where,  sitting, 

(Porphyrogene!) 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through    which    came    flowing,    flowing, 
flowing 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing,  30 

In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 
Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate. 

(Ah,  let  us  mourn ! — for  never  morrow 
Shall  dawn  upon  him  desolate!) 

1  From    The   Fall   of   the   House   of    Usher,   in 
which   tale   it  is  sung  by  Usher  himself. 


And  round  about  his  home  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed, 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed.  4° 

And  travellers,  now,  within  that  valley, 

Through1  the  red-litten  windows  see 
Vast  forms,  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody, 
While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever 

And  laugh — but  smile  no  more. 

Baltimore  Museum,  April,   1839. 

THE  CONQUEROR  WORM 

Lo !  'tis  a  gala  night 

Within  the  lonesome  latter  years ! 
An  angel  throng,  bewinged,  bedight 

In  veils,  and  drowned  in  tears, 
Sit  in  a  theatre,  to  see 

A  play  of  hopes  and  fears, 
While  the  orchestra   breathes   fitfully 

The  music  of  the  spheres. 

Mimes,  in  the  form  of  God  on  high, 

Mutter  and  mumble  low,  I0 

And  hither  and  thither  fly — 

Mere  puppets  they,  who  come  and  go 
At  bidding  of  vast  formless  things 

That  shift  the  scenery  to  and  fro, 
Flapping  from  out  their  Condor  wings 

Invisible  Woe ! 

That  motley  drama — oh,  be  sure 

It  shall  not  be  forgot! 
With  its  Phantom  chased  for  evermore. 

By  a  crowd  that  seize  it  not,  2° 

Through  a  circle  that  ever  returneth  in 

To  the  self-same  spot, 
And  much  of  Madness,  and  more  of  Sin, 

And  Horror  the  soul  of  the  plot. 

But  see,  amid  the  mimic  rout 

A  crawling  shape  intrude ! 
A  blood-red  thing  that  writhes  from  out 

The  scenic  solitude ! 

It    writhes  !  —  it    writhes  !  —  with    mortal 
pangs 

The  mimes  become  its    food,  3° 

And  seraphs  sob  at  vermin  fangs 

In   human   gore   imbued. 

Out — out  are  the  lights^out  all ! 

And,  over  each  quivering  form, 
The  curtain,  a  funeral  pall, 

Comes  down  with  the  rush  of  a  storm, 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE 


233 


While  the  angels,  all  pallid  and  wan, 

Uprising,  unveiling,  affirm 
That  the  play  is  the  tragedy,  "Man,"      4° 

And  its  hero  the  Conqueror  Worm. 

Graham's  Magazine,  Jan.,   1843. 


Never  its  mysteries  are  exposed 

To  the  weak  human  eye  unclosed ; 

So  wills  its  King,  who  hath   forbid 

The  uplifting  of  the  fringed  lid; 

And  thus  the  sad  Soul  that  here  passes 

Beholds  it  but  through  darkened  glasses. 


DREAM-LAND 

By  a  route  obscure  and  lonely, 
Haunted  by  ill  angels  only, 
Where  an  Eidolon,  named  NIGHT, 
On  a  black  throne  reigns  upright, 
I  have  reached  these  lands  but  newly 
From   an   ultimate   dim   Thule — 
From  a  wild  weird  clime  that  lieth,  sub 
lime, 
Out  of  SPACE — out  of  TIME. 

Bottomless  vales  and  boundless  floods, 
And  chasms,  and  caves  and  Titan  woods, 
With  forms  that  no  man  can  discover     " 
For  the  tears  that  drip  all  over; 
Mountains  toppling  evermore 
Into  seas  without  a  shore; 
Seas  that  restlessly  aspire, 
Surging,  unto  skies  of  fire; 
Lakes  that  endlessly  outspread 
Their  lone  waters — lone  and  dead, — 
Their  still  waters — still  and  chilly 
With  the  snows  of  the  lolling  lily.          2° 

By  the  lakes  that  thus  'outspread 
Their  lone  waters,  lone  and  dead, — 
Their  sad  waters,   sad  and  chilly 
With  the  snows  of  the  lolling  lily, — 
By  the  mountains — near  the  river 
Murmuring  lowly,  murmuring  ever, — 
By  the  gray  woods, — by  the  swamp 
Where  the  toad  and  the  newt  encamp,- 
By  the  dismal  tarns  and  pools 

Where*  dwell  the  Ghouls, —  3° 

By  each   spot  the  most  unholy — 
In  each  nook  most  melancholy, — 
There  the  traveller  meets,  aghast, 
Sheeted  Memories  of  the  Past — 
Shrouded  forms  that  start  and  sigh 
As  they  pass  the  wanderer  by — 
White-robed  forms  of  friends  long  given, 
In  agony,  to  the  Earth — and  Heaven. 

For  the  heart  whose  woes  are  legion 
'Tis  a  peaceful,  soothing  region —  40 

For  the  spirit  that  walks  in  shadow 
'Tis — oh  'tis  an  Eldorado ! 
But  the  traveller,  travelling  through  it, 
May  not — dare  not  openly  view  it; 


By  a  route  obscure  and  lonely,  s» 

Haunted  by  ill  angels  only, 
Where  an  Eidolon,  named  NIGHT, 
On   a   black  throne   reigns   upright, 
I  have  wandered  home  but  newly 
From  this  ultimate  dim  Thule. 

Graham's   Magazine,   June,    1844. 


THE    RAVEN i 

Once   upon   a   midnight   dreary,   while    I 

pondered,   weak  and   weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume 

of    forgotten    lore — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly 

there  came  a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping 

at  my  chamber  door. 
"  'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "tapping 

at  my  chamber  door — 
Only   this   and    nothing   more." 


Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the 
bleak   December ; 

And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought 
its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 

Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow ; — vainly  I 
had  sought  to  borrow 

From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — sor 
row  for  the  lost  Lenore —  10 

For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom 

the  angels  name  Lenore — 
Nameless  here  for  evermore. 


And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of 
each  purple  curtain 

Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic  ter 
rors  never  felt  before ; 

So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my 
heart,  I   stood  repeating 

"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at 
my  chamber  door — 

Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at 

my    chamber    door ; — 
This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 

1  In   his   Philosophy  of  Composition   Poe   gives 
his  own  account  of  the  writing  of  "The  Raven." 


234 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Presently  my  soul  grew   stronger;   hesi 
tating  then  no   longer, 

"Sir,"  said  I,  "or  Madam,  truly  your  for 
giveness  I  implore;  2° 

But   the    fact   is    I   was   napping,   and   so 
gently  you   came   rapping, 

And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping 
at  my  chamber  door, 

That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you" — here 

I  opened  wide  the  door; 
Darkness   there   and   nothing   more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I 

stood  there  wondering,   fearing, 
Doubting,    dreaming    dreams    no    mortal 

ever  dared  to  dream  before; 
But   the    silence   was    unbroken,   and   the 

stillness  gave   no  token, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the 

whispered  word,  "Lenore !" 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured 

back  the   word   "Lenore !" 
Merely  this  and  nothing  more.  3° 

Back   into   the   chamber   turning,    all    my 

soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  somewhat 

louder  than  before. 
"Surely,"  said  I,  "surely  that  is  something 

at  my  window  lattice ; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this 

mystery  explore — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment  and  this 

mystery  explore; — 
'Tis  the  wind  and  nothing  more !" 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with 

many  a  flirt  and  flutter 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the 

saintly  days  of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he;   not  a 

minute  stopped  or  stayed  he; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched 

above  my  chamber  door —  40 

Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above 

my  chamber   door — 
Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this   ebony  bird   beguiling   my   sad 
fancy  into  smiling, 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the 
countenance  it  wore, 

"Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven, 
thou,"  I  said,  "art  sure  no  craven, 

Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Raven  wander 
ing  from  the  Nightly  shore — 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the 

Night's   Plutonian  shore!" 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 


Much  I   marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to 
hear   discourse  so   plainly, 

Though   its   answer   little    meaning — little 
relevancy   bore ;  s° 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  liv 
ing  human  being 

Ever   yet   was    blessed    with    seeing    bird 
above  his  chamber  door — 

Bird  or   beast   upon   the   sculptured   bust 

above  his  chamber  door, 
With  such  name  as  "Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid 

bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one 

word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing   further   then   he   uttered — not  a 

feather  then  he  fluttered — 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered  "Other 

friends  have  flown  before — 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my 

hopes  have  flown  before." 
Then  the  bird  said  "Nevermore."          6° 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply 
so  aptly  spoken, 

"Doubtless,"  said  I,  "what  it  utters  is  its 
only  stock  and  store 

Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom 
unmerciful   Disaster 

Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his 
songs  one  burden  bore — 

Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melan 
choly  burden  bore 
Of  'Never — nevermore.'  " 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  fancy 

into  smiling, 
Straight   I   wheeled   a   cushioned   seat   in 

front  of  bird,  and  bust  and  door; 
Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook 

myself   to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  omi- 

mous  bird  of  yore —  7° 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt 

and  ominous  bird  of  yore 
Meant  in  croaking  "Nevermore." 

This  I   sat  engaged   in   guessing,  but  no 

syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned 

into   my  bosom's  core ; 
This  and  more  I    sat  divining,   with   my 

head  at  ease  reclining 
On   the   cushion's   velvet   lining   that   the 

lamp-light   gloated    o'er, 
But  whose  velvet  violet   lining  with   the 

lamp-light  gloating  o'er, 
She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore! 


EDGAR 


Then,    methought,   the   air   grew    denser, 

perfumed  from  an  unseen  censer 
Swung    by     Seraphim     whose     foot- falls 

tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor.  8° 

"Wretch,"  I  cried,  "thy  God  hath  lent  thee 

— by  these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite — respite    and    nepenthe    from   thy 

memories  of  Lenore; 
Quaff,   oh  quaff  this   kind   nepenthe   and 

forget   this   lost   Lenore!" 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil!  prophet 
still,  if  bird  or  devil! — 

Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tem 
pest  tossed  thee  here  ashore, 

Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert 
land   enchanted — 

On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — tell  me 
truly,   I   implore — 

Is   there — is   there   balm   in   Gilead? — tell 

me — tell  me,  I  implore !" 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore."  9° 

"Prophet!"     said    I,    "thing    of     evil! — 

prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us — by 

that  God  we  both  adore — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within 

the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the 

angels  name  Lenore — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden   whom 

the  angels  name  Lenore." 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird 

or  fiend !"  I  shrieked,  upstarting — 
"Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the 

Night's    Plutonian    shore ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that 

lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken ! — quit  the 

bust  above  my  door !  '«> 

Take  thy  beak   from  out  my  heart,  and 

take  thy  form  from  off  my  door!" 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sit 
ting,  still  is   sitting 

On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above 
my  chamber  door; 

And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a 
demon's  that  is  dreaming, 

And    the    lamp-light   o'er    him    streaming 
throws  his  shadow  on  the  floor; 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that 

lies  floating  on  the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted — nevermore! 


ALLAN 
\ 


POE 


235 


ULALUME 


1842-44? 


Evening  Mirror,  Jan.  1845. 


The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  soherj 
The. leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere — 
The    leaves    they    were    withering    and 
sere; 

It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year; 

It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 
In  the  misty  mid  region  of  Weir — 

It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
In    the    ghoul-haunted    woodland    of 
Weir. 

Here  once,  through  an  alley  Titanic,  I0 
Of  cypress,  I  roamed  with  my  Soul — 
Of  cypress,  with  Psyche,  my  Soul. 

These  were  days  when  my  heart  was  vol 
canic 

As  the   scoriae  rivers  that  roll — 
As  the   lavas   that   restlessly   roll 

Their  sulphurous  currents  down  Yaanek 
In  the  ultimate  climes  of  the  pole — 

That    groan    as    they    roll    down    Mount 

Yaanek 
In  the  realms  of  the  boreal  pole. 

Our  talk  had  been  serious  and  sober,  2° 
But  our  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and 

sere — 
Our    memories    were    treacherous    and 

sere — 

For  we  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 
And  we  marked  not  the  night  of  the 

year — 

(Ah,  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year!) 
We  noted  not  the  dim  lake  of  Auber — 
(Though  once  we  had  journeyed  down 

here) — 

Remembered  not  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
Nor   the   ghoul  -  haunted   woodland   of 
Weir. 

And  now,  as  the  night  was  senescent      30 
And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn — 
As  the  star-dials  hinted  of  morn — 

At  the  end  of  our  path  a  liquescent 
And  nebulous  lustre  was  born, 

Out  of  which  a  miraculous  crescent 
Arose  with  a  duplicate  horn — 

Astarte's  bediamonded  crescent 
Distinct  with  its  duplicate  horn. 

And  I  said — "She  is  warmer  than  Dian : 
She  rolls  through  an  ether  of  sighs — 
She  revels  in  a  region  of  sighs :  4« 

1  Poe's  wife  Virginia  died  in  January,  1847. 
"Ulalume"  was  published  in  December  of  that 
year. 


236 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


She  has  seen  that  the  tears  are  not  dry  on 
These   cheeks,   where  the   worm  never 
dies 

And  has  come  past  the  stars  of  the  Lion 
To  point  us  the  path  to  the  skies — 
To  the  Lethean  peace  of  the  skies — 

Come  up,  in  despite  of  the  Lion, 

To  shine  on  us  with  her  bright  eyes — 

Come  up  through  the  lair  of  the  Lion, 
With  love  in  her  luminous  eyes."        5° 

But  Psyche,  uplifting  her  finger, 
Said — "Sadly  this  star  I  mistrust — 
Her  pallor  I  strangely  mistrust : — 

Oh,  hasten ! — oh,  let  us  not  linger ! 
Oh,  fly ! — let  us  fly  ! — for  we  must." 

In  terror  she  spoke,  letting  sink  her 
Wings  until  they  trailed  in  the  dust — 

In  agony  sobbed,  letting  sink  her 

Plumes  till  they  trailed  in  the  dust —  59 
Till  they  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust. 

I  replied — "This  is  nothing  but  dreaming: 
Let  us  on  by  this  tremulous  light ! 
Let  us  bathe  in  this  crystalline  light ! 

Its  Sibyllic  splendor  is  beaming 
With  Hope  and  in  Beauty  to-night: — 
See ! — it   flickers    up    the    sky   through 
the  night ! 

Ah,  we  safely  may  trust  to  its  gleaming, 
And  be  sure  it  will  lead  us  aright — 

We  safely  may  trust  to  a  gleaming 
That  cannot  but  guide  us  aright,          7° 
Since  it  flickers  up  to  Heaven  through 
the  night." 

Thus  I  pacified  Psyche  and  kissed  her, 
And  tempted  her  out  of   her  gloom — 
And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom ; 

And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 
But   were   stopped   by   the    door   of   a 

tomb — 
By  the  door  of  a  legended  tomb; 

And  I  said — "What  is  within,  sweet  sister, 
On  the  door  of  this  legended  tomb?" 
She  replied — "Ulalume — Ulalume —      8° 
'Tis  the  vault  of  thy  lost  Ulalume!" 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober 
As   the   leaves   that   were   crisped   and 

sere — 
As  the  leaves  that  were  withering  and 

sere, 

And  I  cried — "It  was  surely  October 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year 
That  I   journeyed  —  I   journeyed  down 

here — 
That  I  brought  a  dread  burden  down 

here — 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year, 


Ah,  what  demon  has  tempted  me  here? 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dim  lake  of  Au- 

ber—  91 

This  misty  mid  region  of  Weir — 

Well    I    know,    now,    this    dank    tarn    of 

Auber, 
This  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir." 

American  Whig  Review,  Dec.,  1847. 


THE  BELLS 


Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells — 

Silver  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody 

foretells ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight; 
Keeping  time,  time,   time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme,  I0 

To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically 

wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 

From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the 
bells. 

ii 
Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells — 

Golden  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony 

foretells ! 

Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight! — 
From  the  molten-golden  notes,      20 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she 
gloats 

On  the  moon ! 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What   a   gush   of    euphony   voluminously 
wells ! 

How  it  swells ! 
How   it   dwells 
On  the  Future ! — how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels  3° 

1  Mrs.  M.  A.  Shew  suggested  the  subject  and 
some  of  the  lines  of  the  original  version  of  this 
poem,  which  was  but  seventeen  lines  long.  An 
eighteenth  line  was  added  and  the  poem  sub 
mitted  by  Poe  to  the  Union  Magazine  in  the 
autumn  of  1848.  It-  was  not  published  until 
a  year  later,  and  then  in  an  enlarged  and  re 
vised  form  similar  to  the  present  version. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,    bells,    bells— 

To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the 
bells ! 

in 
Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells — 

Brazen  bells ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now  their  turbu- 

lency  tells ! 

In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak,     41 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune, 
In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of 

the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and 

frantic  fire, 

Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And   a   resolute   endeavor 
Now — now  to  sit,  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon.  5° 

Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  Despair! 

How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar ! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air! 
Yet  the  ear,  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows;  6° 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger 
of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 

In   the   clamor   and   the   clanging   of   the 
bells ! 

IV 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells —         7° 

Iron  bells ! 
What  a  world   of   solemn  thought   their 

monody  compels ! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the   melancholy   menace   of   their 

tone! 

For  every  sound  that  floats 
-From  the  rust  within  their  throats 


Is  a  groan. 

And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple,  &> 

All  alone, 
And  who,  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human — 

They  are  Ghouls  : — 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls : — 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls,  9° 

Rolls 

A  paean  from  the  bells ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 
With  the  paean  of  the  bells! 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  paean  of  the  bells : — 

Of  the  bells: 

Keeping  time,  time,  time  I0° 

In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells: — 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells:— 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells —          »° 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the 

bells. 
1848-1849. 
Sartain's  Union  Magazine,  Nov.,   1849. 


TO  MY  MOTHER  i 

Because  I  feel  that,  in  the  Heavens  above, 
The  angels,  whispering  to  one  another, 
Can  find,  among  their  burning  terms  of 

love, 

None  so  devotional  as  that  of  "Mother," 
Therefore  by  that  dear  name  I  long  have 

called  you — 

You  who  are  more  than  mother  unto  me, 
And  fill  my  heart  of  hearts,  where  Death 

installed  you, 

In  setting  my  Virginia's  spirit  free. 
My   mother — my  own   mother,   who   died 

early, 

1  The   sonnet   is   written   to   Mrs.    Clemm,   the 
mother   of    Poe's   wife. 


238 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Was  but  the  mother  of  myself;  but  you  10 
Are  mother  to  the  one  I  loved  so  dearly, 
And  thus  are  dearer  than  the  mother  I 

knew 

By  that  infinity  with  which  my  wife 
Was  dearer  to  my  soul  than  its  soul-life. 

Flag  of  Our  Union,  1849. 


ANNABEL  LEE 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may 

know 

By  the  name  of  ANNABEL  LEE; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other 

thought 
Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

/  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  ihat  was  more 

than  love — 

I  and  my  ANNABEL  LEE —  I0 

With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of 

heaven 
Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE; 
So  that  her  high-born  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea.  2° 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me — 
Yes! — that   was   the   reason    (as   all   men 

know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by 

night, 
Chilling  and  killing  my  ANNABEL  LEE. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than 

the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we — 
Of  many  far  wiser  than  we — 


And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above,  3° 
Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 

Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 
Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE: 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bring 
ing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE, 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I   feel  the 

bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE: 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by 

the  side 
Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and 

my  bride, 

In  the  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea —      4° 
In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 

1849.        New  York  Tribune,  Oct.  9,  1849. 


ELDORADO 

Gaily  bedight, 

A  gallant  knight, 
In  sunshine  and  in  shadow, 

Had  journeyed  long, 

Singing  a  song, 
In  search  of  Eldorado. 

But  he  grew  old — 

This  knight  so  bold — 
And  o'er  his  heart  a  shadow 

Fell  as  he  found  I0 

No  spot  of  ground 
That  looked  like  Eldorado. 

And,  as  his  strength 

Failed  him  at  length, 
He  met  a  pilgrim  shadow — 

"Shadow,"  said  he, 

"Where  can  it  be — 
This  land  of  Eldorado?" 

"Over  the  Mountains 
Of  the  Moon,  20 

Down  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 
Ride,  boldly  ride," 
The  shade  replied, — 
"If  you  seek  for  Eldorado." 

"Griswold's    Poets    and    Poetry    of 
America,"  1850. 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER  > 
[W£  -uhWL-Uxt^O 


TO  WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON 

Champion  of  those  who  groan  beneath 

Oppression's  iron  hand  : 
In  view  ul  yehuiy,  hate,  and  death, 

I  see  thee  fearless  stand. 
Still  bearing  up  thy  lofty  brow, 

In  the  steadfast  strength  of  truth, 
In  manhood  sealing  well  the  vow 

And  promise  of  thy  youth. 

Go  on,  for  thou  hast  chosen  well; 

On  in  the  strength  of  God ! 
Long  as  one  human  heart  shall  swell 

Beneath  the  tyrant's  rod. 

slumbering   na^fon's    gar, 


As  thou  hast  ever  spoken, 
Until  the  dead  in  sin  shall  hear, 
The  fetter's  link  be  brokenJ 


I  love  thee  with  a  brother's  love, 

I  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 
To  mark  thy  spirit  soar  above 

The  cloud  of  human  ill. 
My  heart  hath  leaped  to  answer  thine, 

And  echo  back  thy  words, 
As  leaps  the  warrior's  at  the  shine 

And  flash  of  kindred  swords ! 


.in, 

s& 


They  tell  me  thou  art  rash  and  vain, 

A  searcher  after  fame; 
That  thou  art  striving  but  to 

A  long-enduring  name ; 
That  thou  hast  nerved  the  Afric's  hand 

And  steeled  the  Afric's  heart,  3° 

To  shake  aloft  his  vengeful  brand, 

And  rend  his  chain  apart. 


Have  I  not  known  thee  well,  and  read 

Thy  mighty  purpose  long? 
And  watched  the  trials  which  have  made 

Thy  human  spirit  strong? 
And  shall  the  slanderer's  demon  breath 
~  Avail  with  one  like  me. 
To  dim  the  sunshine  of  my  faith 

And  earnest  trust  in  thee?  40 


Go  on,  the  dagger's  point  may  glare 

Amid  thy  pathway's  gloom; 
The  fate  which  sternly  threatens  there 

Is  glorious  martyrdom ! 
Then  onward  with  a  martyr's  zeal; 

And  wait  thy  sure  reward 
When  man  to  man  no  more  shall  kneel, 

And  God  alone  be  Lord ! 

1832. 

Read  at  the  convention  in  Philadelphia  which 
founded  the  American  Anti-Slavery  Society  in 
December,  1833.  Whittier  was  a  delegate  from 
Massachusetts. 

EXPOSTULATION  1 

Our  fellow-countrymen  in  chains ! 

Slaves,  in  a  land  of  light  and  law ! 
Slaves,  crouching  on  the  very  plains 

Where  rolled  the  storm  of  Freedom's 

war! 
A  groan  from  Eutaw's  haunted  wood, 

A  wail  where  Camden's  martyrs  fell, 
By  every  shrine  of  patriot  blood, 

From  Moultrie's  wall  and  Jasper's  well ! 

By  storied  hill  and  hallowed  grot, 

By  mossy  wood  and  marshy  glen,  *° 
Whence  rang  of  old  the  rifle-shot, 

And  hurrying  shout  of  Marion's  men ! 
The  groan  of  breaking  hearts  is  there, 

The  falling  lash,  the  fetter's  clank ! 
Slaves,  slaves  are  breathing  in  that  air 

Which  old  De  Kalb  and  Sumter  drank ! 

1  Dr.  Charles  Pollen,  a  German  patriot,  who 
had  come  to  America  for  the  freedom  which 
was  denied  him  in  his  native  land,  allied  him 
self  with  the  abolitionists,  and  at  a  convention 
of  delegates  from  all  the  anti-slavery  organiza 
tions  in  New  England,  held  at  Boston  in  May, 
1834,  was  chairman  of  a  committee  to  prepare 
an  address  to  the  people  of  New  England. 
Toward  the  close  of  the  address  occurred  the 
passage  which  suggested  these  lines: — 

"The  despotism  which  our  fathers  could  not 
bear  in  their  native  country  is  expiring,  and  the 
sword  of  justice  in  her  reformed  hands  has 
applied  its  exterminating  edge  to  slavery.  Shall 
the  United  States — the  free  United  States,  which 
could  not  bear  the  bonds  of  a  king — cradle  the 
bondage  which  a  king  is  abolishing?  Shall  a 
Republic  be  less  free  than  a  Monarchy?  Shall 
we,  in  the  vigor  and  buoyancv  of  our  manhood, 
be  less  energetic  in  righteousness  than  a  king 
dom  in  its  age?"  (Author's  Note.) 


239 


240 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


What  ho !  our  countrymen  in  chains ! 

The  whip  on  woman's  shrinking  flesh ! 
Our  soil  yet  reddening  with  the  stains 

Caught  from  her  scourging,  warm  and 

fresh !  20 

What !  mothers  from  their  children  riven  ! 

What!    God's   own   image   bought   and 

sold ! 
Americans  to  market  driven, 

And  bartered  as  the  brute  for  gold ! 

Speak !  shall  their  agony  of  prayer 

Come  thrilling  to  our  hearts  in  vain? 
To  us  whose  fathers  scorned  to  bear 

The  paltry  menace  of  a  chain; 
To  us,  whose  boast  is  loud  and  long, 

Of  holy  Liberty  and  Light;  3° 

Say,  shall  these  writhing  slaves  of  Wrong 

Plead  vainly  for  their  plundered  Right? 

What !  shall  we  send,  with  ,lavish  breath, 

Our  sympathies  across  the  wave, 
Where  Manhood,  on  the  field  of  death, 

Strikes  for  his  freedom  or  a  grave? 
Shall  prayers  go  up,  and  hymns  be  sung 

For  Greece,  the  Moslem  fetter  spurning, 
And  millions  hail  with  pen  and  tongue 

Our  light  on  all  her  altars  burning?    4° 

Shall  Belgium  feel,  and  gallant  France, 

By   Vendome's   pile   and    Schoenbrun's 

wall, 
And  Poland,  gasping  on  her  lance, 

The  impulse  of  our  cheering  call? 
And  shall  the  slave,  beneath  our  eye, 

Clank  o'er  our  fields  his  hateful  chain? 
And  toss  his  fettered  arms  on  high, 

And  groan  for  Freedom's  gift,  in  vain? 

Oh,  say,  shall  Prussia's  banner  be 

A  refuge  for  the  stricken  slave?          5° 
And    shall  the   Russian    serf   go    free 

By  Baikal's  lake  and  Neva's  wave? 
And  shall  the  wintry-bosomed  Dane 

Relax  the  iron  hand  of  pride, 
And  bid  his  bondmen  cast  the  chain 

From  fettered  soul  and  limb  aside? 

Shall  every  flap  of  England's  flag 

Proclaim  that  all  around  are  free, 
From  farthest  Ind  to  each  blue  crag 

That  beetles  o'er  the  Western  Sea?    &> 
And  shall  we  scoff  at  Europe's  kings, 

When  Freedom's  fire  is  dim  with  us, 
And  round  our  country's  altar  clings 

The  damning  shade  of  Slavery's  curse? 


Go,  let  us  ask  of  Constantine 

To  loose  his  grasp  on  Poland's  throat; 
And  beg  the  lord  of  Mahmoud's  line 

To  spare  the  struggling  Suliote; 
Will  not  the  scorching  answer  come 

From   turbaned   Turk,   and   scornful,^,,, 
Russ :  70 

"Go,  loose  your  fettered  slaves  at  home, 

Then  turn  and  ask  the  like  of  us !" 

Just  God !  and  shall  we  calmly  rest, 

The    Christian's    scorn,    the    heathen's 

mirth, 
Content  to  live  the  lingering  jest 

And  by-word  of  a  mocking  Earth-? 
Shall  our  own  glorious  land  retain 

That    curse    which    Europe    scorns    to 

bear? 
Shall  our  own  brethren  drag  the  chain. '79 

Which  not  even  Russia's  menials  wear? 
Up,  then,  in  Freedom's  manly  part, 

From  graybeard  eld  to  fiery  youth, 
And  on  the  nation's  naked  heart 

Scatter  the  living  coals  of  Truth ! 
Up !  while  ye  slumber,  deeper  yet 

The  shadow  of  our  fame  is  growing.! 
Up !  while  ye  pause,  our  sun  may  set 

In  blood  around  our  altars  flowing! 

Oh !  rouse  ye,  ere  the  storm  comes  forth, 

The  gathered  wrath  of  God  and  man,  90 
Like  that  which  wasted  Egypt's  earth, 

When  hail  and  fire  above  it  ran. 
Hear  ye  no  warnings  in  the  air? 

Feel  ye  no  earthquake  underneath? 
Up,  up !  why  will  ye  slumber  where 

The  sleeper  only  wakes  in  death? 

Rise  now  for  Freedom !  not  in  strife 

Like  that  your  sterner  fathers  saw, 
The  awful  waste  of  human  life, 

The  glory  and  the  guilt  of  war:         i°o 
But  break  the  chain,  the  yoke  remove, 

And  smite  to  earth  Oppression's  rod, 
With  those  mild  arms  of  Truth  and  Love, 

Made  mighty  through  the  living  God! 

Down  let  the  shrine  of  Moloch  sink, 

And  leave  no  traces  where  it  stood; 
Nor  .longer  let  its  idol  drink 

His  daily  cup  of  human  blood; 
But  rear  another  altar  there. 

To  Truth  and  Love  and  Mercy  given, II0 
And    Freedom's    gift,    and    Freedom's 
prayer, 

Shall  call  an  answer  down  from  Heav 
en ! 


1834. 


The  Liberator,  Sept.  13,  1834. 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


241 


,       PENTUCKET * 

How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town 
The  mellow  light  of  sunset  shone ! 
Each  small,  bright  lake,  whose  waters  still 
Mirror  the  forest  and  the  hill, 
Reflected  from  its  waveless  breast 
The  beauty  of  a  cloudless  west, 
Glorious  as  if  a  glimpse  were  given 
Within  the  western  gates  of  heaven, 
Left,  by  the  spirit  of  the  star 
Of  sunset's  holy  hour,  ajar!  I0 

Beside  the  river's  tranquil  flood 
The  dark  and  low-walled  dwellings  stood, 
Where  many  a  rood  of  open  land 
Stretched  up  and  down  on  either  hand, 
With  corn-leaves  waving  freshly  green 
The  thick  and  blackened  stumps  between. 
Behind,  unbroken,  deep  and  dread, 
The  wild,  untravelled  forest  spread, 
Back  to  those  mountains,  white  and  cold, 
Of  which  the  Indian  trapper  told,  2° 

Upon  whose  summits  never  yet 
Was  mortal  foot  in  safety  set. 

Quiet  and  calm  without  fear 
Of  danger  darkly  lurking  near, 
The  weary  laborer  left  his  plough, 
The  milkmaid  carolled  by  her  cow; 
From  cottage  door  and  household  hearth 
Rose  songs  of  praise,  or  tones  of  mirth. 
At  length  the  murmur  died  away, 
And  silence  on  that  village  lay.  3° 

XSo  slept  Pompeii,  tower  and  hall. 
/Ere  the  quick  earthquake  swallowed  all, 
Undreaming  of  the  fiery  fate 
Wrhich  made  its  dwellings  desolate ! 

Hours  passed  away.    By  moonlight  sped 
The  Merrimac  along  his  bed. 
Bathed  in  the  pallid  lustre,  stood 
Dark  cottage-wall  and  rock  and  wood, 

1  The  village  of  Haverhill,  on  the  Merrimac, 
called  by  the  Indians  Pentucket,  was  for  nearly 
seventeen  years  a  frontier  town,  and  during 
thirty  years  endured  all  the  horrors  of  savage 
warfare.  In  the  year  1708,  a  combined  body  of 
French  and  Indians,  under  the  command  of  De 
Chaillons,  and  Hertel  de  Rouville,  the  infamous 
and  bloody  sacker  of  Deerfield,  made  an  attack 
upon  the  village,  which  at  that  time  contained 
onlv  thirty  houses.  Sixteen  of  the  villagers  were 
massacred,  and  a  still  larger  number  made  pris 
oners.  About  thirty  of  the  enemy  also  fell,  and 
among  them  Hertel  de  Rouville.  The  minister 
of  the  place,  Benjamin  Rolfe,  was  killed  by  a 
shot  through  his  own  door.  In  a  paper  entitled 
"The  Border  War  of  1708,"  published  in  my 
collection  of  Recreations  and  Miscellanies,  I 
have  given  a  prose  narrative  of  the  surprise  of  . 
Haverhill.  (Author's  Note.) 


Silent,  beneath  that  tranquil  beam, 
As  the  hushed  grouping  of  a  dream.       4° 
Yet  on  the  still  air  crept  a  sound, 
No  bark  of  fox,  nor  rabbit's  bound, 
Nor  stir  of  wings,  nor  waters  flowing, 
Nor  leaves  in  midnight  breezes  blowing. 

Was  that  the  tread  of  many  feet, 
Which  downward  from  the  hillside  beat? 
What   forms  were  those  which  darkly 

stood 

Just  on  the  margin  of  the  wood? — 
Charred  tree-stumps  in  the  moonlight  dim, 
Or  paling  rude,  or  leafless  limb?  so 

No, — through    the    trees    fierce    eyeballs 

glowed, 

Dark  human  forms  in  moonshine  showed, 
Wild  from  their  native  wilderness, 
With  painted  limbs  and  battle-dress ! 

A  yell  the  dead  might  wake  to  hear 
Swelled  the  night  air,  far  and  clear; 
Then  smote  the  Indian  tomahawk 
On  crashing  door  and  shattering  lock; 
Then  rang  the  rifle-shot,  and  then 
The  shrill  death-scream  of  stricken  men, — 
Sank  the  red  axe  in  woman's  brain,        6l 
And  childhood's  cry  arose  in  vain. 
Bursting  through  roof  and  window  came, 
Red,  fast,  and  fierce,  the  kindled  flame, 
And  blended  fire  and  moonlight  glared 
On  still  dead  men  and  scalp-knives  bared. 

The  morning  sun  looked  brightly  through 
The  river  willows,  wet  with  dew. 
No  sound  of  combat  filled  the  air, 
No  shout  was  heard,  nor  gunshot  there; 
Yet  still  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke        7' 
From  mouldering  ruins  slowly  broke ; 
And  on  the  greensward  many  a  stain, 
And,  here  and  there,  the  mangled  slain, 
Told  how  that  midnight  bolt  had  sped 
Pentucket,  on  thy  fated  head ! 

Even  now  the  villager  can -tell 
Where  Rolfe  beside  his  hearthstone  fell, 
Still  show  the  door  of  wasting  oak, 
Through  which  the  fatal  death-shot  broke, 
And  point  the  curious  stranger  where    8l 
De  Rouville's  corse  lay  grim  and  bare ; 
Whose  hideous  head,  in  death  still  feared, 
Bore  not  a  trace  of  hair  nor  beard ; 
And  still,  within  the  churchyard  ground, 
Heaves  darkly  up  the  ancient  mound, 
Whose  grass-grown  surface  overlies 
The  victims  of  that  sacrifice. 

1838. 


242 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


•j- 


MEMORIES 

A  beautiful  and  happy  girl, 

With  step  as  light  as  summer  air, 
Eyes  glad  with  smiles,  and  brow  of  pearl, 
Shadowed  by  many  a  careless  curl 

Of  unconfined  and  flowing  hair; 
A  seeming  child  in  everything, 

Save    thoughtful    brow    and    ripening 

charms, 
As  Nature  wears  the  smile  of  Spring 

When  sinking  into  Summer's  arms. 

A  mind  rejoicing  in  the  light  I0 

Which    melted    through    its    graceful 

bower, 

Leaf  after  leaf,  dew-moist  and  bright, 
And  stainless  in  its  holy  white, 

Unfolding  like  a  morning  flower: 
A  heart,  which,  like  a  fine-toned  lute, 

With  every  breath  of  feeling  woke, 
And,  even  when  the  tongue  was  mute, 

From  eye  and  lip  in  music  spoke. 

How   thrills   once   more   the   lengthening 
chain 

Of  memory,  at  the  thought  of  thee!    2° 
Old  hopes  which  long  in  dust  have  lain, 
Old  dreams,  come  thronging  back  again, 

And  boyhood  lives  again  in  me; 
I  feel  its  glow  upon  my  cheek, 

Its  fulness  of  the  heart  is  mine, 
As  when  I  leaned  to  hear  thee  speak, 

Or  raised  my  dojibjtful  eye  to  thine. 

I  hear  again  thy  low  replies, 

I  feel  thy  arm  within  my  own, 
And  timidly  again  uprise  3° 

The  fringed  lids  of  hazel  eyes, 

With  soft  brown  tresses  overblown. 
Ah !  memories  of  sweet  summer  eves, 

Of  moonlit  wave  and  willowy  way, 
Of  stars  and  flowers,  and  dewy  leaves, 

And  smiles  and  tones  more  dear  than 
they! 

Ere  this,  thy  quiet  eye  hath  smiled 

My  picture  of  thy  youth  to  see, 
When,  half  a  woman,  half  a  child, 
Thy  very  artlessness  beguiled,  4° 

And  folly's  self  seemed  wise  in  thee; 
I  too  can  smile,  when  o'er  that  hour 

The  lights  of  memory  backward  stream, 
Yet  feel  the  while  that  manhood's  power 

Is  vainer  than  my  boyhood's  dream. 

Years  have  passed  on,  and  left  their  trace, 

Of  graver  care  and  deeper  thought; 
And  unto  me  the  calm,  cold  face 
Of  manhood,  and  to  thee  the  grace 
Of  woman's  pensive  beauty  brought,   so 


More   wide,    perchance,    for   blame    than 

praise, 
The    school  -  boy's    humble    name    has 

flown  ; 

Thine,  in  the  green  and  quiet  ways 
Of  unobtrusive  goodness  known. 

And  wider  yet  in  thought  and  deed 

Diverge  our  pathways,  one  in  youth  ; 
Thine  the  Genevan's  sternest  creed, 
While  answers  to  my  spirit's  need 

The  Derby  dalesman's  simple  truth. 
For  thee,  the  priestly  rite  and  prayer,     6° 

And  holy  day,  and  solemn  psalm; 
For  me,  the  silent  reverence  where 

My  brethren  gather,  slow  and  calm. 

Yet  hath  thy  spirit  left  on  me 

An  impress  Time  has  worn  not  out, 
And  something  of  myself  in  thee, 
A  shadow  from  the  past,  I  see, 

Lingering,  even  yet,  thy  way  about; 
Not  wholly  can  the  heart  unlearn 

That  lesson  of  its  better  hours,  7° 

Not  yet  has  Time's  dull  footstep  worn 

To  common  dust  that  path  of  flowers. 

Thus,  while  at  times  before  our  eyes 

The  shadows  melt,  and  fall  apart, 
And,  smiling  through  them,  round  us  lies 
The  warm  light  of  our  morning  skies,  —  ^* 


The  Indian  Summer  of  the  heart! 
In  secret  sympathies  of  mind, 

In  founts  of  feeling  which  retain 
Their  pure,  fresh  flow,  we  yet  may  find 

Our  early  dreams  not  wholly  vain  ! 


1841. 


1843. 


HAMPTON  BEACH 


The  sunlight  glitters  keen  and  bright, 

Where,  miles  away, 
Lies  stretching  to  my  dazzled  sight 
A  luminous  belt,  a  misty  light, 
Beyond  the  dark  pine  bluffs  and  wastes  of 
sandy  gray. 

The  tremulous  shadow  of  the  Sea ! 

Against  its  ground 
Of  silvery  light,  rock,  hill,  and  tree, 
Still  as  a  picture,  clear  and  free, 
With  varying  outline  mark  the  coast  for 
•         miles  around.  10 

On  —  on  —  we  tread   with   loose  -  flung 
rein 
Our  seaward  way, 

Through    dark-green    fields    and    blos 
soming  grain, 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


243 


Where  the  wild  brier-rose  skirts  the  lane, 
And  bends  above  our  heads  the  flowering 
locust  spray. 

Ha!  like  a  kind  hand  on  my  brow 

Comes  this  fresh  breeze, 
Cooling  its  dull  and  feverish  glow, 
While  through  my  being  seems  to  flow 
The  breath  of  a  new  life,  the  healing  of 
the  seas!  — — »» 

Now  rest  we,  where  this  grassy  mound 

His  feet  hath  set 

In  the  great  waters,  which  have  bound 
His  granite  ankles  greenly  round 
With  long  and  tangled  moss,  and  weeds 
with  cool  spray  wet. 

Good-by  to  Pain  and  Care!    I  take 

Mine  ease  to-day : 

Here  where  these  sunny  waters  break, 
And  ripples  this  keen  breeze,  I  shake 
All   burdens    from   the   heart,   all   weary 
thoughts  away.  30 

I  draw  a  freer  breath,  I  seem 

Like  all  I  see — 
Waves    in    the    sun,    the   white-winged 

gleam 

Of  sea-birds  in  the  slanting  beam, 
And    far-off    sails    which   flit   before   the 
southwind  free. 

So  when  Time's  veil  shall  fall  asunder, 

The  soul  may  know 
No  fearful  change,  nor  sudden  wonder, 
Nor  sink  the  weight  of  mystery  under, 
But  with  the  upward  rise,  and  with  the 
vastness  grow.  40 

And  all  we  shrink  from  now  may  seem 

No  new  revealing; 
Familiar  as  our  childhood's  stream, 
Or  pleasant  memory  of  a  dream 
The  loved  and  cherished  Past  upon  the 
new  life  stealing. 

Serene  and  mild  the  untried  light 
May  have  its  dawning; 

And,  as  in  summer's  northern  night 
.     The  evening  and  the  dawn  unite, 
[The  sunset  hues  of  Time  blend  with  the 
y       soul's  new  morning.  50 

I  sit  alone;  in  foam  and  spray 

Wave  after  wave 
Breaks  on  the  rocks  which,  stern  and 

gray. 

Shoulder  the  broken  tide  away, 
Or  murmurs   hoarse  and  strong  through 
mossy  cleft  and  cave. 


What  heed  I  of  the  dusty  land 

And  noisy  town? 
I  see  the  mighty  deep  expand 
From  its  white  line  of  glimmering  sand 
To  where  the  blue  of  heaven  on  bluer 
waves  shuts  down !  6° 

In  listless  quietude  of  mind, 

I  yield  to  all 
The    change   of   cloud    and    wave   and 

wind; 

And  passive  on  the  flood  reclined, 
I  wander  with  the  waves,  and  with  them 
rise  and  fall. 

But   look,   thou   dreamer !   wave   and 
shore 

In  shadow  lie; 
The   night-wind    warns    me    back   once 

more 

To  where  my  native  hill-tops  o'er, 
Bends   like  an  arch  of   fire  the   glowing 
sunset  sky.  7° 

So  then,  beach,  bluff,  and  wave,  fare 
well! 

I  bear  with  me 

No  token  stone  nor  glittering  shell, 
But  long  and  oft  shall  Memory  tell 
Of  this  brief  thoughtful  hour  of  musing 
by  the  Sea. 

If 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA  * 

The  blast  from  Freedom's  Northern  hills, 
upon  its  Southern  way, 

Bears  greeting  to  Virginia  from  Massa 
chusetts  Bay : 

No  word  of  haughty  challenging,  nor 
battle  bugle's  peal, 

Nor  steady  tread  of  marching  files,  nor 
clang  of  horsemen's  steel, 

1  Written  on  reading  an  account  of  the  pro 
ceedings  of  the  citizens  of  Norfolk,  Va.,  in  ref 
erence  to  George  Latimer,  the  alleged  fugitive 
slave,  who  was  seized  in  Boston  without  warrant 
at  the  request  of  James  B.  Grey,  of  Norfolk, 
claiming  to  be  his  master.  The  case  caused  great 
excitement  North  and  South,  and  led  to  the 
presentation  of  a  petition  to  Congress,  signed  by 
more  than  fifty  thousand  citizens  of  Massa 
chusetts,  calling  for  such  laws  and  proposed 
amendments  to  the  Constitution  as  should  re 
lieve  the  Commonwealth  from  all  further  par 
ticipation  in  the  crime  of  oppression.  George 
Latimer  himself  was  finally  given "  free  papers 
for  the  sum  of  four  hundred  dollars.  {Author's 
Note.) 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


No  trains  of  deep-mouthed  cannon  along 

our  highways  go; 
Around  our  silent  arsenals  untrodden  lies 

the  snow; 
And  to  the  land-breeze  of  our  ports,  upon 

their  errands  far, 
A  thousand  sails  of  commerce  swell,  but 

none  are  spread  for  war. 

We  hear  thy  threats,  Virginia !  thy  stormy 

words  and  high 
Swell    harshly    on    the    Southern    winds 

which  melt  along  our  sky ;  I0 

Yet  not  one  brown,  hard  hand   foregoes 

its  honest  labor  here, 
No  hewer  of  our  mountain  oaks  suspends 

his  axe  in  fear. 

Wild  are  the  waves  which  lash  the  reefs 

along  St.  George's  bank; 
Cold  on  the  shores  of  Labrador  the  fog 

lies  white  and  dank; 
Through  storm,   and   wave,  and  blinding 

mist,  stout  are  the  hearts  which  man 
The    fishing-smacks    of    Marblehead,    the 

seaboats  of  Cape  Ann. 

The  cold  north  light  and  wintry  sun  glare 

on  their  icy  forms, 
Bent  grimly  o'er  their  straining  lines  or 

wrestling  with  the  storms ; 
Free  as  the  winds  they  drive  before,  rough 

as  the  waves  they  roam, 
They  laugh  to  scorn   the  slaver's  threat 

against  their  rocky  home.  2° 

What  means  the  Old  Dominion?     Hath 

she  forgot  the  day 
When  o'er  her  conquered  valleys   swept 

the  Briton's  steel  array? 
How,  side  by  side  wtih  sons  of  hers,  the 

Massachusetts  men 
Encountered^Tarleton's  charge  of  fire,  and 

stout  Cornwallis,  then? 

Forgets  she  how  the  Bay  State,  in  answer 

to  the  call 
Of  her  old  House  of  Burgesses,  spoke  out 

from  Faneuil  Hall? 
When,  echoing  back  her  Henry's  cry,  came 

pulsing  on  each  breath 
Of  Northern  winds  the  thrilling  sounds 

of  "Liberty  or  Death !" 

What  asks  the  Old  Dominion?  If  now 

her  sons  have  proved 

False  to  their  fathers'  memory,  false  to 

the  faith  they  loved;  3° 


If  she  can  scoff  at  Freedom,  and  its  great 

charter  spurn, 
Must    we    of    Massachusetts    from   truth 

and  duty  turn? 

We  hunt  your  bondmen,  flying  from  Sla 
very's  hateful  hell ; 

Our  voices,  at  your  bidding,  take  up  the 
bloodhound's  yell; 

We  gather,  at  your  summons,  above  our 
fathers'  graves, 

From  Freedom's  holy  altar-horns  to  tear 
your  wretched  slaves ! 

Thank  God !  not  yet  so  vilely  can  Massa 
chusetts  bow ; 

The  spirit  of  her  early  time  is  with  her 
even  now ; 

Dream  not  because  her  Pilgrim  blood 
moves  slow  and  calm  and  cool, 

She  thus  can  stoop  her  chainless  neck,  a 
sister's  slave  and  tool !  4° 

All  that  a  sister  State  should  do,  all  that 
a  free  State  may, 

Heart,  hand,  and  purse  we  proffer,  as  in 
our  early  day ; 

But  that  one  dark  loathsome  burden  ye 
must  stagger  with  alone, 

And  reap  the  bitter  harvest  which  ye  your 
selves  have  sown ! 

Hold,    while    ye    may,    your    struggling 

slaves,  and  burden  God's  free  air 
With    woman's    shriek   beneath    the    lash, 

and  manhood's  wild  despair ; 
Cling  closer  to  the  "cleaving  curse"  that 

writes  upon  your  plains 
The  blasting  of  Almighty  wrath  against  a 

land  of  chains. 

Still    shame    your    gallant    ancestry,    the 

cavaliers  of  old, 
By  watching  round  the  shambles   where 

human  flesh  is  sold ;  so 

Gloat  o'er  the  new-born  child,  and  count 

his  market  value,  when 
The  maddened  mother's  cry  of  woe  shall 

pierce  the  slaver's  den ! 

Lower  than   plummet  soundeth,   sink  the 

Virginia  name ; 
Plant,  if  ye  will,  your  fathers'  graves  with 

rankest  weeds  of  shame; 
Be,  if  ye  will,  the  scandal  of  God's  fair 

universe ; 
We  wash  our  hands  forever  of^  your  sin 

and  shame  and  curse. 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


245 


A  voice  from  lips  whereon  the  coal  from 
Freedom's  shrine  hath  been, 

Thrilled,  as  but  yesterday,  the  hearts  of 
Berkshire's  mountain  men : 

The  echoes  of  that  solemn  voice  are  sadly 
lingering  still 

In  all  our  sunny  valleys,  on  every  wind 
swept  hill.  fr 

And  when  the  prowling  man-thief  came 

hunting  for  his  prey 
Beneath    the    very    shadow    of    Bunker's 

shaft  of  gray, 
How,  through  the  free  lips  of  the  son,  the 

father's  warning  spoke; 
How,  from  its  bonds  of  trade  and  sect, 

the  Pilgrim  city  broke ! 

A    hundred    thousand    right    arms    were 

lifted  up  on  high, 
A  hundred  thousand  voices  sent  back  their 

loud  reply; 
Through  the  thronged  towns  of  Essex  the 

startling  summons  rang, 
And  up  from  bench  and  loom  and  wheel 

her  young  mechanics  sprang! 

The  voice  of  free,  broad  Middlesex,  of 

thousands  as  of  one, 
The  shaft  of  Bunker  calling  to  that  of 

Lexington ;  7° 

From    Norfolk's    ancient    villages,    from 

Plymouth's  rocky  bound 
To   where  Nantucket  feels   the  arms   of 

ocean  close  her  round; 

From   rich   and   rural   Worcester,   where 

through  the  calm  repose 
Of  cultured  vales  and  fringing  woods  the 

gentle  Nashua  flows, 
To   where   Wachuset's   wintry  blasts  the 

mountain  larches  stir, 
Swelled  up  to  Heaven  the  thrilling  cry  of 

"God  save  Latimer!" 

And  sandy  Barnstable  rose  up,  wet  with 

the  salt  sea  spray; 
And    Bristol    sent    her    answering    shout 

down  Narragansett  Bay ! 
Along  the  broad  Connecticut  old  Hamp- 

den  felt  the  thrill, 
And  the  cheer  of  Hampshire's  woodmen 

swept  down  from  Holyoke  Hill.       8° 

The  voice  of  Massachusetts!   Of  her  free 

sons  and  daughters, 
Deep  calling  unto  deep  aloud,  the  sound 

of  many  waters ! 


Against   the   burden  of  that  voice   what 

tyrant  power  shall  stand? 
No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State?     No  slave 

upon  her  land ! 

Look  to  it  well,  Virginians!  In  calmness 
we  have  borne, 

In  answer  to  our  faith  and  trust,  your  in 
sult  and  your  scorn ; 

You've  spurned  our  kindest  counsels, 
you've  hunted  for  our  lives; 

And  shaken  round  our  hearths  and  homes 
your  manacles  and  gyves ! 

We  wage  no  war,  we  lift  no  arm,  we  fling 
no  torch  within 

The  fire-damps  of  the  quaking  mine  be 
neath  your  soil  of  sin;  9° 

We  leave  ye  with  your  bondmen,  to 
wrestle,  while  ye  can, 

With  the  strong  upward  tendencies  and 
godlike  soul  of  man! 

But  for  us  and  for  our  children,  the  vow 

which  we  have  given 
For  freedom  and  humanity  is  registered 

in  heaven; 
No  slave-hunt  in  our  borders, — no  pirate 

on  our  strand ! 
No   fetters   in   the   Bay   State, — no    slave 

upon  our  land ! 


The  Liberator,  Jan.  27,  1843. 


1842. 


THE  SHOEMAKERS 

•^•^M 

Ho!  workers  of  the  old  time  styled 

The  Gentle  Craft  of  Leather! 
Young  brothers  of  the  ancient  guild, 

Stand  forth  once  more  together !  /     . 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  olden  merry  manner ! 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  your  blazoned  banner ! 

Rap,  rap!  upon  the  well-worn  stone 

How  falls  the  polished  hammer !          '° 
Rap,  rap !  the  measured  sound  has  grown 

A  quick  and  merry  clamor. 
Now  shape  the  sole !  now  deftly  curl 

The  glossy  vamp  around  it, 
And  bless  the  while  the  bright-eyed  girl 

Whose  gentle  fingers  bound  it ! 

For  you,  along  the  Spanish  main 
A  hundred  keels  are  ploughing, 

For  you,  the  Indian  on  the  plain 
His  lasso-coil  is  throwing; 


246 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


For  you,  deep  glens  with  hemlock  dark 
The  woodman's  fire  is  lighting; 

For  you,  upon  the  oak's  gray  bark, 
The  woodman's  axe  is  smiting. 

For  you,  from  Carolina's  pine 

The  rosin-gum  is  stealing; 
For  you,  the  dark-eyed  Florentine 

Her  silken  skein  is  reeling; 
For  you,  the  dizzy  goatherd  roams 

His  rugged  Alpine  ledges;  3° 

For  you,  round  all  her  shepherd  homes, 

Bloom  England's  thorny  hedges. 

The  foremost  still,  by  day  or  night, 

On  moated  mound  or  heather, 
Where'er  the  need  of  trampled  right 

Brought  toiling  men  together; 
Where  the  free  burghers  from  the  wall 

Defied  the  mail-clad  master, 
Than  yours,  at  Freedom's  trumpet-call, 

No  craftsmen  rallied  faster.  4° 

Let  foplings  sneer,  let  fools  deride, 

Ye  heed  no  idle  scorner; 
Free  hands  and  hearts  are  still  your  pride, 

And  duty  done  your  honor. 
Ye  dare  to  trust,  for  honest  fame, 

The  jury  Time  empanels, 
And  leave  to  truth  each  noble  name 

Which  glorifies  your  annals. 

Thy  songs,  Hans  Sachs,  are  living  yet, 

In  strong  and  hearty  German;  so 

And  Bloomfield's  lay,  and  Gifford's  wit, 

And  patriot  fame  of  Sherman; 
Still  from  his  book,  a  mystic  seer, 

The  soul  of  Behmen  teaches, 
And  England's  priestcraft  shakes  to  hear 

Of  Fox's  leathern  breeches. 

The  foot  is  yours ;  where'er  it  falls, 

It  treads  your  well-wrought  leather, 
On  earthern  floor,  in  marble  halls 

On  carpet,  or  on  heather.  6° 

Still  there  the  sweetest  charm  is  found 

Of  matron  grace  or  vestal's, 
As  Hebe's  foot  bore  nectar  round 

Among  the  old  celestials ! 

Rap,  rap ! — your  stout  and  bluff  brogan, 

With  footsteps  slow  and  weary, 
May  wander  where  the  sky's  blue  span 

Shuts  down  upon  the  prairie. 
On  Beauty's  foot  your  slippers  glance, 

By  Saratoga's  fountains,  7° 

Or  twinkle  down  the  summer  dance 

Beneath  the  Crystal  Mountains ! 


The  red  brick  to  the  mason's  hand, 

The  brown  earth  to  the  tiller's 
The  shoe  in  yours  shall  wealth  command, 

Like  fairy  Cinderella's ! 
As  they  who  shunned  the  household  maid 

Beheld  the  crown  upon  her, 
So  all  shall  see  your  toil  repaid 

With  hearth  and  home  and  honor.        &> 

Then  let  the  toast  be  freely  quaffed, 

In  water  cool  and  brimming, — 
"All  honor  to  the  good  old  Craft, 

Its  merry  men  and  women !" 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  old  time's  pleasant  manner: 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  his  blazoned  banner! 


1845, 


THE  HUSKERS 


It  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  the  long 

autumnal  rain 
Had   left    the   summer   harvest-fields    all 

green  with  grass  again; 
The  first  sharp  frosts  had  fallen,  leaving 

all  the  woodlands  gay 
With  the  hues   of  summer's  rainbow,  or 

the  meadow-flowers  of  May. 

Through  a  thin,  dry  mist,  that  morning, 
the  sun  rose  broad  and  red, 

At  first  a  rayless  disk  of  fire,  he  bright 
ened  as  he  sped; 

Yet  even  his  noontide  glory  fell  chast 
ened  and  subdued, 

On  the  cornfields  and  the  orchards  and 
softly  pictured  wood. 

And  all  that  quiet  afternoon,  slow  sloping 

to  the  night, 
He  wove  with  golden  shuttle  the  haze  with 

yellow  light ;  J0 

Slanting  through  the  painted  beeches,  he 

glorified  the  hill; 
And,   beneath   it,   pond  and   meadow   lay 

brighter,  greener  still. 

And  shouting  boys  in  woodland  haunts 
caught  glimpses  of  that  sky, 

Flecked  by  the  many-tinted  leaves,  and 
laughed,  they  knew  not  why; 

And  school-girls,  gay  with  aster-flowers, 
beside  the  meadow  brooks, 

Mingled  the  glow  of  autumn  with  the  sun 
shine  of  sweet  looks. 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


247 


From  spire  and  barn  looked  westerly  the 
patient  weathercocks; 

But  even  the  birches  on  the  hill  stood  mo 
tionless  as  rocks. 

No  sound  was  in  the  woodlands,  save  the 
squirrel's  dropping  shell, 

And  the  yellow  leaves  among  the  boughs, 
low  rustling  as  they  fell.  M 

The  summer  grains  were  harvested;  the 

stubble-fields  lay  dry, 
Where    Tune   winds   rolled,   in   light   and 

shade,  the  pale  green  waves  of  rye ; 
But  still,  on  gentle  hill-slopes,  in  valleys 

fringed  with  wood, 
Ungathered,    bleaching    in    the    sun,    the 

heavy  corn  crop  stood. 

Bent  low,  by  autumn's  wind  and  rain, 

through  husks  that,  dry  and  sere, 
Unfolded     from     their     ripened     charge, 

shone  out  the  yellow  ear; 
Beneath,  the  turnip  lay  concealed,  in  many 

a  verdant  fold, 
And   glistened    in   the   slanting   light    the 

pumpkin's  sphere  of  gold. 

There  wrought  the  busy  harvesters;  and 

many  a  creaking  wain 
Bore  slowly  to  the  long  barn-floor  its  load 

of  husk  and  grain;  3° 

Till  broad  and  red,  as  when  he  rose,  the 

sun  sank  down,  at  last, 
And  like  a  merry  guest's  farewell,  the  day 

in  brightness  passed. 

And  lo !  as  through  the  western  pines,  on 

meadow,  stream,  and  pond, 
Flamed  the  red  radiance  of  a  sky,  set  all 

afire  beyond, 
Slowly  o'er  the  eastern  sea-bluffs  a  milder 

glory  shone, 
And   the   sunset  and  the   moonrise  were 

mingled  into  one ! 

As  thus  into  the  quiet  night  the  twilight 

lapsed  away, 
And  deeper  in  the  brightening  moon  the 

tranquil  shadows  lay ; 
From  many  a  brown  old  farm-house,  and 

hamlet  without  name,         . 
Their  milking  and  their  home-tasks  done, 

the  merry  huskers  came.  40 

Swung  o'er  the  heaped-up  harvest,   from 

pitchforks  in  the  mow, 
Shone   dimly    down   the   lanterns   on   the 

pleasant  scene  below; 


The  growing   pile   of   husks   behind,   the 

golden  ears  before, 
And  laughing  eyes  and  busy  hands   and 

brown  cheeks  glimmering  o'er. 

Half  hidden,  in  a  quiet  nook,  serene  of 

look  and  heart, 
Talking  their  old  times  over,  the  old  men 

sat  apart; 
While  up  and  down  the  unhusked  pile,  or 

nestling  in  its  shade, 
At  hide-and-seek,  with  laugh  and  shout, 

the  happy  children  played. 

Urged   by   the   good    host's    daughter,    a 

maiden  young  and  fair, 
Lifting  to  light  her  sweet  blue  eyes  and 

pride  of  soft  brown  hair,  s° 

The  master  of  the  village  school,  sleek  of 

hair  and  smooth  of  tongue, 
To  the  quaint  tune  of  some  old  psalm,  a 

husking-ballad  sung. 

THE  CORN   SONG 

Heap  high  the  farmer's  wintry  hoard ! 

Heap  high  the  golden  corn ! 
No  richer  gift  has  Autumn  poured 

From  out  her  lavish  horn ! 

Let  other  lands,  exulting,  glean 

The  apple  from  the  pine, 
The  orange  from  its  glossy  green, 

The  cluster  from  the  vine;  60 

We  better  love  the  hardy  gift 

Our  rugged  vales  bestow, 
To  cheer  us  when  the  storm  shall  drift 

Our  harvest-fields  with  snow. 

Through   vales   of   grass   and   meads    of 
flowers 

Our  ploughs  their  furrows  made, 
While  on  the  hills  the  sun  and  showers 

Of  changeful  April  played. 

We  dropped  the  seed  o'er  hill  and  plain 
Beneath  the  sun  of  May,  7° 

And  frightened  from  our  sprouting  grain 
The  robber  crows  away. 

All  through  the  long,  bright  days  of  June 
Its  leaves  grew  green  and  fair, 

And  waved  in  hot  midsummer's  noon 
Its  soft  and  yellow  hair. 

And  now,  with  autumn's  moonlit  eves, 

Its  harvest-time  has  come, 
We  pluck  away  the  frosted  leaves, 

And  bear  the  treasure  home.  *> 


248 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


There,  when  the  snows  about  us  drift, 

And  winter  winds  are  cold, 
Fair  hands  the  broken  grain  shall  sift, 

And  knead  its  meal  of  gold. 

Let  vapid  idlers  loll  in  silk 

Around  their  costly  board; 
Give  us  the  bowl  of  samp  and  milk, 

By  homespun  beauty  poured ! 

Where'er  the  wide  old  kitchen  hearth 
Sends  up  its  smoky  curls*  9° 

Who  will  not  thank  the  kindly  earth, 
And  bless  our  farmer  girls ! 

Then  shame  on  all  the  proud  and  vain, 

Whose  folly  laughs  to  scorn 
The  blessing  of  our  hardy  grain, 

Our  wealth  of  golden  corn ! 

Let  earth  withhold  her  goodly  root, 

Let  mildew  blight  the  rye, 
Give  to  the  worm  the  orchard's  fruit, 

The  wheat-field  to  the  fly:  I0° 

But  let  the  good  old  crop  adorn 

The  hills  our  fathers  trod; 
Still  let  us,  for  his  golden  corn, 

Send  up  our  thanks  to  God ! 

1847. 


For  lo !  the  pale  land-seekers  come,  with 

eager  eyes  of  gain, 
Wide  scattering,  like  the  bison  herds  on 

broad  Salada's  plain. 

Let    Sacramento's    herdsmen    heed    what 

sound  the  winds  bring  down 
Of  footsteps  on  the  crisping  snow,  from 

cold  Nevada's  crown ! 
Full  hot  and  fast  the  Saxon  rides,  with 

rein  of  travel  slack, 
And,  bending  o'er  his  saddle,  leaves  the 

sunrise  at  his  back, 
.By   many   a   lonely   river,   and   gorge  of 

fir  and  pine, 
On    many   a   wintry   hill-top,   his    nightly 

camp-fires  shine. 

O  countrymen  and  brothers !  that  land  of 

lake  and  plain, 
Of   salt    wastes   alternating   with   valleys 

fat  with  grain,  2° 

Of  mountains  white  with  winter,  looking 

downward,  cold,  serene, 
On   their    feet   with    spring-vines   tangled 

and  lapped  in  softest  green; 
Swift  through  whose  black  volcanic  gates, 

o'er  many  a  sunny  vale, 
Wind-like  the  Arapahoe  sweeps  the  bison's 

dusty  trail ! 


THE   CRISIS 

Written  on  learning  the  terms  of  the 
treaty  with  Mexico. 

Across  the  Stony  Mountains,  o'er  the 
desert's  drouth  and  sand, 

The  circles  of  our  empire  touch  the 
western  ocean's  strand; 

From  slumberous  Timpanogos,  to  Gila, 
wild  and  free, 

Flowing  down  from  Nuevo-Leon  to  Cali 
fornia's  sea; 

And  from  the  mountains  of  the  east,  to 
Santa  Rosa's  shore, 

The  eagles  of  Mexitli  shall  beat  the  air 
no  more. 

O   Vale  of   Rio   Bravo !    Let  thy  simple 

children  weep; 
Close  watch  about  their  holy  fire  let  maids 

of  Pecos  keep; 
Let    Taos    send    her    cry    across    Sierra 

Madre's  pines, 
And  Santa  Barbara  toll  her  bells  amidst 

her  corn  and  vines;  I0 


Great  spaces  yet  untravelled,  great  lakes 

whose  mystic  shores 
The  Saxon  rifle  never  heard,  nor  dip  of 

Saxon  oars ; 
Great  herds   that  wander  all  unwatched, 

wild  steeds  that  none  have  tamed, 
Strange    fish    in    unknown    streams,    and 

birds  the  Saxon  never  named ; 
Deep    mines,     dark    mountain     crucibles, 

where  Nature's  chemic  powers 
Work  out  the  Great  Designer's  will;  all 

these  ye  say  are  ours !  3° 

Forever  ours !  for  good  or  ill,  on  us  the 

burden  lies; 
God's  balance,  watched  by  angels,  is  hung 

across  the  skies. 
Shall  Justice,   Truth,   and   Freedom   turn 

the  poised  and  trembling  scale? 
Or    shall    the    Evil    triumph,    and    robber 

Wrong  prevail? 
Shall  the  broad  land  o'er  which  our  flag 

in  starry  splendour  waves, 
Forego  through  us  its  freedom,  and  bear 

the  tread  of  slaves? 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


249 


The  day  is  breaking  in  the  East  of  which 

the  prophets  told, 
And   brightens  up   the   sky  of   Time  the 

Christian  Age  of  Gold ; 
Old    Might    to    Right    is    yielding,    battle 

blade  to  clerkly  pen, 
Earth's    monarchs    are    her   peoples,   and 

her  serfs  stand  up  as  men ;  4° 

The  isles  rejoice  together,  in  a  day  are 

nations  born. 
And  the  slave  walks   free  in  Tunis,  and 

by  Stamboul's  Golden  Horn ! 

Is   this,    O   countrymen   of   mine !    a   day 

for  us  to  sow 
The    soil    of    new-gained     empire    with 

slavery's  seeds  of  woe? 
To  feed  with  our  fresh  life-blood  the  Old 

World's  cast-off  crime, 
Dropped,  like  some  monstrous  early  birth, 

from  the  tired  lap  of  Time? 
To  run  anew  the  evil  race  the  old  lost 

nations  ran, 
And   die  like  them   of  unbelief  of  God, 

and  wrong  of  man? 

Great  Heaven!    Is  this  our  mission?   End 

in  this  the  prayers  and  tears, 
The  toil,  the  strife,  the  watchings  of  our 

younger,  better  years?  so 

Still  as  the  Old  World  rolls  in  light,  shall 

ours  in  shadow  turn, 
A  beamless  Chaos,  cursed  of  God,  through 

outer  darkness  borne? 
Where  the   far  nations  look   for  light,  a 

blackness  in  the  air? 
Where  for  words  of  hope  they  listened, 

the  long  wail  of  despair? 

EThe  Crisis   presses  on  us;    face  to   face 

with  us  it  stands, 
;With    solemn    lips    of   question,    like    the 

Sphinx  in  Egypt's  sands ! 
This  day  we  fashion  Destiny,  our  web  of 

Fate  we  spin ; 
This    day    for    all    hereafter    choose    we 

holiness  or  sin ; 
Even  now  from  starry  Gerizim,  or  Ebal's 

cloudy  crown, 
We  call  the  dews  of  blessing  or  the  bolts 

of  cursing  down!  <*> 

By  all  for  which  the  martyrs  bore  their 

agony  and  shame ; 
By  all  the  warning  words  of  truth  with 

which  the  prophets  came; 


By  the  Future  which  awaits  us ;  by  all  the 

hopes  which  cast 
Their   faint  and   trembling  beams   across 

the  blackness  of  the  Past ; 
And  by  the  blessed  thought  of  Him  who 

for  Earth's   freedom  died, 
O    my   people !    O    my   brothers !    let   us 

choose  the  righteous  side. 

So  shall  the  Northern  pioneer  go  joyful 
on  his  way; 

To  wed  Penobscot's  waters  to  San  Fran 
cisco's  bay ; 

To  make  the  rugged  places  smooth,  and 
sow  the  vales  with  grain; 

And    bear,    with    Liberty    and    Law,    the 
Bible  in  his  train ;  7° 

The   mighty   West   shall   bless   the   East, 
and  sea  shall  answer  sea,. 

And  mountain  unto  mountain  call,  Praise 
God,  for  we  are  free ! 

1848. 


So   fallen !   so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn 

Which  once  he  wore ! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 

Forevermore ! 


Revile  him  not,  the  Tempter  hath 

A  snare  for  all : 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Befit  his  fall! 


Oh,  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might  I0 

Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 
Falls  back  in  night. 

1  This  poem  was  the  outcome  of  the  surprise 
and  grief  and  forecast  of  evil  consequences  which 
I  felt  on  reading  the  Seventh  of  March  speech 
of  Daniel  Webster  in  support  of  the  "Com 
promise,"  and  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law.  No 
partisan  or  personal  enmity  dictated  it.  On  the 
contrary  my  admiration  of  the  splendid  person 
ality  and  intellectual  power  of  the  great  senator 
was  never  stronger  than  when  I  laid  down  his 
speech,  and,  in  one  of  the  saddest  moments  of 
my  life,  penned  my  protest.  .  .  . 

But  death  softens  all  resentments,*  and  the 
consciousness  of  a  common  inheritance  of  frailty 
and  weakness  modifies  the  severity  of  judgment. 
Years  after,  in  "The  Lost  Occasion,"  I  gave 
utterance  to  an  almost  universal  regret  that  the 
great  statesman  did  not  live  to  see  the  flag  which 
he  loved  trampled  under  the  feet  of  Slavery, 
and,  in  view  of  this  desecration,  make  his  last 
days  glorious  in  defence  of  "Liberty  and  Union, 
one  and  inseparable."  (Author's  Note.) 


250 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Scorn !  would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 

From  hope  and  heaven ! 

Let  not  the  land  once  proud  of  him 

Insult   him   now, 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow.  2° 

But   let   its   humbled   sons,   instead, 

From  sea  to"  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  naught 

Save   power   remains ; 
A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 

Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone;  from  those  great  eyes 
The  soul  has  fled:  30 

When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 
The  man  is  dead ! 

Then  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame ! 


1850. 


The  Era,  May  2,  1850. 


KOSSUTH  * 

Type    of    two    mighty    continents ! — com 
bining 

The     strength     of     Europe     with     the 
warmth  and  glow 

Of  Asian  song  and  prophecy, — the   shin 
ing 

Of    Orient    splendors    over    Northern 
snow ! 

Who  shall  receive  him?     Who,  unblush 
ing,  speak 

Welcome  to  him,  who  while  he  strove  to 
break 

The  Austrian  yoke   from   Magyar  necks, 
smote  off 

At  the  same  blow  the  fetters  of  the  serf, 

Rearing  the  altar  of  his  Fatherland 
On    the.   firm    base    of    freedom,    and 
thereby  10 

1  It  can  scarcely  be  necessary  to  say  that  there 
are  elements  in  the  character  and  passages  in 
the  history  of  the  great  Hungarian  statesman 
and  orator,  which  necessarily  command  the  ad 
miration  of  those,  even,  who  believe  that  no 
political  revolution  was  ever  worth  the  price  of 
human  blood.  (Author's  Note.) 


Lifting   to    Heaven   a   patriot's    stainless 

hand, 
Mocked  not  the  God  of  Justice  with  a 

lie! 
Who    shall    be    Freedom's    mouthpiece? 

Who  shall  give 

Her  welcoming  cheer  to  the  great   fugi 
tive? 

Not  he  who,  all  her  sacred  trusts  betray 
ing, 
In  scourging  back  to  slavery's  hell  of 

pain 
The    swarthy    Kossuths    of    our    land 

again ! 
Not  he  whose   utterance   now   from   lips 

designed 

The  bugle-march  of  Liberty  to  wind, 
And  call  her  hosts  beneath  the  breaking 
light,  20 

The  keen  reveille  of  her  morn  of  fight, 
Is   but   the   hoarse   note   of   the   blood 
hound's  baying, 

The  wolf's   long  howl  behind  the   bond 
man's  flight ! 
Oh   for  the   tongue  of  him  who   lies   at 

rest 

In  Quincy's  shade  of  patrimonial  trees, 
Last  of  the  Puritan  tribunes  and  the  best 
To  lend  a  voice  to   Freedom's   sympa 
thies, 

And  hail  the  coming  of  the  noblest  guest 
The   Old   World's   wrong  has  given   the 
New  World  of  the  West! 

1851. 


PICTURES 


Light,  warmth,   and  sprouting  greenness, 

and  o'er  all 

Blue,  stainless,  steel-bright  ether,  rain 
ing   down 
Tranquillity      upon      the      deep-hushed 

town, 

The  freshening  meadows,  and  the  hill 
sides   brown; 
Voice    of    the    west-wind    from    the 

hills  of  pine, 
And  the  brimmed  river  from  its   distant 

fall, 

Low  hum  of  bees,  and  joyous  interlude 
Of  bird-songs  in  the  streamlet-skirting 

wood, — 
Heralds  and   prophecies  of   sound   and 

sight, 

Blessed   forerunners  of  the  warmth   and 
light,  I0 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


251 


Attendant  angels  to  the  house  of  prayer, 
With  reverent  footsteps  keeping  pace 

with  mine, — 
Once    more,    through    God's    great    love, 

with  you  I  share 

A  morn  of  resurrection  sweet  and  fair 
As  that  which  saw,  of  old,  in  Pales 
tine, 

Immortal  Love  uprising  in  fresh  bloom 
From  the  dark  night  and  winter  of  the 
tomb! 

ii 
White    with    its    sun-bleached    dust,    the 

pathway   winds 
Before   me;   dust   is   on   the   shrunken 

grass, 

And  on  the  trees  beneath  whose  boughs 

I  pass;  2° 

Frail    screen   against   the    Hunter   of 

the  sky, 

Who,  glaring  on  me  with  his  lidless  eye, 
While    mounting    with    his    dog-star 

high  and  higher 

Ambushed  in  light  intolerable,  unbinds 
The   burnished   quiver   of   his    shafts 

of  fire. 
Between  me  and  the  hot  fields  of  his 

South 

A  tremulous  glow,  as  from  a  furnace- 
mouth, 

Glimmers   and    swims   before    my   daz 
zled  sight, 

As  if  the  burning  arrows  of  his  ire 

Broke  as  they   fell,  and  shattered  into 

light;  30 

Yet  on  my  cheek  I  feel  the  western  wind, 

And  hear  it  telling  to  the  orchard  trees, 

And  to  the   faint  and   flower- forsaken 

bees, 
Tales    of    fair    meadows,    green    with 

constant  streams, 

And  mountains  rising  blue  and  cool  be 
hind, 
Where  in  moist  dells  the  purple  orchis 

gleams, 
And  starred  with  white  the  virgin's  bower 

is  twined. 

So  the  o'erwearied  pilgrim,  as  he  fares 
Along  life's  summer  waste,  at  times  is 

fanned, 

Even  at  noontide,  by  the  cool,  sweet  airs 
Of  a  serener  and  a  holier  land,  41 

Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  as  the  dew  fall 

bland. 
Breath  of  the  blessed  Heaven  for  which 

we  pray, 

Blow  from  the  eternal  hills !   make  glad 
our  earthly  way ! 

1852. 


FIRST-DAY  THOUGHTS 

In  calm  and  cool  and  silence,  once  again 
I  find  my  old  accustomed  place  among 
My  brethren,  where,  perchance,  no  hu 
man  tongue 
Shall  utter  words ;  where  never  hymn 

is  sung, 

Nor  deep-toned  organ  blown,  nor  cen 
ser   swung, 

Nor   dim   light   falling  through   the   pic 
tured  pane ! 

There,  syllabled  by  silence,  let  me  hear 
The  still  small  voice  which  reached  the 

prophet's  ^ear ; 

Read  in  my  heart  a  still  diviner  law 
Than  Israel's  leader  on  his  tables  saw !    10 
There  let  me  strive  with  each  besetting 

sin, 

Recall  my  wandering  fancies,  and   re 
strain 

The  sore  disquiet  of  a  restless  brain ; 
And,  as  the  path  of  duty  is  made  plain, 
May    grace    be    given    that    I    may    walk 

therein, 
Not    like    the    hireling,    for    his    selfish 

gain, 
With    backward    glances    and    reluctant 

tread, 

Making  a  merit  of  his*  coward  dread, 
But,  cheerful,   in  the   light  around  me 

thrown, 

Walking  as  one  to  pleasant  service  led;  «> 
Doing  God's  will  as  if  it  were  my  own, 
Yet    trusting    not    in    mine,    but    in    his 
strength  alone! 

1852. 

SUMMER    BY    THE    LAKESIDE 
LAKE   WINNIPESAUKEE 

I.    NOON 

White  clouds,  whose  shadows  haunt  the 

deep, 

Light  mists,  whose  soft  embraces  keep 
The  sunshine  on  the  hills  asleep! 

O  isles  of  calm !  O  dark,  still  wood ! 
And  stiller  skies  that  overbrood 
Your  rest  with  deeper  quietude ! 

O    shapes    and    hues,    dim    beckoning, 

through 

Yon  mountain  gaps,  my  longing  view 
Beyond  the  purple  and  the  blue, 

To  stiller  sea  and  greener  land,  '° 

And  softer  lights  and  airs  more  bland, 
And  skies, — the  hollow  of  God's  hand! 


252 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Transfused    through    you,    O    mountain 

friends ! 

With  mine  your  solemn  spirit  blends, 
And  life  no  more  hath  separate  ends. 

I  read  each  misty  mountain  sign, 
I  know  the  voice  of  wave  and  pine, 
And  I  am  yours,  and  ye  are  mine. 

Life's  burdens  fall,  its  discords  cease, 
I  lapse  into  the  glad  release  2° 

Of  Nature's  own  exceeding  peace. 

O  welcome  calm  of  heart  and  mind! 
As  falls  yon  fir-tree's  loosened  rind 
To  leave  a  tenderer  growth  behind, 

So  fall  the  weary  years  away; 
A  child  again,  my  head  I  lay 
Upon  the  lap  of  this  sweet  day. 

This  western  wind  hath  Lethean  powers, 
Yon  noonday  cloud  nepenthe   showers, 
The  lake  is  white  with  lotus-flowers !      3° 

Even  Duty's  voice  is  faint  and  low, 
And  slumberous  Conscience,  waking  slow, 
Forgets  her  blotted  scroll  to  show. 

The   Shadow  which  pursues  us  all, 
Whose  ever-nearing  steps  appall, 
Whose  voice  we  hear  behind  us  call, — 

That  Shadow  blends  with  mountain  gray, 
It  speaks  but  what  the  light  waves  say, — 
Death  walks  apart  from  Fear  to-day ! 

Rocked  on  her  breast,  these  pines  and  I  4° 
Alike  on  Nature's  love  rely ; 
And  equal  seems  to  live  or  die. 

Assured  that  He  whose  presence  fills 
With  light  the  spaces  of  these  hills 
No  evil  to  His  creatures  wills, 

The  simple   faith   remains,  that  He 
Will  do,  whatever  that  may  be, 
The  best  alike   for  man  and  tree, 

What  mosses  over  one  shall  grow, 
What  light  and  life  the  other  know,      5° 
Unanxious,  leaving  Him  to  show. 

II.    EVENING 

Yon  mountain's  side  is  black  with  night. 
While,   broad-orbed,   o'er   its   gleaming 
crown 

The  moon,  slow-rounding  into  sight, 
On  the  hushed  inland  sea  looks  down. 


How  start  to  light  the  clustering  isles, 
Each     silver-hemmed !       How     sharply 
show 

The  shadows   of  their   rocky   piles, 
And  tree-tops  in  the  wave  below ! 


mountains 
60 


How    far    and    strange    the 
seem, 

Dim-looking  through  the  pale,  still  light ! 
The  vague,  vast  grouping  of  a  dream, 

They  stretch  into  the  solemn  night. 

Beneath,  lake,  wood,  and  peopled  vale, 
Hushed    by    that    presence    grand    and 
grave, 

Are  silent,  save  the  cricket's  wail, 
And  low  response  of  leaf  and  wave. 

Fair  scenes !  whereto  the  Day  and  Night 
Make  rival  love,  I  leave  ye  soon, 

What  time  before  the  eastern  light  7° 
The  pale  ghost  of  the  setting  moon 

Shall  hide  behind  yon  rocky  spines, 
And    the    young    archer,    Morn,    shall 
break 

His  arrows  on  the  mountain  pines, 
And,  golden-sandalled,  walk  the  lake! 

Farewell !  around  this  smiling  bay 

Gay-hearted  Health,  and  Life  in  bloom, 

With  lighter  steps  than  mine,  may  stray 
In  radiant  summers  yet  to  come. 

But  none  shall  more  regretful  leave  8° 
These  waters  and  these  hills  than  I : 

Or,  distant,  fonder  dream  how  eve 
Or  dawn  is  painting  wave  and  sky; 

How  rising  moons  shine  sad  and  mild 
On  wooded  isle  and  silvering  bay; 

Or  setting  suns  beyond  the  piled 
And  purple  mountains  lead  the  day; 

Nor  laughing  girl,  nor  bearding  boy, 
Nor    full-pulsed    manhood,    lingering 
here, 

Shall  add,  to  life's  abounding  joy,  9° 
The  charmed  repose  to  suffering  dear. 

Still  waits  kind  Nature  to  impart 
Her  choicest  gifts  to  such  as  gain 

An  entrance  to  her  loving  heart 
Through  the  sharp  discipline  of  pain. 

Forever  from  the  Hand  that  takes 
One  blessing  from  us  others  fall ; 

And,  soon  or  late,  our  Father  makes 
His  perfect  recompense  to  all ! 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


253 


Oh,  watched  by  Silence  and  the  Night,  I0° 
And  folded  in  the  strong  embrace 

Of  the  great  mountains,  with  the  light, 
Of  the  sweet  heavens  upon  thy  face, 

Lake  of  the  Northland !  keep  thy  dower 
Of  beauty  still,  and  while  above 

Thy  solemn  mountains  speak  of  power, 
Be  thou  the  mirror  of  God's  love. 

1853. 


MAUD  MULLER  i 

Maud  Muller  on  a  summer's  day 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And    a    nameless    longing    filled    her 
breast, —  I0 

A  wish  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  -lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  asked  a  draught  from  the  spring  that 

flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bub 
bled  up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup,      2° 

1  The  poem  had  no  real  foundation  in  _  fact, 
though  a  hint  of  it  may  have  been  found  in  re 
calling  an  incident,  trivial  in  itself,  of  a  journey 
on  the  picturesque  Maine  seaboard  with  my  sister 
some  years  before  it  was  written.  We  had 
stopped  to  rest  our  tired  horse  under  the  shade 
of  an  apple-tree,  and  refresh  him  with  water 
from  a  little  brook  which  rippled  through  the 
stone  wall  across  the  road.  A  very  beautiful 
young  girl  in  scantest  summer  attire  was  at 
work  in  the  hay-field,  and  as  we  talked  with  her 
we  noticed  that  she  strove  to  hide  her  bare  feet 
by  raking  hay  over  them,  blushing  as  she  did 
so,  through  the  tan  of  her  cheek  and  neck. 
(Author's  Note.) 


And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On   her    feet   so   bare,   and   her   tattered 
gown. 

"Thanks!"    said    the   Judge;    "a   sweeter 

draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and 

trees, 
Of  the   singing  birds   and   the  humming 

bees; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered 

whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul 

weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown, 
And  her  graceful  ankles,  bare  and  brown ; 
And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise    31 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed :  "Ah  me ! 

That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be ! 

• 

"He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

"My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat ; 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat.    4° 

"I'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay, 
And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each 
day. 

"And  I'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the 

poor, 
And   all   should   bless   me   who   left   our 

door." 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the 

hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 

"A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

"And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair,    so 

"Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay; 


254 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


"No     doubtful    balance    of    rights     and 

wrongs, 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

"But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds, 
And  health  and  quiet  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters,  proud  and 

cold, 
And   his   mother,  vain  of  her  rank  and 

gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone.      6° 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love- 
tune; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet   oft,    in    his    marble    hearth's    bright 

glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go; 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazsi  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise.      7° 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead; 

And   closed   his   eyes   on   his   garnished 

rooms 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover-blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a  secret 

pain, 
"Ah,  that  I  were  free  again! 

"Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day, 
Where    the    barefoot    maiden    raked   her 
hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor, 

And    many    children    played    round    her 

door.  8° 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  childbirth  pain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 


In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein; 

And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face.  90 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned, 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 
Saying  only,  "It  might  have  been."          10° 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge ! 

God  pity  them  both !  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 
The   saddest   are  these :   "It   might   have 
been !" 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 

Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away!      II0 

The  National  Era,  1854. 


LETTER 

From  a  Missionary  of  the  Methodist  Episco 
pal  Church  South,  in  Kansas,  to  a  distinguished 
politician. 

DOUGLAS   MISSION,   August,    1854. 

Last  week — the  Lord  be  praised  for  all 

His  mercies 

To  His  unworthy  servant ! — I  arrived 
Safe  at  the  Mission,  via  Westport;  where 
I  tarried  over  night,  to  aid  in  forming 
A  Vigilance  Committee,  to  send  back, 
In    shirts    of    tar,    and    feather-doublets 

quilted 
With   forty  stripes  save  one,  all  Yankee 

comers, 

Uncircumcised  and  Gentile,  aliens  from 
The  Commonwealth  of  Israel,  who  despise 
The    prize    of    the    high    calling    of    the 

saints,  I0 

Who  plant  amidst  this  heathen  wilderness 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


255 


Pure  gospel  institutions,  sanctified 

By  patriarchal  use.     The  meeting  opened 

With  prayer,  as  was  most  fitting.     Half 

an  hour, 
Or  thereaway,  I  groaned,  and  strove,  and 

wrestled, 

As  Jacob  did  at  Penuel,  till  the  power 
Fell  on  the  people,  and  they  cried  "Amen  !" 
"Glory  to  God !"  and  stamped  and  clapped 

their  hands; 
And  the  rough  river  boatmen  wiped  their 

eyes ; 

"Go  it,  old  hoss !"  they  cried,  and  cursed 
the  niggers —  *° 

Fulfilling  thus  the  word  of  prophecy, 
"Cursed  be  Canaan."     After   prayer,  the 

meeting 
Chose     a     committee — good     and     pious 

men — 

A  Presbyterian  Elder,  Baptist  deacon, 
A    local    preacher,    three    or    four    class- 
leaders, 

Anxious    inquirers,    and    renewed    back 
sliders, 

A  score  in  all — to  watch  the  river  ferry, 
(As  they  of  old  did  watch  the  fords  of 

Jordan,) 
And   cut   off  all   whose   Yankee   tongues 

refuse 

The  Shibboleth  of  the  Nebraska  bill.      3<> 
And  then,  in  answer  to  repeated  calls, 
I  gave  a  brief  account  of  what  I  saw 
In  Washington ;  and  truly  many  hearts 
Rejoiced  to  know  the  President,  and  you 
And  all  the  Cabinet  regularly  hear 
The  gospel  message  of  a  Sunday  morning, 
Drinking  with  thirsty  souls  of  the  sincere 
Milk  of  the  Word.     Glory!   Amen,   and 
Selah ! 

Here,   at  the  Mission,  all  things  have 

gone  well : 
The  brother  who,  throughout  my  absence, 

acted  40 

As  overseer,  assures  me  that  the  crops 
Never  _were  better.    I  have  lost  one  negro, 
A  first-rate  hand,  but  obstinate  and  sullen. 
He  ran  away  some  time  last  spring,  and 

hid 
In   the-  river   timber.     There   my   Indian 

converts 
Found  him,  and  treed  and  shot  him.    For 

the  rest, 

The  heathens  round  about  begin  to  feel 
The  influence  of  our  pious  ministrations 
And  works  of  love;   and  some  of  them 

already 
Have  purchased  negroes,  and  are  settling 

down  -° 


As  sober  Christians !    Bless  the  Lord  for 

this! 

I  know  it  will  rejoice  you.    You,  I  hear, 
Are  on  the  eve  of  visiting  Chicago, 
To  fight  with  the  wild  beasts  of  Ephesus, 
Long     John,     and     Dutch     Free-Soilers. 

May  your  arm 
Be   clothed   with   strength,   and   on   your 

tongue  be  found 

The  sweet  oil  of  persuasion.  So  desires 
Your  brother  and  co-laborer.  Amen ! 

P.  S.    All's  lost.     Even  while  I  write 

these  lines, 

The  Yankee  abolitionists  are  coming  6° 
L^pon  us  like  a  flood — grim,  stalwart  men, 
Each  face  set  like  a  flint  of  Plymouth 

Rock 

Against  our  institutions — staking  out 
Their  farm  lots  on  the  wooded  Wakarusa, 
Or    squatting    by    the    mellow-bottomed 

Kansas ; 

The  pioneers  of  mightier  multitudes, 
The    small    rain-patter,    ere   the   thunder 

shower 
Drowns  the  dry  prairies.    Hope  from  man 

is  not. 

Oh,  for  a  quiet  berth  at  Washington, 
Snug    naval    chaplaincy,    or    clerkship, 

where  7° 

These  rumors  of  free  labor  and  free  soil 
Might  never  meet  me  more.  Better  to  be 
Door-keeper  at  the  White  House,  than  to 

dwell 

Amidst  these  Yankee  tents,  that,  whiten 
ing,  show 

On  the  green  prairie  like  a  fleet  becalmed. 
Methinks  I  hear  a  voice  come  up  the  river 
From  those   far  bayous,   where  the  alli 
gators 

Mount    guard    around    the    camping    fili 
busters  : 
"Shake  off  the  dust  of  Kansas.    Turn  to 

Cuba — 

(That  golden  orange  just  about  to  fall,  8° 
O'er-ripe,  into  the  Democratic  lap;) 
Keep  pace  with  Providence,  or,  as  we  say, 
Manifest  destiny.    Go  forth  and  follow 
The  message  of  our  gospel,  thither  borne 
Upon  the  point  of  Quitman's  bowie-knife, 
And  the  persuasive  lips  of  Colt's  revolvers. 
There  may'st  thou,  underneath  thy  vine 

and  fig-tree, 
Watch   thy  increase  of   sugar-cane  and 

negroes, 

Calm  as  a  patriarch  in  his  eastern  tent!" 
Amen :    So   mote   it  be.     So   prays  your 
friend.  9° 

1854. 


256 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man, 

Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan ! 

With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 

And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes; 

With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 

Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill; 

With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 

Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace; 

From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy, — 

I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy !  I0 

Prince  thou  art, — the  grown-up  man 

Only  is  republican. 

Let  the  million-dollared  ride ! 

Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 

Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 

In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye, — 

Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy: 

Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy! 

Oh  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 

Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day,  2° 

Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 

Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 

Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 

Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 

Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 

Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood; 

How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 

How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 

And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well; 

How  the  robin  feeds  her  young,  3° 

How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung; 

Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 

Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 

Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine, 

Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine; 

Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 

Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 

And  the  architectural  plans 

Of  gray  hornet  artisans ! 

For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks,  4° 

Nature  answers  all  he  asks; 

Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 

Face  to  face  with^  her  he  talks, 

Part  and  parcel  o'f  her  joy, — 

Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy! 

Oh  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees,  5° 

Humming-birds  and  honey-bees ; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 


Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond,     6° 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides! 
Still  as  my  horizon  grew, 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too; 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy ! 

Oh  for  festal  dainties  spread, 

Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread;          7° 

Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 

On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude ! 

O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 

Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 

Purple-curtained,   fringed  with  gold, 

Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold ; 

While  for  music  came  the  play 

Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra; 

And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 

Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 

I  was  monarch :  pomp  and  joy 

Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy ! 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 

Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can ! 

Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 

Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 

Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 

Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew; 

Every  evening"  from  thy  feet 

Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat :          9° 

All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 

In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 

Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 

Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 

Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 

Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil : 

Happy  if  their  track  be  found 

Never  on  forbidden  ground ; 

Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 

Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin.      I0° 

Ah !  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 

Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy! 

1855? 

ARISEN  AT  LAST* 

I  said  I  stood  upon  thy  grave, 

My  Mother  State,  when  last  the  moon 
Of  blossoms  clomb  the  skies  of  June. 

1  On  the  passage  of  the  bill  to  protect  the 
rights  and  liberties  of  the  people  of  the  State 
against  the  Fugitive  Slave  Act.  (Author's  Note.) 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


257 


And,  scattering  ashes  on  my  head, 
I  wore,  undreaming  of  relief, 
The  sackcloth  of  thy  shame  and  grief. 

Again  that  moon  of  blossoms  shines 
On  leaf  and  flower  and  folded  wing, 
And  thou  hast  risen  with  the  spring ! 

Once  more  thy  strong  maternal  arms      I0 
Are  round  about  thy  children  flung, — 
A  lioness  that  guards  her  young! 

No  threat  is  on  thy  closed  lips, 
But  in  thine  eye  a  power  to  smite 
The  mad  wolf  backward  from  its  light. 

Southward  the  baffled  robber's  track 
Henceforth  runs  only;  hereaway, 
The  fell  lycanthrope  finds  no  prey. 

Henceforth,  within  thy  sacred  gates, 
His  first  low  howl  shall  downward  draw 
The  thunder  of  thy  righteous  law.      2I 

Not  mindless  of  thy  trade  and  gain, 
But,  acting  on  the  wiser  plan, 
Thou  'rt  grown  conservative  of  man. 

So  shalt  thou  clothe  with  life  the  hope, 
Dream-painted  on  the  sightless  eyes 
Of  him  who  sang  of  Paradise, — 

The  vision  of  a  Christian  man, 
In  virtue,  as  in  stature  great 
Embodied  in  a  Christian  State.  3° 

And  thou,  amidst  thy  sisterhood 
Forbearing  long,  yet  standing  fast, 
Shalt  win  their  grateful  thanks  at  last; 

When   North  and   South   shall  strive  no 

more, 

And  all  their  feuds  and  fears  be  lost 
In  Freedom's  holy  Pentecost. 

1855.  1855? 


THE  PANORAMA 
{Conclusion.) 

My  task  is  done.     The  Showman  and 

his  show, 

Themselves  but  shadows,  into  shadows  go ; 
And,  if  no  song  of  idlesse  I  have  sung, 
Nor  tints  of  beauty  on  the  canvas  flung; 
If  the  harsh  numbers  grate  on  tender  ears, 
And  the  rough  picture  overwrought  ap 
pears  ; 


With  deeper  coloring,  with  a  sterner  blast, 
Before  my  soul  a  voice  and  vision  passed, 
Such  as  might  Milton's  jarring  trump 

require, 
Or  glooms  of  Dante  fringed  with  lurid 

fire.  10 

Oh,  not  of  choice,  for  themes  of  public 

wrong 
I  leave  the  green  and  pleasant  paths  of 

song, 
The  mild,  sweet  words  which  soften  and 

adorn, 
For    sharp    rebuke   and    bitter    laugh    of 

scorn. 
More  dear  to  me  some  song  of  private 

worth, 

Some  homely  idyl  of  my  native  North, 
Some  summer  pastoral  of  her  inland  vales, 
Or,  grim  and  weird,  her  winter  fireside 

tales 

Haunted  by  ghosts  of  unreturning  sails, 
Lost   barks   at   parting  hung   from   stem 

to  helm  20 

With    prayers    of    love    like    dreams    on 

Virgil's  elm. 
Nor  private   grief  nor  malice  holds  my 

pen; 

I  owe  but  kindness  to  my  fellow-men; 
And,  South  or  North,  wherever  hearts  of 

prayer 
Their  woes  and  weakness  to  our  Father 

bear, 
Wherever    fruits    of    Christian    love    are 

found 

In  holy  lives,  to  me  is  holy  ground. 
But  the  time  passes.    It  were  vain  to  crave 
A  late  indulgence.    What  I  had  I  gave. 
Forget  the  poet,  but  his  warning  heed,   3° 
And    shame    his    poor    word    with    your 

nobler  deed. 
1856.          _ 


I 

all 


KIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE 


Of  6ll  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time, 
Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme, — 
On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 
Or  one-eyed  Calender's  horse  of  brass, 
Witch  astride  of  a  human  back, 
Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak, — 
The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 
Was  Ireson's,  out  from  Marblehead! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  i 
cart  » 

By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 

Wings  a-droop  like  a  rained-on  fowl, 


258 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Feathered  and  ruffled  in  every  part, 
Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 
Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 
Strong  of  muscle,  and  glib  of  tongue, 
Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky  lane, 
Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  refrain : 
"Here's    Flud    Oirson,    fur    his    horrd 
horrt,  2° 

Torr'd    an'    futherr'd    an'    corr'd    in    a 

corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead !" 

Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 
Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips, 
Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase 
Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 
Brief  ,of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 
Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 
With  conch-shells  blowing  and  fish-horns' 

twang, 

Over  and  over  the  Maenads  sang :  3° 

"Here's    Flud    Oirson,    fur    his    horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd    an'    futherr'd    an'    corr'd    in    a 

corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead !" 


Sharp-tongued  spinsters,  old  wives,  gray, 
Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray. 
Sea-worn  grandsires,  cripple-bound,        6° 
Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 
Shook  head,  and  fist,  and  hat,  and  cane, 
And  cracked  with  curses  the  hoarse  re 
frain  : 
"Here's    Flud    Oirson,    fur    his    horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd    an'    futherrld  an'    corr'd    in    a 

corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead !" 

Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 
Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed. 
Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 
Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue. 
Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim,  n 

Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim, 
Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to  hear 
Of  voices  shouting,  far  and  near: 

"Here's    Flud    Oirson,    fur    his    horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd    an'    futherr'd  an'    corr'd    in    a 

corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead !" 


Small  pity  for  him! — He  sailed  away 
From  a  leaking  ship  in  Chaleur  Bay, — 
Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 
With  his  own  town's-people  on  her  deck ! 
"Lay  by !  lay  by !"  they  called  to  him. 
Back  he  answered,  "Sink  or  swim ! 
Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again!"          40 
And  off  he  sailed  through   the    fog  and 

rain ! 

Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 

cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 
Mother  arid  sister,  wife  and  maid, 
Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea, — 
Looked    for   the   coming   that    might   not 
be!  5° 

What  did  the  winds  and  the  sea-birds  say 
Of  the  cruel  captain  who  sailed  away? — 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 

cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side, 
Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide; 


"Hear  me,  neighbors !"  at  last  he  cried, — 
"What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride? 
What  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the  skin  8° 
To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives  within? 
Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck ! 
Hate  me  and  curse  me, — I  only  dread 
The  hand  of   God   and  the   face  of   the 

dead !" 
Said    old    Floyd    Ireson,    for    his    hard 

heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 

cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at  sea 
Said,  "God  has  touched  him !  why  should 
we !"        .  90 

Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her  only  son, 
"Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let  him  run !" 
So  with  soft  relentings  and  rude  excuse, 
Half  scorn,  half  pity,  they  cut  him  loose, 
And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in, 
And  left  him  alone  with  his  shame  and 

sin. 

Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 

cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 


1828,  1857. 


1857. 


JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER 


259 


THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN 


O'er  the  bare  woods,  whose  outstretched 

hands 

Plead  with  the  leaden  heavens  in  vain, 
I  see,  beyond  the  valley  lands, 

The  sea's  long  level  dim  with  rain. 
Around  me  all  things,  stark  and  dumb, 
Seem  praying  for  the  snows  to  come, 
And,   for  the  summer  bloom  and  green 
ness  gone, 

With  winter's  sunset  lights  and  dazzling 
morn  atone. 


Along  the  river's  summer  walk, 

The  withered  tufts  of  asters  nod;    I0 
And  trembles  on  its  arid  stalk 

The  hoar  plume  of  the  golden-rod. 
And  on  a  ground  of  sombre  fir, 
And  azure-studded  juniper, 
The  silver  birch  its  buds  of  purple  shows, 
And  scarlet  berries  tell  where  bloomed  the 
sweet  wild-rose! 

in 

With  mingled  sound  of  horns  and  bells, 

A  far-heard  clang,  the  wild  geese  fly, 

Storm-sent,     from    Arctic    moors    and 

fells, 

Like  a  great  arrow  through  the  sky,  2° 
Two  dusky  lines  converged  in  one, 
Chasing  the  southward-flying  sun ; 
While  the  brave  snow-bird  and  the  hardy 

jay 

Call  to  them  from  the  pines,  as  if  to  bid 
them  stay. 


I  passed  this  way  a  year  ago : 

The   wind   blew   south ;   the  noon   of 

day 
Was   warm   as   June's;   and   save   that 

snow 

Flecked  the  low  mountains  far  away, 
And  that  the  vernal-seeming  breeze 
Mocked  faded  grass  and  leafless  trees,  3° 
I  might  have  dreamed  of  summer  as  I  lay, 
Watching  the  fallen  leaves  with  the  soft 
wind  at  play. 


Since  then,  the  winter  blasts  have  piled 
The  white  pagodas  of  the  snow 

On  these  rough  slopes,  and,  strong  and 

wild, 
Yon  river,  in  its  overflow 


Of  spring-time  rain  and  sun,  set  free, 
Crashed  with  its  ices  to  the  sea; 
And  over  these  gray  fields,  then  green  and 

gold, 

The  summer  corn  has  waved,  the  thun 
der's  organ  rolled.  4° 


VI 

Rich  gift  of  God!    A  year  of  time! 

What  pomp  of  rise  and  shut  of  day, 
What    hues    wherewith    our    Northern 

clime 
Makes  autumn's  dropping  woodlands 

gay, 

What  airs  outblown  from  ferny  dells, 
And    clover  -  bloom    and     sweetbrier 

smells, 
What   songs   of   brooks   and   birds,   what 

fruits  and  flowers, 

Green  woods  and  moonlit  snows,  have  in 
its  round  been  ours! 


VII 

I  know  not  how,  in  other  lands,          49 
The  changing  seasons  come  and  go; 
What  splendors  fall  on  Syrian  sands, 
What  purple  lights  on  Alpine  snow! 
Nor  how  the  pomp  of  sunrise  waits 
On  Venice  at  her  watery  gates; 
A  dream  alone  to  me  is  Arno's  vale, 
And  the  Alhambra's  halls  are  but  a  travel 
ler's  tale. 


VIII 

Yet,  on  life's  current,  he  who  drifts 

Is  one  with  him  who  rows  or  sails; 
And  he  who  wanders  widest  lifts 

No  more  of  beauty's  jealous  veils    6° 
Than  he  who  from  his  doorway  sees 
The  miracle  of  flowers  and  trees, 
Feels  the  warm  Orient  in  tTie  noonday  air, 
And  from  cloud  minarets  hears  the  sun 
set  call  to  prayer ! 


The  eye  may  well  be  glad  that  looks 
Where   Pharpar's   fountains  rise  and 

fall; 
But  he  who  sees  his  native  brooks 

Laugh  in  the  sun,  has  seen  them  all. 
The  marble  palaces  of  Ind 
Rise  round  him  in  the  snow  and  wind; 
From  his  lone  sweetbrier   Persian   Hafiz 
smiles,  ?' 

And  Rome's  cathedral  awe  is  in  his  wood 
land  aisles. 


260 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


And  thus  it  is  my  fancy  blends 

The  near  at  hand  and  far  and  rare; 
And  while  the  same  horizon  bends 

Above  the  silver-sprinkled  hair 
Which    flashed    the    light    of    morning 

skies 

On  childhood's  wonder-lifted  eyes, 
Within  its  round  of  sea  and  sky  and  field, 
Earth    wheels    with    all    her    zones,    the 
Kosmos  stands  revealed.  8° 

XI 

And  thus  the  sick  man  on  his  bed, 

The  toiler  to  his  task-work  bound, 
Behold  their  prison-walls  outspread, 

Their  clipped  horizon  widen  round ! 
While  freedom-giving  fancy  waits, 
Like  Peter's  angel  at  the  gates, 
The  power  is  theirs  to  baffle  care  and  pain, 
To  bring  the  lost  world  back,  and  make 
it  theirs  again ! 


XII 

What  lack  of  goodly  company, 

When  masters  of  the  ancient  lyre    9° 
Obey  my  call,  and  trace  for  me 
Their    words    of    mingled    tears    and 

fire! 

I  talk  with  Bacon,  grave  and  wise, 
I  read  the  world  with  Pascal's  eyes; 
And  priest  and  sage,  with  solemn  brows 

austere, 

And  poets,  garland-bound,  the  Lords  of 
Thought,  draw  near. 

XIII 

'Methinks,  O  friend,  I  hear  thee  say, 

"In  vain  the  human  heart  we  mock; 
Bring  living  guests  who  love  the  day, 

Not  ghosts  who  fly  at  crow  of  cock ! 
The    herbs    we    share    with    flesh    and 
blood  I01 

Are  better  than  ambrosial  food 
With  laurelled  shades."    I  grant  it,  noth 
ing  loath, 

But  doubly  blest  is  he  who  can  partake 
of  both. 

XIV1 

He  who  might  Plato's  banquet  grace, 
Have  I  not  seen  before  me  sit, 

And  watched  his  puritanic  face, 
With  more  than  Eastern  wisdom  lit? 

Shrewd  mystic !  who,  upon  the  back 

Of  his  Poor  Richard's  Almanac          "° 

1  Stanzas    xiv-xvi,     Emerson,     Bayard    Taylor, 
Sumner. 


Writing    the    Sufi's    song,    the    Gentoo's 

dream, 
Links  Manu's  age  of  thought  to  Fulton's 

age  of  steam ! 


xv 
Here  too,  of  answering  love  secure, 

Have  I  not  welcomed  to  my  hearth 
The  gentle  pilgrim  troubadour, 
Whose   songs   have  girdled   half   the 

earth ; 

Whose  pages,  like  the  magic  mat 
Whereon  the  Eastern  lover  sat, 
Have  borne  me  over  Rhine-land's  purple 

vines, 

And  Nubia's  tawny  sands,  and  Phrygia's 
mountain  pines !  I2° 


XVI 

And  he,  who  to  the  lettered  wealth 

Of  ages  adds  the  lore  unpriced, 
The  wisdom  and  the  moral  health, 

The  ethics  of  the  school  of  Christ; 
The  statesman  to  his  holy  trust, 
As  the  Athenian  archon,  just, 
Struck   down,   exiled   like   him    for  truth 

alone, 

Has  he  not  graced  my  home  with  beauty 
all  his  own? 


XVII 

What   greetings   smile,   what    farewells 

wave, 

What  loved  ones  enter  and  depart !  J3° 
The  good,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 

The    Heaven-lent    treasures    of    the 

heart! 

How  conscious  seems  the  frozen  sod 
And  beechen  slope  whereon  they  trod ! 
The  oak-leaves  rustle,  and  the  dry  grass 

bends 

Beneath  the  shadowy  feet  of  lost  or  ab 
sent  friends. 


Then  ask  not  why  to  these  bleak  hills 

I  cling,  as  clings  the  tufted  moss;    '38 
To  bear  the  winter's  lingering  chills, 

The  mocking  spring's  perpetual  loss. 
I  dream  of  lands  where  summer  smiles, 
And  soft  winds  blow  from  spicy  isles, 
But  scarce  would  Ceylon's  breath  of  flow 
ers  be  sweet, 

Could  I  not  feel  thy  soil,  New  England, 
at  my  feet ! 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


261 


xix        / 

At  times  I  long  for  gentler  skies, 

And  bathe  in  dreams  of  softer  air, 
But  homesick  tears  would  fill  the  eyes 
That  saw  the  Cross  without  the  Bear. 
The  pine  must  whisper  to  the  palm,   '49 
The  north-wind  break  the  tropic  calm; 
And    with    the    dreamy    languor    of    the 

Line, 

The     North's    keen    virtue    blend,    and 
strength  to  beauty  join. 

XX 

Better  to  stem  with  heart  and  hand 
The  roaring  tide  of  life,  than  lie, 
Unmindful,  on  its  flowery  strand, 
Of  God's  occasions  drifting  by! 
Better  with  naked  nerve  to  bear 
The  needles  of  this  goading  air, 
Than,  in  the  lap  of  sensual  ease,  forego 
The  godlike  power  to  do,  the  godlike  aim 
to  know.  l6° 

XXI 

Home  of  my  heart!  to  me  more  fair 
Than    gay    Versailles    or    Windsor's 

halls, 

The  painted,  shingly  town-house  where 
The  freeman's  vote  for  Freedom  falls ! 
The  simple  roof  where  prayer  is  made, 
Than  Gothic  groin  and  colonnade ; 
The  living  temple  of  the  heart  of  man, 
Than    Rome's    sky  -  mocking    vault,    or 
many-spired  Milan ! 

xxn 

More  dear  thy  equal  village  schools, 
Where     rich     and     poor    the     Bible 
read,  '7° 

Than    classic    halls    where    Priestcraft 

rules, 
And   Learning  wears   the   chains   of 

Creed; 

Thy  glad  Thanksgiving,  gathering  in 
The  scattered  sheaves  of  home  and  kin, 
Than    the    mad    license    ushering    Lenten 

pains, 

Or  holidays  of  slaves  who  laugh  and  dance 
in  chains. 


And  sweet  homes  nestle  in  these  dales, 
And  perch  along  these  wooded  swells ; 

And,  blest  beyond  Arcadian  vales,      '79 
They  hear  the  sound  of  Sabbath  bells! 

Here  dwells  no  perfect  man  sublime, 

Nor  woman  winged  before  her  time, 


But  with  the  faults  and  follies  of  the  race, 
Old  home-bred  virtues  hold  their  not  un- 
honored  place. 

XXIV 

Here  manhood  struggles  for  the  sake 

Of  mother,  sister,  daughter,  wife, 
The  graces  and  the  loves  which  make 

The  music  of  the  march  of  life; 
And  woman,  in  her  daily  round 
Of  duty,  walks  on  holy  ground.  J9o 

No  unpaid  menial  tills  the  soil,  nor  here 
Is  the  bad  lesson  learned  at  human  rights 
to  sneer. 

xxv 

Then  let  the  icy  north-wind  blow 

The  trumpets  of  the  coming  storm, 
To  arrowy  sleet  and  blinding  snow 

Yon  slanting  lines  of  rain  transform. 
Young  hearts  shall  hail  the  drifted  cold, 
As  gayly  as  I  did  of  old; 
And    I,    who    watch    them    through    the 

frosty  pane, 

Unenvious,  live  in  them  my  boyhood  o'er 
again.  2°° 

XXVI 

And  I  will  trust  that  He  who  heeds 

The  life  that  hides  in  mead  and  wold, 
Who  hangs  yon  alder's  crimson  beads, 
And  stains   these   mosses   green   and 

gold, 

Will  still,  as  He  hath  done,  incline 
His  gracious  care  to  me  and  mine ; 
Grant  what  we  ask  aright,   from  wrong 

debar, 

And,   as   the   earth   grows   dark,   make 
brighter  every  star ! 

XXVII 

I  have  not  seen,  I  may  not  see, 

My  hopes  for  man  take  form  in  fact, 
But  God  will  give  the  victory  2" 

In  due  time ;  in  that  faith  I  act. 
And  he  who  sees  the  future  sure, 
The  baffling  present  may  endure, 
And  bless,   meanwhile,  the  unseen   Hand 

that  leads 

The  heart's  desires  beyond  the  halting  step 
of  deeds. 

XXVIII 

And  thou,  my  song,  I  send  thee  forth, 
Where  harsher  songs  of  mine  have 

flown; 

Go,  find  a  place  at  home  and  hearth 
Where'er    thy    singer's    name    is 

known ;  22° 


262 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Revive  for  him  the  kindly  thought 
Of  friends;  and  they  who  love  him  not, 
Touched   by   some   strain   of   thine,   per 
chance  may  take 

The  hand  he  proffers  all,  and  thank  him 
for  thy  sake. 

1856.  1857. 


THE   GARRISON   OF  CAPE  ANN 

From  the  hills  of  home  forth  looking,  far 

beneath  the  tent-like  span 
Of  the  sky,  I  see  the  white  gleam  of  the 

headland  of  Cape  Ann. 
Well  I  know  its  coves  and  beaches  to  the 

ebb-tide  glimmering  down, 
And  the  white-walled  hamlet  children  of 

its  ancient  fishing-town. 

Long  has  passed  the  summer  morning,  and 

its  memory  waxes  old, 
When  along  yon  breezy  headlands  with  a 

pleasant  friend  I  strolled. 
Ah !  the  autumn  sun  is  shining,  and  the 

ocean  wind  blows  cool, 
And    the    golden-rod    and    aster    bloom 

around  thy  grave,  Rantoul ! 

With  the  memory  of  that  morning  by  the 

summer  sea  I  blend 
A    wild    and    wondrous    story,    by    the 

younger  Mather  penned,  I0 

In  that  quaint  Magnolia  Christi,  with  all 

strange  and  marvellous  things, 
Heaped  up  huge  and  undigested,  like  the 

chaos  Ovid  sings. 

Dear  to  me  these  far,  faint  glimpses  of 

the  dual  life  of  old, 
\    Inward,  grand  with  awe  and  reverence ; 

outward,  mean  and  coarse  and  cold ; 
Gleams  of  mystic  beauty  playing  over  dull 

and  vulgar  clay, 
Golden-threaded  fancies  weaving  in  a  web 

of  hodden  gray. 

The  great  eventful  Present  hides  the  Past; 

but  through  the  din 
Of   its  loud  life   hints  and  echoes   from 

the  life  behind  steal  in ; 
And  the  lore  of  home  and  fireside,  and 

the  legendary  rhyme, 
Make  the  task  of  duty  lighter  which  the 

true  man  owes  his  time.  2° 

So,  with  something  of  the  feeling  which 
the  Covenanter  knew, 

When  with  pious  chisel  wandering  Scot 
land's  moorland  graveyards  through, 


From  the  graves  of  old  traditions  I  part 

the  blackberry-vines, 
Wipe  the  moss  from  off  the  headstones, 

and  retouch  the  faded  lines. 


Where  the  sea-waves  back  and  forward, 

hoarse  with  rolling  pebbles,  ran, 
The  garrison-house  stood  watching  on  the 

gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann; 
On   its   windy   site   uplifting  gabled  roof 

and  palisade, 
And  rough  walls  of  unhewn  timber  with 

the  moonlight  overlaid. 

On   his   slow   round   walked   the   sentry, 

south  and  eastward  looking  forth 
O'er  a  rude  and  broken  coast-line,  white 

with  breakers  stretching  north, —      3° 
Wood  and  rock  and  gleaming  sand-drift, 

jagged  capes,  with  bush  and  tree, 
Leaning  inland   from  the  smiting  of  the 

wild  and  gusty  sea. 

Before  the  deep-mouthed  chimney,  dimly 
lit  by  dying  brands, 

Twenty  soldiers  sat  and  waited,  with  their 
muskets  in  their  hands ; 

On  the  rough-hewn  oaken  table  the  veni 
son  haunch  was  shared, 

And  the  pewter  tankard  circled  slowly 
round  from  beard  to  beard. 

Long    they    sat    and    talked    together, — 

talked  of  wizards  Satan-sold; 
Of   all  ghostly   sights   and   noises, — signs 

and  wonders  manifold; 
Of  the   spectre-ship  of   Salem,   with  the 

dead  men  in  her  shrouds, 
Sailing  sheer  above  the  water,  in  the  loom 

of  morning  clouds ;  4° 

Of  the  marvellous  valley  hidden   in  the 

depths  of  Gloucester  woods, 
Full   of  plants  that   love   the   summer, — 

blooms  of  warmer  latitudes; 
Where  the  Arctic  birch  is  braided  by  the 

tropic's  flowery  vines, 
And  the  white  magnolia-blossoms  star  the 

twilight  of  the  pines ! 

But  their  voices  sank  yet  lower,  sank  to 

husky  tones  of  fear, 
As  they  spake  of  present  tokens  of  the 

powers  of  evil  near; — 
Of  a  spectral  host,  defying  stroke  of  steel 

and  aim  of  gun; 
Never  yet  was   ball  to  slay  them  in  the 

mould  of  mortals  run! 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


263 


Thrice,  with  plumes  and  flowing  scalp- 
locks,  from  the  midnight  wood  they 
came, — 

Thrice  around  the  block-house  marching, 
met,  unharmed,  its  volleyed  flame;  so 

Then,  with  mocking  laugh  and  gesture, 
sunk  in  earth  or  lost  in  air, 

All  the  ghostly  wonder  vanished,  and  the 
moonlit  sands  lay  bare. 

Midnight    came;     from    out    the    forest 

moved  a  dusky  mass  that  soon 
Grew    to    warriors,    plumed    and    painted 

grimly  marching  in  the  moon. 
"Ghosts    or    witches,"    said    the    captain, 

"thus  I  foil  the  Evil  One !" 
And  he  rammed  a  silver  button,  from  his 

doublet,  down  his  gun. 

Once  again  the  spectral  horror  moved  the 

guarded  wall  about; 
Once  again  the  levelled  muskets  through 

the  palisades  flashed  out, 
With  that  deadly  aim  the  squirrel  on  his 

tree-top  might  not  shun, 
Nor  the  beach-bird  seaward  flying  with 

his  slant  wing  to  the  sun.  6° 

Like  the  idle   rain  of   summer  sped  the 

harmless  shower  of  lead. 
With  a  laugh  of  fierce  derision,  once 

again  the  phantoms  fled; 
Once  again,  without  a  shadow  on  the 

sands  the  moonfight  lay, 
And  the  white  smoke  curling  through  it 

drifted  slowly  down  the  bay! 

"God    preserve    us !"    said    the    captain ; 

"never  mortal  foes  were  there; 
They    have    vanished    with    their    leader, 

Prince  and  Power  of  the  air! 
Lay  aside  your  useless  weapons;  skill  and 

prowess  naught  avail; 
They   who   do   the   Devil's   service   wear 

their  master's  coat  of  mail !" 

So  the  night  grew  near  to  cock-crow, 
when  again  a  warning  call 

Roused  the  score  of  weary  soldiers  watch 
ing  round  the  dusky  hall:  7° 

And  they  looked  to  flint  and  priming, 
and  they  longed  for  break  of  day; 

But  the  captain  closed  his  Bible :  "Let  us 
cease  from  man,  and  pray !" 

To  the  men  who  went  before  us,  all  the 
unseen  powers  seemed  near, 

And  their  steadfast  strength  of  courage 
struck  its  roots  in  holy  fear. 


Every   hand    forsook   the   musket,    every 

head  was  bowed  and  bare, 
Every  stout  knee  pressed  the  flag-stones, 

as  the  captain  led  in  prayer. 

Ceased  thereat  the  mystic  marching  of  the 

spectres  round  the  wall, 
But  a  sound  abhorred,   unearthly,   smote 

the  ears  and  hearts  of  all, — 
Howls  of  rage  and  shrieks  of  anguish ! 

Never  after  mortal  man 
Saw  the  ghostly  leaguers  marching  round 

the  block- house  of  Cape  Ann.  8° 

So  to  us  who  walk  in  summer  through 

the  cool  and  sea-blown  town, 
From  the  childhood  of  its  people  comes 

the  solemn  legend  down. 
Not  in  vain  the  ancient  fiction,  in  whose 

moral  lives  the  youth 
And  the  fitness  and  the  freshness  of  an 

undecaying  truth. 

Soon  or  late  to  all  our  dwellings  come 

the  spectres  of  the  mind, 
Doubts  and  fears  and  dread  forebodings, 

in  the  darkness  undefined ; 
Round  us  throng  the  grim  projections  of 

the  heart  and  of  the  brain, 
And  our  pride  of  strength  is  weakness, 

and  the  cunning  hand  is  vain. 

In  the  dark  we  cry  like  children;  and  no 
answer  from  on  high 

Breaks  the  crystal  spheres  of  silence,  and 
no  white  wings  downward  fly ;          90 

But  the  heavenly  help  we  pray  for  comes 
to  faith,  and  not  to  sight, 

And  our  prayers  themselves  drive  back 
ward  all  the  spirits  of  the  night! 

1857. 


TELLING  THE   BEES* 

Here  is  the  place ;  right  over  the  hill 

Runs  the  path  I  took; 
You  can  see  the  gap  in  the  old  wall  still, 

And  the  stepping-stones  in  the  shallow 
brook. 

1 A  remarkable  custom,  brought  from  the  Old 
Country,  formerly  prevailed  in  the  rural  districts 
of  New  England.  On  the  death  of  a  member 
of  the  family,  the  bees  were  at  once  informed 
of  the  event,  and  their  hives  dressed  in  mourn 
ing.  This  ceremonial  was  supposed  to  be  neces 
sary  to  prevent  the  swarms  from  leaving  their 
hives  and  seeking  a  new  home. — (Author's 
Note.) 


264 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


There  is   the  house,   with  the  gate  red- 
barred, 

And  the  poplars  tall; 
And   the   barn's    brown    length,    and   the 

cattle-yard, 

And  the  white  horns  tossing  above  the 
wall. 

There  are  the  beehives  ranged  in  the  sun; 

And  down  by  the  brink  I0 

Of  the  brook  are  her  poor  flowers,  weed- 

o'errun, 
Pansy  and  daffodil,  rose  and  pink. 

A  year  has  gone,  as  the  tortoise  goes, 

Heavy  and  slow; 

And  the  same  rose  blows,  and  the  same 
sun  glows, 

And  the  same  brook  sings  of  a  year  ago. 

There  's  the  same  sweet  clover-smell  in 
the  breeze; 

And  the  June  sun  warm 
Tangles  his  wings  of  fire  in  the  trees, 

Setting,  as  then,  over  Fernside  farm.  2° 

I  mind  me  how  with  a  lover's  care 

From  my  Sunday  coat 
I  brushed  off  the  burrs,  and  smoothed  my 

hair, 

And  cooled  at  the  brookside  my  brow 
and  throat. 

Since  we  parted,  a  month  had  passed, — 

To  love,  a  year; 
Down   through   the  beeches   I   looked   at 

last 

On   the   little   red   gate   and   the   well- 
sweep  near. 

I  can  see  it  all  now, — the  slantwise  rain 
Of  light  through  the  leaves,  3° 

The  sundown's  blaze  on  her  window-pane, 
The  bloom  of  her  roses  under  the  eaves. 

Just  the  same  as  a  month  before, — 

The  house  and  the  trees, 
The  barn's  brown  gable,  the  vine  by  the 
door, — 

Nothing  changed  but  the  hives  of  bees. 

Before  them,  under  the  garden  wall, 

Forward  and  back, 

Went    drearily    singing   the   chore  -  girl 
small, 

Draping  each  hive  with  a  shred  of  black. 


Trembling,  I  listened :  the  summer  sun  4i 

Had  the  chill  of  snow ; 
For  I  knew  she  was  telling  the  bees  of  one 

Gone  on  the  journey  we  all  must  go! 

Then  I  said  to  myself,  "My  Mary  weeps 

For  the  dead  to-day : 
Haply  her  blind  old  grandsire  sleeps 

The  fret  and  the  pain  of  his  age  away." 

But  her  dog  whined  low;  on  the  doorway 
sill, 

With  his  cane  to  his  chin,  50 

The  old  man  sat;  and  the  chore-girl  still 

Sung  to  the  bees  stealing  out  and  in. 

And  the  song  she  was  singing  ever  since 

In  my  ear  sounds  on : — 
"Stay  at  home,  pretty  bees,  fly  not  hence! 

Mistress  Mary  is  dead  and  gone !" 

The  Atlantic  Monthly,  April,  1858. 


THE  DOUBLE-HEADED  SNAKE  OF 
NEWBURY 


Far  away  in  the  twilight  time 
Of  every  people,  in  every  clime, 
Dragons  and  griffins  and  monsters  dire, 
Born  of  water,  and  air,  and  fire, 
Or  nursed,  like  the  Python,  in  the  mud 
And  ooze  of  the  old  Deucalion  flood, 
Crawl  and  wriggle  and  foam  with  rage, 
Through  dusk  tradition  and  ballad  age. 
So  from  the  childhood  of  Newbury  town 
And  its  time  of  fable  the  tale  comes  down 
Of  a  terror  which  haunted  bush  and  brake, 
The  Amphisbaena,  the  Double  Snake !     I2 

Thou  who  makest  the  tale  thy  mirth, 

Consider  that  strip  of  Christian  earth 

On  the  desolate  shore  of  a  sailless  sea, 

Full  of  terror  and  mystery, 

Half  redeemed  from  the  evil  hold 

Of  the   wood   so   dreary,   and  dark,   and 

old, 
Which  drank  with  its  lips  of  leaves  the 

dew 
When   Time   was   young,   and   the   world 

was  new,  2° 

And  wove  its  shadows  with  sun  and  moon, 
Ere  the  stones  of  Cheops  were  squared 

and  hewn. 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


265 


Think  of  the  sea's  dread  monotone, 

Of  the  mournful  wail  from  the  pine-wood 

blown, 
Of  the  strange,  vast  splendors  that  lit  the 

North, 
Of   the  troubled   throes   of   the   quaking 

earth, 

And  the  dismal  tales  the  Indian  told, 
Till  the  settler's  heart  at  his  hearth  grew 

cofd, 
And  he   shrank   from  the  tawny  wizard 

boasts, 
And  the  hovering  shadows  seemed  full  of 

ghosts,  .3° 

And  above,  below,  on  every  side, 
The  fear  of  his  creed  seemed  verified ; — 
And  think,  if  his  lot  were  now  thine  own, 
To    grope   with   terrors   nor   named   nor 

known, 

How  laxer  muscle  and  weaker  nerve 
And  a  feebler  faith  thy  need  might  serve ; 
And  own  to  thyself  the  wonder  more 
That  the  snake  had  two  heads,  and  not 

a  score ! 

Whether  he  lurked  in  the  Oldtown  fen 
Or    the    gray    earth-flax    of    the    Devil's 

Den,  40 

Or  swam  in  the  wooded  Artichoke, 
Or    coiled    by    the    Northman's    Written 

Rock, 

Nothing  on  record  is  left  to  show ; 
Only  the  fact  that  he  lived,  we  know, 
And  left  the  cast  of  a  double  head 
In  the  scaly  mask  which  he  yearly  shed. 
For   he    carried    a    head    where    his    tail 

should  be, 

And  the  two,  of  course,  could  never  agree, 
But  wriggled  about  with  main  and  might, 
Now  to  the  left  and  now  to  the  right;    so 
Pulling  and  twisting  this  way  and  that 
Neither  knew  what  the  other  was  at. 


And  how  the  spark,  who  was  forced  to 

stay, 
By  his  sweetheart's   fears,  till  the  break 

of  day, 
Thanked  the  snake  for  the  fond  delay!  7° 

Far  and  wide  the  tale  was  told, 
Like  a  snowball  growing  while  it  rolled. 
The  nurse  hushed  with  it  the  baby's  cry; 
And   it  served,  in  the  worthy  minister's 

eye, 

To  paint  the  primitive  serpent  by. 
Cotton  Mather  came  galloping  down 
All  the  way  to  Newbury  town, 
With  his  eyes  agog  and  his  ears  set  wide, 
And  his  marvellous  inkhorn  at  his  side ; 
Stirring  the  while  in  the  shallow  pool     *> 
Of  his  brains  for  the  lore  he  learned  at 

school, 

To  garnish  the  story,  with  here  a  streak 
Of  Latin,  and  there  another  of  Greek: 
And  the  tales  he  heard  and  the  notes  he 

took, 

Behold !    are    they    not    in    his    Wonder- 
Book? 

Stories,  like  dragons,  are  hard  to  kill. 
If  the  snake  does  not,  the  tale  runs  still 
In  Byfield  Meadows,  on  Pipestave  Hill. 
And  still,  whenever  husband  and  wife 
Publish  the  shame  of  their  daily  strife,  9° 
And,    with    mad    cross-purpose,    tug   and 

strain 

At  either  end  of  the  marriage-chain, 
The  gossips  say,  with  a  knowing  shake 
Of  their  gray  heads,  "Look  at  the  Double 

Snake ! 

One  in  body  and  two  in  will, 
The  Amphisbsena  is  living  still !" 

The  Atlantic  Monthly,  March,  1859. 


A  snake  with  two  heads,  lurking  so  near ! 
Judge  of  the  wonder,  guess  at  the  fear ! 
Think  what  ancient  gossips  might  say, 
Shaking  their  heads  in  their  dreary  way, 
Between  the  meetings  on  Sabbath-day ! 
How  urchins,  searching  at  day's  decline 
Th ;  Common  Pasture  for  sheep  or  kine, 
The  terrible  double-ganger  heard  6° 

In  leafy  rustle  or  whir  of  bird ! 
Think  what  a  zest  it  gave  to  the  sport, 
In  berry-time,  if  the  younger  sort, 
As  over  pastures  blackberry-twined, 
Reuben  and  Dorothy  lagged  behind, 
And  closer  and  closer,  for  fear  of  harm, 
The  maiden  clung  to  her  lover's  arm ; 


BROWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE 

John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie  spake  on  his 

dying  day : 
"I  will  not  have  to  shrive  my  soul  a  priest 

in  Slavery's  pay. 
But  let  some  poor  slave-mother  whom  I 

have  striven  to  free, 
With  her  children,  from  the  gallows-stair 

put  up  a  prayer  for  me !" 

John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie,  they  led  him 

out  to  die ; 
And   lo !    a   poor   slave-mother   with   her 

little  child  pressed  nigh. 


266 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Then  the  bold,  blue  eye  grew  tender,  and 
the  old  harsh  face  grew  mild, 

As  he  stopped  between  the  jeering  ranks 
and  kissed  the  negro's  child ! 

The  shadows  of  his  stormy  life  that  mo 
ment  fell  apart; 

And  they  who  blamed  the  bloody  hand 
forgave  the  loving  heart.  I0 

That  kiss  from  all  its  guilty  means  re 
deemed  the  good  intent, 

And  round  the  grisly  fighter's  hair  the 
martyr's  aureole  bent! 

Perish    with    him    the    folly    that    seeks 

through  evil  good ! 
Long  live  the  generous  purpose  unstained 

with  human  blood ! 
Not  the  raid  of  midnight  terror,  but  the 

thought  which  underlies; 
Not  the  borderer's  pride  of  daring,  but 

the  Christian's  sacrifice. 

Nevermore    may    yon    Blue    Ridges    the 

Northern  rifle  hear, 
Nor  see  the  light  of  blazing  homes  flash 

on  the  negro's  spear. 
But  let  the  free-winged  angel  Truth  their 

guarded  passes  scale, 
To  teach  that  right  is  more  than  might, 

and  justice  more  than  mail !  20 

So  vainly  shall  Virginia  set  her  battle  in 

array ; 
In  vain   her  trampling  squadrons  knead 

the  winter  snow  with  clay. 
She  may  strike  the  pouncing   eagle,  but 

she  dares  not  harm  the  dove; 
And  every  gate  she  bars   to   Hate  shall 

open  wide  to  Love ! 

1859. 
THE  WAITING 

I  wait  and  watch :  before  my  eyes 

Methinks  the  night  grows  thin  and  gray ; 
I  wait  and  watch  the  eastern  skies 
To  see  the  golden  spears  uprise 
Beneath  the  oriflamme  of  day! 

'Like  one  whose  limbs  are  bound  in  trance 

I  hear  the  day-sounds  swell  and  grow, 
And  see  across  the  twilight  glance, 
Troop  after  troop,  in  swift  advance, 
The  shining  ones  with  plumes  -of  snow ! 

10 

I  know  the  errand  of  their  feet, 

I  know  what  mighty  work  is  theirs; 
I  can  but  lift  up  hands  unmeet 
The  threshing-floors  of  God  to  beat, 
And  speed  them  with  unworthy  prayers. 


I  will  not  dream  in  vain  despair 

The  steps  of  progress  wait  for  me : 
The  puny  leverage  of  a  hair 
The  planet's  impulse  well  may  spare, 
A  drop  of  dew  the  tided  sea.  20 

The  loss,  if  loss  there  be,  is  mine, 
And  yet  not  mine  if  understood; 
For  one  shall  grasp  and  one  resign, 
One  drink  life's  rue,  and  one  its  wine, 
And  God  shall  make  the  balance  good. 

Oh  power  to  do  !•  Oh  baffled  will ! 

,Oh  prayer  and  action !  ye  are  one. 
Who  may  not  strive,  may  yet  fulfil 
The  harder  task  of  standing  still,  29 

And  good  but  wished  with  God  is  done ! 

1862. 

BARBARA  FRIETCHIE  1 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain- 
wall  ;  i° 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind :  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 
She    took   up    the   flag   the    men    hauled 
down ;  20 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

1  See  Pickard's  "Life  of  Whittier,"  vol.  ii,  pp. 
454-459. 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


267 


Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced;  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"Halt !" — the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast. 
"Fire!" — out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash.  3" 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf. 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word;  4° 

"Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog !    March  on !"  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet: 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night.  Vr 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her!  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town !   &> 

1863.        The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Oct.,  1863. 


LAUS  DEO!1 

It  is  done! 

Clang  of  bell  and  roar  of  gun 
Send  the  tidings  up  and  down. 

How  the  belfries  rock  and  reel ! 

How  the  great  guns,  peal  on  peal, 
Fling  the  joy  from  town  to  town! 

Ring,  O  bells! 
Every  stroke  exulting  tells 

Of  the  burial  hour  of  crime. 
Loud  and  long,  that  all  may  hear, 
Ring  for  every  listening  ear 

Of  Eternity  and  Time! 

Let  us  kneel : 
God's  own  voice  is  in  that  peal, 

And  this  spot  is  holy  ground. 
Lord,  forgive  us !    What  are  we, 
That  our  eyes  this  glory  see, 

That  our  ears  have  heard  the  sound ! 


For  the  Lord 

On  the  whirlwind  is  abroad ;  2° 

In  the  earthquake  He  has  spoken ; 

He  has  smitten  with  his  thunder 

The  iron  walls  asunder, 
And  the  gates  of  brass  are  broken ! 

Loud  and  long 

Lift  the  old  exulting  song; 
Sing  with  Miriam  by  the  sea, 

He  has  cast  the  mighty  down; 

Horse  and  rider  sink  and  drown; 
"He  hath  triumphed  gloriously!"  3° 

Did  we  dare, 

In  our  agony  of  prayer, 
Ask  for  more  than  He  has  done? 

When  was  ever  his  right  hand 

Over  any  time  or  land 
Stretched  as  now  beneath  the  sun? 

How  they  pale, 
Ancient  myth  and  song  and  tale, 

In  this  wonder  of  our  days, 
When  the  cruel  rod  of  wa.r      •  4° 

Blossoms  white  with  righteous  law, 

And  the  wrath  of  man  is  praise ! 

1  On  hearing  the  bells  ring  on  the  passage  of 
the  constitutional  amendment  abolishing-  slavery. 
The  resolution  was  adopted  by  Congress,  Jan 
uary  31,  1865.  The  ratification  by  the  requisite 
number  of  States  was  announced  December  18, 
1865.  (Author's  Note.) 


268 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Blotted  out! 
All  within  and  all  about 

Shall  a  fresher  life  begin; 
Freer  breathe  the  universe 
As  it  rolls  its  heavy  curse 

On  the  dead  and  buried  sin ! 

It  is  done! 
In  the  circuit  of  the  sun 

Shall  the  sound  thereof  go  forth. 
It  shall  bid  the  sad  rejoice, 
It  shall  give  the  dumb  a  voice, 

It  shall  belt  with  joy  the  earth! 

Ring  and  swing, 
Bells  of  joy!    On  morning's  wing 

Send  the  song  of  praise  abroad! 
With  a  sound  of  broken  chains 
Tell  the  nations  that  He  reigns, 

Who  alone  is  Lord  and  God! 


1865. 


The  Independent,  Feb.  9,  1865. 


THE  ETERNAL  GOODNESS 

0  friends !  with  whom  my  feet  have  trod 
The  quiet  aisles  of  prayer, 

Glad  witness  to  your  zeal  for  God 
And  love  of  man  I  bear. 

1  trace  your  lines  of  argument; 
Your  logic  linked  and  strong 

I  weigh  as  one  who  dreads  dissent, 
And  fears  a  doubt  as  wrong. 

But  still  my  human  hands  are  weak 
To  hold  your  iron  creeds :  10 

Against  the  words  ye  bid  me  speak 
My  heart  within  me  pleads. 

Who  fathoms  the  Eternal  Thought? 

Who  talks  of  scheme  and  plan? 
The  Lord  is  God !    He  needeth  not 

The  poor  device  of  man. 

I  walk  with  bare,  hushed  feet  the  ground 
Ye  tread  with  boldness  shod; 

I  dare  not  fix  with  mete  and  bound 
The  love  and  power  of  God.  2° 

Ye  praise  his  justice;  even  such 

His   pifying-  love   I    deem : 
Ye  seek  a  king;  I  fain  would  touch 

The  robe  that  hath  no  seam. 

Ye  see  the  curse  which  overbroods 

A  world  of  pain  and  loss; 
I  hear  our  Lord's  beatitudes 

And  prayer  upon  the  cross. 


More  than  your  schoolmen  teach,  within 
Myself,  alas  !  I  know  :  3° 

Too   dark  ye   cannot  paint  the  sin, 
Too  small  the  merit  show. 

I  bow  my  forehead  to  the  dust, 

I  veil  mine  eyes  for  shame, 
And  urge,   in   trembling   self-distrust, 

A  prayer  without  a  claim. 

I  see  the  wrong  that  round  me  lies, 

I  feel  the  guilt  within; 
I  hear,  with  groan  and  travail-cries, 

The  world  confess  its  sin.  4° 

Yet,  in  the  maddening  maze  of  things, 
And  tossed  by  storm  and  flood, 

To  one  fixed  trust  my  spirit  clings; 
I  know  that  God  is  good! 

Not  mine  to   look  where  cherubim 

And  seraphs  may  not  see, 
But  nothing  can  be  good  in  Him 

Which  evil  is  in  me. 

The  wrong  that  pains  my  soul  below 
I  dare  not  throne  above,  5° 

I  know  not  of  his  hate, — I  know 
His  goodness  and  his  love. 

I  dimly  guess  from  blessings  known 

Of  greater  out  of  sight, 
And,  with  the  chastened  Psalmist,  own 

His  judgments  too  are  right. 

I  long  for  household  voices  gone, 

For  vanished  smiles  I  long, 
But  God  hath  led  my  dear  ones  on, 

And  He  can  do  no  wrong. 

I  know  not  what  the  future  hath 

Of  marvel  or  surprise, 
Assured  alone  that  life  and  death 

His  mercy  underlies. 

And  if  my  heart  and  flesh  are  weak 

To  bear  an  untried  pain, 
The  bruised  reed  He  will  not  break, 

But  strengthen  and  sustain. 

No  offering  of  my  own  I  have, 

Nor  works  my  faith  to  prove;  7° 

I  can  but  give  the  gifts  He  gave, 
And  plead  his  love  for  love. 

And  so  beside  the  Silent  Sea 

I  wait  the  muffled  oar; 
No  harm  from  Him  can  come  to  me 

On  ocean  or  on  shore. 


60 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


269 


I  know  not  where  his  islands  lift 

Their  fronded  palms  in  air; 
I   only  know  I   cannot  drift 

Beyond  his  love  and  care.  &> 

O  brothers !  if  my  faith  is  vain, 

If  hopes  like  these  betray, 
Pray  for  me  that  my  feet  may  gain 

The  sure  and  safer  way. 

And  thou,  O  Lord !  by  whom  are  seen 

Thy  creatures  as  they  be, 
Forgive  me  if  too  close  I  lean 

My  human  heart  on  Thee ! 

1865? 

FROM?  SNOW-BOUND  * 
A  WINTER  IDYL 

TO   THE   MEMORY   OF  THE   HOUSEHOLD 
IT   DESCRIBES   THIS   POEM   IS   DEDI 
CATED    BY    THE    AUTHOR 

As  the  Spirits  of  Darkness  be  stronger  in  the 
dark,  so  Good  Spirits,  which  be  Angels  of  Light, 
are  augmented  not  only  by  the  Divine  light  of 
the  Sun,  but  also  by  our  common  Wood  Fire; 
and  as  the  Celestial  Fire  drives  away  dark 
spirits,  so  also  this  our  Fire  of  Wood  doth  the 
same. — COR.  AGRIPPA,  Occult  Philosophy,  Book 
I.  ch.  v. 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the   snow,   and,   driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight:  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 

EMERSON.     The  Snow  Storm. 

The  sun  that  brief  December  day 
Rose  cheerless  over  hills  of  gray, 
And,  darkly  circled,  gave  at  noon 
A  sadder  light  than  waning  moon. 

1  The  inmates  of  the  family  at  the  Whittier 
homestead  who  are  referred  to  in  the  poem  were 
my  father,  mother,  my  brother  and  two  sisters, 
and  my  uncle  and  aunt,  both  unmarried.  In 
addition,  there  was  the  district  school-master, 
who  boarded  with  us 

In  my  boyhood,  in  our  lonely  farm-house,  we 
had  scanty  sources  of  information;  few  books 
and  only  a  small  weekly  newspaper.  Our  only 
annual  was  the  Almanac.  Under  such  circum 
stances  story-telling  was  a  necessary  resource  in 
the  long  winter  evenings.  My  father  when  a 
young  man  had  traversed  the  wilderness  to 
Canada,  and  could  tell  us  of  his  adventures  with 
Indians  and  wild  beasts,  and  of  his  sojourn  in 
the  French  villages.  My  uncle  was  ready  with 
his  record  of  hunting  and  fishing  and,  it  must 
be  confessed,  with  stories,  which  he  at  least 
half  believed,  of  witchcraft  and  apparitions.  My 
mother,  who  was  born  in  the  Indian-haunted 
region  of  Somersworth,  New  Hampshire,  be 
tween  Dover  and  Portsmouth,  told  us  of  the 


Slow  tracing  down  the  thickening  sky 

Its  mute  and  ominous  prophecy, 

A  portent  seeming  less  than  threat, 

It  sank  from  sight  before  it  set. 

A  chill  no  coat,  however  stout, 

Of  homespun  stuff  could  quite  shut  out,  I0 

A  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold, 

That  checked,  mid-vein,  the  circling  race 

Of  life-blood  in  the  sharpened  face, 

The  coming  of  the  snow-storm  told. 

The  wind  blew  east;  we  heard  the  roar 

Of  Ocean  on  his  wintry  shore, 

And  felt  the  strong  pulse  throbbing  there 

Beat  with  low  rhythm  our  inland  air. 


Meanwhile  we  did  our  nightly  chores, — 
Brought  in  the  wood  from  out  of  doors,  2° 
Littered  the  stalls,  and  from  the  mows 
Raked  down  the  herd's-grass  for  the  cows : 
Heard  the  horse  whinnying  for  his  corn; 
And,  sharply  clashing  horn  on  horn, 
Impatient  down  the  stanchion  rows 
The  cattle  shake  their  walnut  bows ; 
While,  peering  from  his  early  perch 
Upon  the  scaffold's  pole  of  birch, 
The  cock  his  crested  helmet  bent 
And  down  his  querulous  challenge  sent.  3° 


Unwarmed  by  any  sunset  light 
The  gray  day  darkened  into  night, 
A  night  made  hoary  with  the  swarm 
And  whirl-dance  of  the  blinding  storm, 
As  zigzag,  wavering  to  and  fro, 
Crossed  and  recrossed  the  winged  snow : 
And  ere  the  early  bedtime  came 
The  white  drift  piled  the  window-frame, 
And   through    the   glass   the    clothes-line 

posts 
Looked  in  like  tall  and  sheeted  ghosts.  40 

inroads  of  the  savages,  and  the  narrow  escape 
of  her  ancestors.  She  described  strange  people 
who  lived  on  the  Piscataqua  and  Cocheco,  among 
whom  was  Bantam  the  sorcerer.  I  have  in  my 
possession  the  wizard's  "conjuring  book,"  which 
he  solemnly  opened  when  consulted.  It  is  a 
copy  of  Cornelius  Agrippa's  Magic,  printed  in 
1651,  dedicated  to  Dr.  Robert  Child,  who,  like 
Michael  Scott,  had  learned 

the  art  of  glammorie 
In  Padua  beyond  the  sea, 

and  who  is  famous  in  the  annals  of  Massa 
chusetts,  where  he  was  at  one  time  a  resident, 
as  the  first  man  who  dared  petition  the  General 
Court  for  liberty  of  conscience.  The  full  title 
of  the  book  is  Three  Books  of  Occult  Phi 
losophy,  by  Henry  Cornelius  Agrippa,  Knight, 
Doctor  of  both  Laws  Counsellor  to*  C<rsar's 
Sacred  Majesty  and  Judge  of  Prerogative  Court. 
(Author's  Note.) 


270 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


So  all  night  long  the  storm  roared  on : 

The  morning  broke  without  a  sun; 

In  tiny  spherule  traced  with  lines 

Of  Nature's  geometric  signs, 

In  starry  flake,  and  pellicle, 

All  day  the  hoary  meteor  fell; 

And,  when  the  second  morning  shone, 

We  looked  upon  a  world  unknown, 

On  nothing  we  could  call  our  own. 

Around  the  glistening  wonder  bent          so 

The  blue  walls  of  the  firmament, 

No  cloud  above,  no  earth  below, — 

A  universe  of  sky  and  snow ! 

The  old  familiar  sights  of  ours 

Took  marvellous   shapes ;   strange   domes 

and  towers 

Rose  up  where  sty  or  corn-crib  stood, 
Or  garden-wall,  or  belt  of  wood; 
A    smooth    white    mound    the   brush-pile 

showed, 

A  fenceless  drift  what  once  was  road; 
The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat  6° 

With  loose-flung  coat  and  high  cocked  hat ; 
The  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof; 
And  even  the  long  sweep,  high  aloof, 
In  its  slant  splendor,  seemed  to  tell 
Of  Pisa's  leaning  miracle. 

A  prompt,  decisive  man,  no  breath 
Our  father  wasted :  "Boys,  a  path !" 
Well  pleased  (for  when  did  farmer  boy 
Count  such  a  summons  less  than  joy?) 
Our  buskins  on  our  feet  we  drew;          7° 
With  mittened  hands,  and  caps  drawn  low, 
To  guard  our  necks  and  ears  from  snow, 
We  cut  the  solid  whiteness  through. 
And,  where  the  drift  was  deepest,  made 
A  tunnel  walled  and  ove.rlaid 
With  dazzling  crystal :  we  had  read 
Of  rare  Aladdin's  wondrous  cave, 
And  to  our  own  his  name  we  gave, 
With  many  a  wish  the  luck  were  ours 
To  test  his  lamp's  supernal  powers.          8° 
We  reached  the  barn  with  merry  din, 
And  roused  the  prisoned  brutes  within. 
The  old  horse  thrust  his  long  head  out, 
And  grave  with  wonder  gazed  about; 
The  cock  his  lusty  greeting  said, 
And  forth  his  speckled  harem  led; 
The  oxen  lashed  their  tails,  and  hooked, 
And  mild^  reproach  of  hunger  looked ; 
The  horned  patriarch  of  the  sheep, 
Like  Egypt's  Amun  roused  from  sleep,    9° 
Shook  his  sage  head  with  gesture  mute, 
And  emphasized  with  stamp  of  foot. 

All  day  the  gusty  north-wind  bore 
The  loosening  drift  its  breath  before; 


Low  circling  round  its  southern  zone, 
The   sun   through   dazzling  snow  -  mist 

shone. 

No  church-bell  lent  its  Christian  tone 
To  the  savage  air,  "no  social  smoke 
Curled  over  woods  of  snow-hung  oak. 
A  solitude  made  more  intense  I0° 

By  dreary-voiced   elements, 
The  shrieking  of  the  mindless  wind, 
The  moaning  tree-boughs  swaying  blind, 
And  on  the.  glass  the  unmeaning  beat 
Of  ghostly  finger-tips  of  sleet. 
Beyond  the  circle  of  our  hearth 
No  welcome  sound  of  toil  or  mirth 
Unbound  the  spell,  and  testified 
Of  human  life  and  thought  outside. 
We  minded  that  the  sharpest  ear  II0 

The  buried  brooklet  could  not  hear, 
The  music  of  whose  liquid  lip 
Had  been  to  us  companionship, 
And,  in  our  lonely  life,  had  grown 
To  have  an  almost  human  tone. 

As  night  drew  on,  and,  from  the  crest 
Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged  the  west, 
The  sun,  a  snow-blown  traveller,  sank 
From  sight  beneath  the  smothering  bank, 
We  piled,  with  care,  our  nightly  stack    I2° 
Of  wood  against  the  chimney-back, — 
The  oaken  log,  green,  huge,  and  thick, 
And  on  its  top  the  stout  back-stick; 
The  knotty  forestick  laid  apart, 
And  filled  between  with  curious  art 
The  ragged  brush ;  then,  hovering  near, 
We  watched  the  first  red  blaze  appear, 
Heard  the  sharp  crackle,  caught  the  gleam 
On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging  beam, 
Until  the  old,  rude-furnished  room        *3o 
Burst,  flower-like,  into  rosy  bloom; 
While  radiant  with  a  mimic  flame 
Outside  the  sparkling  drift  became, 
And  through  the  bare-boughed  lilac-tree 
Our   own    warm    hearth    seemed   blazing 

free. 

The  crane  and  pendent  trammels  showed, 
The  Turks'  heads  on  the  andirons  glowed; 
While  childish  fancy,  prompt  to  tell 
The  meaning  of  the  miracle,  J39 

Whispered  the  old  rhyme  :  "Under  the  tree, 
When  fire  outdoors  burns  merrily, 
There  the  witches  are  making  tea." 

The  moon  above  the  eastern  wood 
Shone  at  its  full ;  the  hill-range  stood 
Transfigured  in  the  silver  flood, 
Its  blown  snows  flashing  cold  and  keen, 
Dead    white,    save    where    some    sharp 

ravine 
Took  shadow,  or  the  sombre  green 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


271 


Of  hemlocks  turned  to  pitchy  black 
Against  the  whiteness  at  their  back.       '5° 
For  such  a  world  and  such  a  night 
Most  fitting  that  unwarming  light, 
Which  only  seemed  where'er  it  fell 
To  make  the  coldness  visible. 
Shut  in  from  all  the  world  without, 
We  sat  the  clean-winged  hearth  about, 
Content  to  let  the  north-wind  roar 
In  baffled  rage  at  pane  and  door, 
While  the  red  logs  before  us  beat 
The  frost-line  back  with  tropic  heat;     l6° 
And  ever,  when  a  louder  blast 
Shook  beam  and  rafter  as  it  passed, 
The  merrier  up  its  roaring  draught 
The  great  throat  of  the  chimney  laughed; 
The  house-dog  on  his  paws  outspread 
Laid  to  the  fire  his  drowsy  head, 
The  cat's  dark  silhouette  on  the  wall 
A  couchant  tiger's  seemed  to   fall; 
And,   for  the  winter   fireside  meet, 
Between  the  andirons'  straddling  feet,    '7° 
The  mug  of  cider  simmered  slow, 
The  apples  sputtered  in  a  row, 
And,  close  at  hand,  the  basket  stood 
With  nuts  from  brown  October's  wood. 

We  sped  the  time  with  stories  old, 
Wrought  puzzles  out,  and  riddles  told, 
Or  stammered  from  our  school-book  lore 
"The  Chief  of  Gambia's  golden  shore."  ' 
How  often  since,  when  all  the  land 
Was  clay  in  Slavery's  shaping  hand, 
As  if  a  far-blown  trumpet  stirred 
The  languorous  sin-sick  air,  I  heard : 
"Does  not  the  voice  of  reason  cry,          22° 

Claim  the  first  right  which  Nature  gave, 
From  the  red  scourgv  of  bondage  fly, 

Nor  deign  to  live  a  burdened  slave!" 
Our  father  rode  again  his  ride 
On  Memphremagog's  wooded  side ; 
Sat  down  again  to  moose  and  samp 
In  trapper's  hut  and  Indian  camp; 
Lived  o'er  the  old  idyllic  ease 
Beneath  St.  Franqois'  hemlock-trees; 
Again  for  him  the  moonlight  shone      23° 
On  Norman  Cap  and  bodiced  zone ; 
Again  he  heard  the  violin  play 
Which  led  the  village  dance  away. 
And  mingled  in  its  merry  whirl 
The  grandam  and  the  laughing  girl. 
Or,  nearer  home,  our  steps  he  led 
Where  Salisbury's  level  marshes  spread 

1  "The  African  Chief"  was  the  title  of  a  poem 
by  Mrs.  Sarah  Wentworth  Morton,  wife  of  the 
Hon.  Perez  Morton,  a  former  attorney-general 
of  Massachusetts.  Mrs.  Morton's  nom  de  flume 
was  Philetiia.  The  school-book  in  which  "The 
African  Chief"  was  printed  was  Caleb  Bing- 
ham's  The  American  Preceptor,  {Author's  Note.) 


Mile-wide  as  flies  the  laden  bee; 
Where  merry  mowers,  hale  and  strong, 
Swept,    scythe    on    scythe,    their    swaths 
along  *to 

The  low  green  prairies  of  the  sea. 
We  shared  the  fishing  off  Boar's  Head, 

And  round  the  rocky  Isles  of  Shoals 

The  hake-broil  on  the  drift-wood  coals; 
The  chowder  on  the  sand-beach  made, 
Dipped  by  the  hungry,  steaming  hot 
With  spoons  of  clam-shell  from  the  pot. 
We  heard  the  tales  of  witchcraft  old, 
And  dream  and  sign  and  marvel  told 
To  sleepy  listeners  as  they  lay  25° 

Stretched  idly  on  the  salted  hay, 
Adrift  along  the  winding  shores, 
When  favoring  breezes  deigned  to  blow 
The  square  sail  of  the  gundelow 
And  idle  lay  the  useless  oars. 

Our  mother,  while  she  turned  her  wheel 
Or  run  the  new-knit  stocking-heel, 
Told  how  the  Indian  hordes  came  down 
At  midnight  on  Cocheco  town, 
And  how  her  own  great-uncle  bore      26° 
His  cruel  scalp-mark  to  fourscore. 
Recalling,  in  her  fitting  phrase, 
So  rich  and  picturesque  and  free 
(The  common  unrhymed  poetry 
Of  simple  life  and  country  ways), 
The  story  of  her  early  days, — 
She  made  us  welcome  to  her  home; 
Old  hearths  grew  wide  to  give  us  room ; 
We  stole  with  her  a  frightened  look 
At  the  gray  wizard's  con jur ing-book,    27° 
The  fame  whereof  went  far  and  wide 
Through  all  the  simple  country-side; 
We  heard  the  hawks  at  twilight  play, 
The  boat-horn  on  Piscataqua, 
The  loon's  weird  laughter  far  away; 
We  fished  her  little  trout-brook,  knew 
What  flowers  in  wood  and  meadow  grew, 
What  sunny  hillsides  autumn-brown 
She  climbed  to  shake  the  ripe  nuts  down, 
Saw  where  in  sheltered  cove  and  bay  28° 
The  ducks'  black  squadron  anchored  lay, 
And  heard  the  wild-geese  calling  loud 
Beneath  the  gray  November  cloud. 

Clasp,  Angel  of  the  backward  look 
And  folded  wings  of  ashen  gray 
And  voice  of  echoes  far  away, 
The  brazen  covers  of  thy  book; 
The  weird  palimpsest  old  and  vast, 
Wherein  thou  hid'st  the  spectral  past;  7» 
Where,  closely  mingling,  pale  and  glow 
The  characters  of  joy  and  woe; 
The  monographs  of  outlived  years, 
Or  smile-illumed  or  dim  with  tears, 


272 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Green  hills  of  life  that  slope  to  death, 
And  haunts  of  home,  whose  vistaed  trees 
Shade   off  to  mournful  cypresses 

With  the  white  amaranths  underneath. 
Even  while  I  look,  I  can  but  heed 

The  restless  sands'  incessant  fall,      73ft 
Importunate  hours  that  hours  succeed, 
Each  clamorous  with  its  own  sharp  need, 

And  duty  keeping  pace  with  all. 
Shut  down  and  clasp  the  heavy  lids; 
I  hear  again  the  voice  that  bids 
The  dreamer  leave  his  dream  midway 
For  larger  hopes  and  graver  fears; 
Life  greatens  in  these  later  years, 
The  century's  aloe  flowers  to-day! 

Yet,  haply,  in  some  lull  of  life,  74P 

Some  Truce  of  God  which  breaks  its  strife, 
The  worldling's  eyes  shall  gather  dew, 

Dreaming  in  throngful  city  ways 
Of  winter  joys  his  boyhood  knew; 
And  dear  and  early  friends — the  few 
Who  yet  remain — shall  pause  to  view 

These  Flemish  pictures  of  old  days; 
Sit  with  me  by  the  homestead  hearth, 
And  stretch  the  hands  of  memory  forth 

To  warm  them  at  the  wood-fire's  blaze ! 
And  thanks  untraced  to  lips  unknown    7Si 
Shall  greet  me  like  the  odors  blown 
From  unseen  meadows  newly  mown, 
Or  lilies  floating  in  some  pond, 
Wood-fringed,  the  wayside  gaze  beyond; 
The  traveller  owns  the  grateful  sense 
Of  sweetness  near,  he  knows  not  whence 
And,  pausing,  takes  with  forehead  bare 
The  benediction  of  the  air. 

1865.  Separately  published,  1866. 


OUR  MASTER « 

Immortal   Love,    forever   full, 

Forever  flowing  free, 
Forever  shared,  forever  whole, 

A  never-ebbing  sea! 

Out  outward  lips  confess  the  name 

All  other  names  above; 
Love  only  knoweth  whence  it  came 

And  comprehendeth  love. 

Blow,  winds  of  God,  awake,  and  blow 
The  mists  of  earth  away!  I0 

Shine  out,  O  Light  Divine,  and  show 
How   wide   and   far   we   stray ! 

1  Five  well-known  hymns  are  taken  from  this 
poem. 


Hush  every  HB,  close  every  book, 
The  strife  of  tongues   forbear; 

Why  forward  reach,  or  backward  look, 
For  love  that  clasps  like  air? 

We  may  not  climb  the  heavenly  steeps 
To  bring  the  Lord  Christ  down : 

In  vain  we  search  the  lowest  deeps, 
For  Him  no  depths  can  drown.  2° 

Nor  holy  bread,  nor  blood  of  grape, 

The  lineaments  restore 
Of  Him  we  know  in  outward  shape 

And  in  the  flesh  no  more. 

He  cometh  not  a  king  to  reign; 

The  world's  long  hope  is  dim; 
The  weary  centuries  watch  in  vain 

The  clouds  of   heaven   for   Him. 

Death  comes,  life  goes;  the  asking  eye 
And  ear  are  answerless;  3° 

The  grave  is  dumb,  the  hollow  sky 
Is  sad  with  silentness. 

The  letter  fails,  and  systems  fall, 

And  every  symbol  wanes; 
The  Spirit  over-brooding  all 

Eternal  Love   remains. 

And  not  for  signs  in  heaven  above 

Or  earth  below  they  look, 
Who  know  with  John  His  smile  of  love, 

With  Peter  His  rebuke.  40 

In  joy  of  inward  peace,  or  sense 

Of  sorrow  over  sin, 
He  is  His  own  best  evidence, 

His  witness  is  within. 

No  fable  old,  nor  mythic  lore, 
Nor  dream  of  bards  and  seers, 

No  dead  fact  stranded  on  the  shore 
Of  the  oblivious  years; — 

But  warm,  sweet,  tender,  even  yet 

A  present  help  is  He ;  5° 

And  faith  has  still  its  Olivet 
And  love  its  Galilee. 

The  healing  of  His  seamless  dress 

Is  by  our  beds  of  pain; 
We  touch  Him  in  life's  throng  and  press, 

And  we  are  whole  again. 

Through  Him  the  first  fond  prayers  are 
said 

Our  lips  of  childhood  frame. 
The  last  low  whispers  of  our  dead 

Are  burdened  with  His  name.  6° 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 


273 


Our  Lord  and  Master  of  us  all ! 

Whate'er   our    name    or   sign, 
We  own  Thy  sway,  we  hear  Thy  call, 

We  test  our  lives  by  Thine. 

Thou  judgest  us;   Thy  purity 

Doth  all  our  lusts  condemn  ; 
The  love  that  draws  us  nearer  Thee 

Io  hot  with  wrath  to  them. 

Our  thoughts  lie  open  to  Thy  sight; 

And,  naked  to  Thy  glance,  7° 

Our  secret  sins  are  in  the  light 

Of  Thy  pure  countenance. 

Thy  healing  pains,   a  keen  distress 

Thy  tender  light  shines  in; 
Thy  sweetness  is  the  bitterness, 

Thy  grace  the  pang  of  sin. 

Yet,  weak  and  blinded  though  we  be, 

Thou  dost  our  service  own ; 
We  bring  our  varying  gifts  to  Thee, 

And  Thou  rejectest  none.  8° 

To  Thee  our  full  humanity, 

Its  joys  and  pains,  belong; 
The  wrong  of  man  to  man  on  Thee 

Inflicts  a  deeper  wrong. 

Who  hates,   hates  Thee;   who   loves  be 
comes 

Therein  to  Thee  allied; 
All  sweet  accords  of  hearts  and  homes 

In  Thee  are  multiplied. 

Deep  strike  Thy  roots,  O  heavenly  Vine, 

Within  our  earthly  sod, 
Most  human  and  yet  most  divine, 

The  flower  of  man  and  God ! 

O  Love!  O  Life!     Our  faith  and  sight 

Thy  presence  maketh  one 
As  through  transfigured  clouds  of  white 

We  trace  the  noon-day  sun. 

So,   to  our  mortal  eyes   subdued, 
Flesh-veiled,  but  not  concealed, 

We  know   in   Thee   the   fatherhood 
And  heart  of  God  revealed.  I0° 

We  faintly  hear,  we  dimly  see, 
In   differing  phrase   we   pray; 

But,  dim  or  clear,  we  own  in  Thee 
The  Light,  the  Truth,  the  Way! 


The  homage  that  we  render  Thee 

Is  still  our  Father's  own; 
No  jealous  claim  or  rivalry 

Divides  the  Cross  and  Throne. 

To  do  Thy  will  is  more  than  praise, 
As  words  are  less  than  deeds,  II0 

And  simple  trust  can  find  Thy  ways 
We  miss  with  chart  of  creeds. 

No  pride  of  self  Thy  service  hath, 

No  place  for  me  and  mine; 
Our  human  strength  is  weakness,  death 

Our  life,  apart  from  Thine. 

Apart  from  Thee  all  gain  is  loss, 

All  labor  vainly  done; 
The  solemn  shadow  of  Thy  Cross 

Is  better  than  the  sun.  I2° 

Alone,  O  Love  ineffable! 

Thy  saving  name  is  given; 
To  turn  aside  from  Thee  is  hell, 

To  walk  with  Thee  is  heaven ! 

How  vain,  secure  in  all  Thou  art, 

Our   noisy   championship ! 
The  sighing  of  the  contrite  heart 

Is  more  than  flattering  lip. 

Not  Thine  the  bigot's  partial  plea, 

Nor  Thine  the  zealot's  ban;  J3° 

Thou  well  canst  spare  a  love  of  Thee 
Which  ends  in  hate  of  man. 

Our  Friend,  our  Brother,  and  our  Lord, 
What  may  Thy  service  be? — 

Nor  name,  nor  form,  nor  ritual  word, 
But  simply   following  Thee. 

We  bring  no  ghastly  holocaust, 

We  pile  no  graven  stone; 
He  serves  Thee  best  who  loveth  most 

His  brothers  and  Thy  own.  MO 

Thy  litanies,  sweet  offices 

Of  love  and  gratitude; 
Thy   sacramental    liturgies, 

The  joy  of  doing  good. 

In  vain  shall  waves  of  incense  drift 

The  vaulted  nave  around; 
In  vain  the  minster  turret  lift 

Its  brazen  weights  of  sound. 

The  heart  must  ring  Thy  Christmas  bells, 
Thy  inward  altars  raise ;  '5° 

Its  faith  and  hope  Thy  canticles, 
And  its  obedience  praise ! 

1866. 


274 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


ABRAHAM    DAVENPORT' 

In  the  old  days  (a  custom  laid  aside 
With  breeches  and  cocked  hats)   the  peo 
ple  sent 

Their  wisest  men  to  make  the  public  laws. 
And  so,  from  a  brown  homestead,  where 

the  Sound 

Drinks  the  small  tribute  of  the  Mianas, 
Waved  over  by  the  woods  of  Rippowams, 
And  hallowed  by  pure  lives  and  tranquil 

deaths, 
Stamford  sent  up  to  the  councils  of  the 

State 
Wisdom  and  grace  in  Abraham  Davenport. 

'Twas  on  a  May-day  of  the  far  old  year 

Seventeen  hundred  eighty,  that  there  fell 

Over  the  bloom  and  sweet  life  of  the 
Spring,  ii 

Over  the  fresh  earth  and  the  heaven  of 
noon, 

A  horror  of  great  darkness,  like  the  night 

In  day  of  which  the  Norland  sagas  tell, — 

The  Twilight  of  the  Gods.  The  low- 
hung  sky 

Was  black  with  ominous  clouds,  save 
where  its  rim 

Was  fringed  with  a  dull  glow,  like  that 
which  climbs 

The  crater's  sides  from  the  red  hell  be 
low. 

Birds  ceased  to  sing,  and  all  the  barn 
yard  fowls  2° 

Roosted;  the  cattle  at  the  pasture  bars 

Lowed,  and  looked  homeward;  bats  on 
leathern  wings 

Flitted  abroad;  the  sounds  of  labor  died; 

Men  prayed,  and  women  wept;  all  ears 
grew  sharp 

To  hear  the  doom-blast  of  the  trumpet 
shatter 

The  black  sky,  that  the  dreadful  face  of 
Christ 

Might  look  from  the  rent  clouds,  not  as 
He  looked 

A  loving  guest  at  Bethany,  but  stern 

As  Justice  and  inexorable  Law. 

Meanwhile  in  the  old  State  House,  dim 
as  ghosts,  3° 

Sat  the  lawgivers  of  Connecticut, 
Trembling  beneath  their  legislative  robes. 

1  The  famous  Dark  Day  of  New  England,  Maj 
19.  1780,  was  a  physical  puzzle  for  many  years 
to  our  ancestors,  but  its  occurrence  brought  some: 
thing  more  than  philosophical  speculation  into  the 
minds  of  those  who  passed  through  it.  The  inci 
dent  of  Colonel  Abraham  Davenport's  sturdy 
protest  is  a  matter  of  history.  (Author's  Note.) 


"It  is  the  Lord's  Great  Day !  Let  us  ad 
journ," 

Some  said;  and  then, -as  if  with  one  ac 
cord, 

All  eyes  were  turned  to  Abraham  Daven 
port. 

He  rose,  slow  cleaving  with  his  steady 
voice 

The  intolerable  hush.     "This  well  may  be 

The  Day  of  Judgment  which-  the  world 
awaits ; 

But  be  it  so  or  not,  I  only  know 

My  present  duty,  and  my  Lord's  com 
mand  40 

To  occupy  till  He  come.     So  at  the  post 

Where  He  hath  set  me  in  His  providence, 

I  choose,  for  one,  to  meet  Him  face  to 
face, — • 

No  faithless  servant  frightened  from  my 
task, 

But  ready  when  the  Lord  of  the  harvest 
calls ; 

And  therefore,  with  all  reverence,  I  would 
say, 

Let  God  do  His  work,  we  will  see  to 
ours. 

Bring  in  the  candles."  And  they  brought 
them  in. 

Then  by  the  flaring  lights  the  Speaker 

read, 

Albeit  with  husky  voice  and  shaking 
hands,  so 

An  act  to  amend  an  act  to  regulate 
The  shad  and  alewive  fisheries.     Where 
upon 

Wisely  and  well  spake  Abraham  Daven 
port, 
Straight  to  the  question,  with  no  figures 

of  speech 

Save  the  ten  Arab  signs,  yet  not  without 
The    shrewd    dry    humor   natural    to    the 

man : 
His    awe-struck    colleagues    listening    all 

the   while 

Between  the  pauses  of  his  argument, 
To  hear  the  thunder  of  the  wrath  of  God 
Break   from   the  hollow  trumpet   of  the 
cloud.  60 

And  there  he  stands  in  memory  to  this 

day, 

Erect,  self-poised,  a  rugged  face,  half  seen 
Against    the    background     of    unnatural 

dark, 

A  witness  to  the  ages  as  they  pass, 
That  simple  duty  hath  no  place  for  fear. 

The  Atlantic  Monthly,  May,  1866. 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL 
(1819-1891) 


"I  WOULD  NOT  HAVE  THIS  PER 
FECT  LOVE  OF  OURS" 

I  would  not  have  this  perfect  love  of  ours 
Grow   from  a  single  root,  a  single  stem, 
Bearing  no  goodly  fruit,  but  only  flowers 
That  idly  hide  life's  iron  diadem: 
It  should  grow  always  like  that  Eastern 

tree 
Whose  limbs  take  root  and  spread  forth 

constantly ; 
That  love  for  one,  from  which  there  doth 

not  spring 
Wide    love    for   all,    is    but    a    worthless 

thing. 

Not  in  another  world,  as  poets  prate, 
Dwell  we  apart  above  the  tide  of  things,  I0 
High  floating  o'er  earth's  clouds  on  faery 

wings ; 

But  our  pure  love  doth  ever  elevate 
Into  a  holy  bond  of  brotherhood 
All  earthly  things,  making  them  pure  and 

good. 

1840. 

"FOR    THIS    TRUE    NOBLENESS,! 
SEEK    IN    VAIN" 

"For  this  true  nobleness  I  seek  in  vain, 
In  woman  and  in  nian  I  find  it  not; 
I  almost  weary  of  my  earthly  lot, 
My  life-springs  are  dried  up  with  burning 

pain." 
Thou    find'st    it   not?     I    pray   thee   look 

again, 
Look  inward  through  the  depths  of  thine 

own  soul. 
How  is  it  with  thee?    Art  thou  sound  and 

whole? 
Doth  narrow  search  show  thee  no  earthly 

stain  ? 

BE  NOBLE  !    and  the  nobleness  that  lies 
In  other  men,  sleeping,  but  never  dead,   I0 
Will  rise  in  majesty  to  meet  thine  own; 
Then    wilt    thou    see    it    gleam    in    many 

eyes, 
Then  will  pure  light  around  thy  path  be 

shed, 

And  thou  wilt  nevermore  be  sad  and  lone. 
1840.  1840. 


"MY  LOVE,  I  HAVE  NO  FEAR 
THAT  THOU  SHOULDST  DIE" 

My    Love,    I.  have    no    fear    that    thou 

shouldst  die; 

Albeit   I   ask   no   fairer   life   than   this, 
Whose  numbering-clock  is  still  thy  gentle 

kiss, 

While   Time   and    Peace   with   hands   en- 
locked  fly; 

Yet  care  I  not  where  in  Eternity 
We  live  and  love,  well  knowing  that  there  is 
No  backward  step  for  those  who  feel  the 

bliss 
Of   Faith   as   their   most   lofty  yearnings 

high  : 

Love  hath  so  purified  my  being's  core, 
Meseems    I    scarcely    should   be    startled, 

even,  10 

To  find,  some  morn,  that  thou  hadst  gone 

before" 
Since,  with  thy  love,  this  knowledge  too 

was  given, 
Which    each    calm    day    doth    strengthen 

more  and  more, 
That  they  who  love  are  but  one  step  from 

Heaven. 
1841.  In  "Poems,"   1844. 


"OUR    LOVE    IS    NOT    A    FADING 
EARTHLY    FLOWER" 

Our  love  is  not  a  fading  earthly  flower : 
Its  winged  seed  dropped  down  from  Para 
dise, 
And,    nursed   by   day  and   night,   by   sun 

and  shower, 

Doth  momently  to  fresher  beauty  rise : 
To  us  the  leafless  autumn  is  not  bare, 
Nor   winter's    rattling   boughs    lack   lusty 

green. 

Our  summer  hearts  make  summer's   ful 
ness,  where 

No  leaf,  or  bud,  or  blossom  may  be  seen : 

For  nature's  life  in  love's  deep  life  doth  lie, 

Love, — whose     forgetfulness    is     beauty's 

death,  »° 

Whose    mystic   key   these   cells   of   Thou 

and  I 


275 


276 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Into  the  infinite  freedom  openeth, 

And  makes  the  body's  dark  and  narrow 

grate 
The  wide-flung  leaves  of  Heaven's  own 

palace-jjate. 

1842.  In  "Poems,"  1844. 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  KING 
ADMETUS 

There  came  a  youth  upon  the  earth, 

Some  thousand  years  ago, 
Whose  slender  hands  were  nothing  worth, 
Whether  to  plough,  or  reap,  or  sow. 

Upon  an  empty  tortoise-shell 

He  stretched  some  chords,  and  drew 
Music  that  made  men's  bosoms  swell 
Fearless,  or  brimmed  their  eyes  wich  dew. 

Then  King  Admetus,  one  who  had 

Pure  taste  by  right  divine,  I0 

Decreed  his  singing  not  too  bad 
To  hear  between  the  cups  of  wine: 

And  so,  well  pleased  with  being  soothed 

Into  a  sweet  half-sleep, 
Three  times  his  kingly  beard  he  smoothed, 
And  made  him  viceroy  o'er  his  sheep. 

His'  words  were  simple  words  enough, 

And  yet  he  used  them  so, 
That  what  in  other  mouths  was  rough 
In  his  seemed  musical  and  low.  2° 

Men  called  him  but  a  shiftless  youth, 

In  whom  no  good  they  saw; 
And  yet,  unwittingly,  in  truth, 
They  made  his  careless  words  their  law. 

They  knew  not  how  he  learned  at  all, 

For  idly,  hour  by  hour, 
He  sat  and  watched  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
Or  mused  upon  a  common  flower. 

It  seemed  the  loveliness  of  things 

Did  teach  him  all  their  use,  so 

For,    in    mere    weeds,    and    stones,    and 

springs, 
He  found  a  healing  power  profuse. 

Men  granted  that  his  speech  was  wise, 

But,  whep  a  glance  they  caught 
Of  his  slim  grace  and  woman's  eyes, 
They  laughed,  and  called  him  good-for- 
naught. 


Yet  after  he  was  dead  and  gone, 

And  e'en  his  memory  dim, 
Earth  seemed  more  sweet  to  live  upon, 
More  full  of  love,  because  of  him. 

And  day  by  day  more  holy  grew 
Each  spot  where  he  had  trod, 
Till  after-poets  only  knew 
Their  first-born  brother  as  a  god. 


Boston  Miscellany,  1842. 

^l// frvYvj 


AN    INCIDENT 


• 

ILROAD 


CAR 


He    spoke    of    Burns :    men    rude    and( 

rough 

Pressed  round  to  hear  the  praise  of  one 
Whose  heart  was  made  of  manly,  simple 

stuff, 
As  homespun  as  their  own. 

And,  when  he  read,  they  forward  leaned, 

Drinking,  with  thirsty  hearts  and  ears, 

His  brook-like   songs   whom  glory  never 

weaned 
From  humble  smiles  and  tears. 

Slowly  there  grew  a  tender  awe, 
Sun-like,  o'er  faces  brown  and  hard,    I0 
As  if  in  him  who  read  they  felt  and  saw 
Some  presence  of  the  bard. 

It  was  a  sight  for  sin  and  wrong 
And  slavish  tyranny  to  see, 
A  sight  to  make  our  faith  more  pure  and 

strong 
In   high   humanity. 

I  thought,  these  men  will  carry  hence 
Promptings  their  former  life  above, 
And  something  of  a  finer  reverence 

For  beauty,  truth,  and  love.  2° 

God  scatters  love  on  every  side 
Freely  among  His  children  all, 
And  always  hearts  are  lying  open  wide, 
Wherein  some  grains  may  fall. 

There  is  no  wind  but  soweth  seeds 
Of  a  more  true  and  open  life, 
Which    burst,    unlocked    for,    into    high- 

souled  deeds, 
With  wayside  beauty  rife. 

We  find  within  these  souls  of  purs 
Some  wild  germs  of  a  higher  birth,    3° 
Which    in    the   poet's    tropic    heart    bear 

flowers 
Whose  fragrance  fills  the  earth. 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 


277 


Within  the  hearts  of  all  men  lie 
These  promises  of  wider  bliss, 
Which    blossom    into   hopes   that   cannot 

die, 
In  sunny  hours  like  this. 

All  that  hath  been  majestical 
In  life  or  death,  since  time  began, 
Is  native  in  the  simple  heart  of  all, 

The  angel  heart  of  man.  4° 

And  thus,  among,  the  untaught  poor, 
Great  deeds  and  feelings  find  a  home, 
That  cast  in  shadow  all  the  golden  lore 
Of  classic  Greece  and   Rome. 

O  mighty  brother-soul  of  man, 
Where'er  thou  art,  in  low  or  high, 
Thy  skyey  arches  with  exulting  span 
O'er-roof    infinity ! 

All  thoughts  that  mould  the  age  begin 
Deep  down  within  the  primitive  soul,      so 
And  from  the  many  slowly  upward  win 
To  one  who  grasps  the  whole: 

In  his  wide  brain  the  feeling  deep 
That  struggled  on  the  many's  tongue 
Swells  to  a  tide  of  thought,  whose  surges 

leap 
O'er  the  weak  thrones  of  wrong. 

All  thought  begins  in   feeling, — wide 
In  the  great  mass  its  base  is  hid, 
And,    narrowing   up    to    thought,    stands 

glorified, 
A  moveless  pyramid.  60 

Nor  is  he  far  astray,  who  deems 
That  every  hope,  which  rises  and  grows 

broad 
In  the  world's  heart,  by  ordered  impulse 

streams 
From  the  great  heart  of  God. 

God  wills,  man  hopes :  in  common  souls 
Hope  is  but  vague  and  undefined, 
Till   from  the  poet's  tongue  the  message 

rolls 
A  blessing  to  his  kind. 

Never  did  Poesy  appear 
So  full  of  heaven  to  me,  as  when      TO 
I  saw  how  it  would  pierce  through  pride 

and  fear 
To  the  lives  of  coarsest  men. 


It  may  be  glorious  to  write 

Thoughts   that   shall   glad   the   two   or 

three 
High  souls,  like  those  far  stars  that  come 

in  sight 
Once  in  a  century; — 

But  better  far  it  is  to  speak  • 
One  simple  word,  which  now  and  then 
Shall  waken  their  free  nature  in  the  weak 
And  friendless  sons  of  men;  80 

To  write  some  earnest  verse  or  line, 

Which,  seeking  not  the  praise  of  art, 

Shall  make  a  clearer  faith  and  manhood 

shine 
In  the  untutored  heart. 

He  who  doth  this,  in  verse  or  prose, 
May  be  forgotten  in  his  day, 
But  surely  shall  be  crowned  at  last  with 

those 
Who  live  and  speak  for  aye. 

1842.  Democratic  Review,  Oct.,  1842. 


SONG 

O  moonlight  deep  and  tender, 

A  year  and  more  agone, 
Your  mist  of  golden  splendor 

Round  my  betrothal  shone! 

O  elm-leaves  dark  and  dewy, 

The  very  same  ye  seem, 
The   low   wind  trembles  through  ye, 

Ye  murmur  in  my  dream ! 

O  river,  dim  with  distance, 

Flow  thus  forever  by, 
A  part  of  my  existence 

Within  your  heart  doth  lie ! 

O  stars,  ye  saw  our  meeting, 

Two  beings  and  one  soul, 
Two  hearts  so  madly  beating 

To  mingle  and  be  whole! 

O  happy  night,  deliver 

Her  kisses  back  to  me, 
Or  keep  them  all,  and  give  her 

A  blissful  dream  of  me!  • 


1842. 


In  "Poems,"  1844. 


278 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


WENDELL  PHILLIPS 


He  stood  upon  the  world's  broad  thresh 
old;  wide 

The  din  of  battle  and  of  slaughter  rose; 
He  saw  God  stand  upon  the  weaker  side, 
That  sank  in  seeming  loss  before  its  foes : 
Many  there  were  who  made  great  haste 

and  sold 

Unto  the  cunning  enemy  their  swords, 
He    scorned    their    gifts    of    fame,    and 

power,  and  gold, 
And,  underneath  their  soft  and  flowery 

words, 
Heard  the  cold  serpent  hiss;  therefore  he 

went 

And   humbly  joined  him   to   the   weaker 
part,  10 

Fanatic  named,  and  fool,  yet  well  content 
So  he  could  be  the  nearer  to  God's  heart, 
And  feel  its  solemn  pulses  sending  blood 
Through  all  the  widespread  veins  of  end 
less  good. 

In  "Poems,"  1844. 


Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime ; 
The  eyes  thou  givest  me  2I 

Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  or 

time : 

Not  in  mid  June  the  golden-cuirassed  bee 
Feels  a  more  summer-like  warm  ravish 
ment 

In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent, 
His  fragrant  Sybaris,  than  I,  when  first 
From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles 
burst. 


Of 


TO   THE 


DANDELION^  {/      "J 

nvafr     tVint    crrnw/'et    VIP- 


Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st  be 
side  the  way, 
Fringing  the   dusty  road   with   harmless 

gold, 

First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
Which  children  pluck,  and   full  of  pride 

uphold, 
High-hearted  buccaneers,  o'erjoyed  that 

they 

An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found, 
Which    not    the    rich    earth's    ample 

round 
May  match   in   wealth,   thou   art  more 

dear  to  me 

Than   all   the   prouder   summer-blooms 
may  be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Span 
ish  prow  I0 
Through    the    primeval    hush    of    Indian 
,        seas, 

Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease; 
'T    is   the    Spring's    largess,   which   she 

scatters  now 

To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand, 
Though    most    hearts    never    under 
stand 

To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 
The    offered    wealth    with    unrewarded 
eye. 


Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  on  the 

grass, 
meadows    where    in    sun    the    cattle 

graze, 

Where,  as  the  breezes  pass,  30 

The    gleaming    rushes    lean    a    thousand 

ways, 
Of    leaves    that    slumber    in    a    cloudy 

mass, 

Or  whiten  in  the  wind,  of  waters  blue 
That     from    the    distance     sparkle 

through 
Some    woodland    gap,    and    of    a    sky 

above, 

Where    one    white   cloud    like   a   stray 
lamb  doth  move. 


My    childhood's    earliest    thoughts    are 

linked  with  thee; 
The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's 

song, 

Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside    the    door,    sang    clearly    all    day 
long,  40 

And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety, 
Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 
With   news    from   heaven,   which   he 

could  bring 

Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears 
When   birds   and   flowers   and    I    were 
happy  peers. 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  nature  seem, 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common 

art !     - 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 
Since    each    reflects    in   joy   its    scanty 
gleam  so 

Of    heaven,    and    could    some    wondrous 

secret  show, 

Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 
And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom 

look 
On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 

1844?         Graham's  Magazine,  Jan.,  1845. 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL 


279 


COLUMBUS 

The   cordage   creaks    and   rattles    in    the 

wind, 
With  whims  of  sudden  hush;  the  reeling 

sea 
Now  thumps  like  solid  rock  beneath  the 

stern, 
Now    leaps    with    clumsy    wrath,    strikes 

short,  and  falling, 
Crumbled  to  whispery  foam,  slips  rustling 

down 
The    broad    backs    of    the    waves,    which 

jostle  and  crowd 
To   fling  themselves  upon  that  unknown 

shore, 
Their   used    familiar   since   the    dawn   of 

time, 

Whither  this  foredoomed  life  is  guided  on 
To   sway   on   triumph's   hushed,    aspiring 

poise  I0 

One  glittering  moment,  then  to  break  ful 
filled. 

\ 

How  lonely  is  the  sea's  perpetual  swing, 
The  melancholy  wash  of  endless  waves, 
The   sigh   of    some   grim   monster    unde- 

scried, 

Fear-painted  on  the  canvas  of  the  dark, 
Shifting  on  his  uneasy  pillow  of  brine ! 
Yet  night  brings  more  companions  than 

the  day 
To  this  drear  waste;   new  constellations 

burn, 
And  fairer  stars,  with  whose  calm  height 

my  soul 
Finds    nearer    sympathy    than    with    my 

herd  -20 

Of  earthen   souls,   whose  vision's   scanty 

ring 

Makes  me  its  prisoner  to  beat  my  wings 
Against  the  cold  bars  of  their  unbelief, 
Knowing   in   vain    my   own    free    heaven 

beyond. 
O    God!    this    world,    so    crammed    with 

eager  life, 
That  comes  and  goes  and  wanders  back 

to  silence 

Like  the  idle  wind,  which  yet  man's  shap 
ing  mind 
Can  make  his  drudge  to  swell  the  longing 

sails 
Of  highest  endeavor, — this  mad,  unthrift 

world, 
Which,    every   hour,   throws   life    enough 

away  30 

To  make  her  deserts  kind  and  hospitable, 
Lets  her  great  destinies  be  waved  aside 
By  smooth,  lip-reverent,  formal  infidels, 


Who  weigh  the  God  they  not  believe  with 

gold, 

And  find  no  spot  in  Judas,  save  that  he, 
Driving  a  duller  bargain  than  he  ought, 
Saddled  his  guild  with  too  cheap  prece 
dent. 

O  Faith !  if  thou  art  strong,  thine  opposite 
Is  mighty  also,  and  the  dull  fool's  sneer 
Hath  ofttimes  shot  chill  palsy  through  the 

arm  40 

Just  lifted  to  achieve  its  crowning  deed, 
And  made  the  firm-based  heart,  that 

would  have  quailed 
The  rack  or  fagot,  shudder  like  a  leaf 
Wrinkled  with  frost,  and  loose  upon  its 

stem. 
The  wicked  and  the  weak,  by  some  dark 

law, 
Have  a  strange  power  to  shut  and  rivet 

down 

Their  own  horizon  round  us,  to  unwing 
Our  heaven-aspiring  visions,  and  to  blur 
With  surly  clouds  the  Future's  gleaming 

peaks, 
Far   seen   across   the   brine   of  thankless 

years.  so 

If  the  chosen  soul  could  never  be  alone 
In  deep  mid-silence,  open-doored  to  God, 
No  greatness  ever  had  been  dreamed  or 

done; 

Among  dull  hearts  a  prophet  never  grew; 
The  nurse  of  full-grown  souls  is  solitude. 

The  old  world  is  effete;  there  man  with 

man 
Jostles,  and,  in  the  brawl   for  means  to 

live, 
Life    is    trod    underfoot,— ^Life,    the    one 

block 
Of  marble  that  's  vouchsafed  wherefrom 

to  carve 
Our  great  thoughts,  white  and  godlike,  to 

shine  down  60 

The  future,  Life,  the  irredeemable  block, 
Which  one  o'er-hasty  chisel-dint  oft  mars, 
Scanting  our  room  to  cut  the  features  out 
Of  our  full  hope,  so  forcing  us  to  crown 
With  a  mean  head  the  perfect  limbs,  or 

leave 
The    god's    face    glowing    o'er   a    satyr's 

trunk, 
Failure's  brief  epitaph. 

Yes,  Europe's  world 
Reels  on  to  judgment;  there  the  common 

need, 

Losing  God's  sacred  use,  to  be  a  bond 
'Twixt  Me  and  Thee,  sets  each  one  scowl- 

ingly  TO 


280 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


O'er  his  own   selfish  hoard  at  bay;   no 

state, 

\  Knit  strongly  with  eternal  fibres  up 
\Of  all  men's  separate  and  united  weakly 
Self-poised  and  sole  as  stars,  yet  one  as 

light, 

Holds  up  a  shape  of  large  Humanity 
To  which  by  natural  instinct  every  man 
Pays  loyalty  exulting,  by  which  all 
Mould    their    own    lives,    and    feel    their 

pulses  filled 
With  the  red,  fiery  blood  of  the  general 

life, 
Making  them  mighty  in  peace,  as  now  in 

war  8° 

They  are,   even  in  the  flush  of   victory, 

weak 
Conquering  that   manhood   which   should 

them  subdue. 
/And   what   gift   bring    I    to    this    untried 

world? 

Shall  the  same  tragedy  be  played  anew, 
And  the  same  lurid  curtain  drop  at  last 
On  one  dread  desolation, , one  fierce  crash 
Of  that  recoil  which  on  its  makers  God 
Lets  Ignorance  and  Sin  and  Hunger  make, 
Early  or  late?     Or  shall  that  commbn-\ 

wealth 

Whose  potent  unity  and  concentric  force 
Can  draw  these  scattered  joints  and  parts 

of  men  91 

Into  a  whole  ideal  man  once  more, 
Which  sucks  not  from  its  limbs  the  life 

away, 

But  sends  it  flood-tide  and  creates  itself 
Over  again  in  every  citizen, 
Be  there  built  up?     For  me,  I  have  no 

choice ; 

I  might  turn  back  to  other  destinies, 
For   one   sincere   key   opes   all   Fortune's 

doors ; 

But  whoso  answers  not  God's  earliest  call 
Forfeits  or  dulls  that  faculty  supreme    10° 
Of  lying  open  to  his  genius 
Which  makes  the  wise  heart  certain  of  its 

ends. 

Here  am  I ;  for  what  end  God  knows,  not 

I; 

Westward  still  points  the  inexorable  soul : 
Here  am  I,  with  no  friend  but  the  sad  sea, 
The  beating  heart  of  this  great  enterprise; 
Which,  without  me,  would  stiffen  in  swift 

death ; 
This   have   I   mused   on,   since   mine   eye 

could  first 

Among  the  stais  distinguish  and  with  joy 
Rest  on  that  God- fed  Pharos  of  the 

north,  "° 


On    some    blue    promontory    of    heaven 

lighted 

That  juts  far  out  into  the  upper  sea; 
To  this  one  hope  my  heart  hath  clung  for 

years, 

As  would  a  foundling  to  the  talisman 
Hung  round  his  neck  by  hands  he  knew 

not  whose; 

A  poor,  vile  thing  and  dross  to  all  beside, 
Yet  he  therein  can  feel  a  virtue  left 
By  the  sad  pressure  of  a  mother's  hand, 
And  unto  him  it  still  is  tremulous 
With    palpitating    haste    and    wet    with 

tears,  I2° 

The  key  to  him  of  hope  and  humanness, 
The  coarse  shell  of  life's  pearl,  Expec 
tancy. 
This  hope  hath  been  to  me  for  love  and 

fame, 

Hath  made  me  wholly  lonely  on  the  earth, 
Building  me  up  as  in  a  thick-ribbed  tower, 
Wherewith  enwalled  my  watching  spirit 

burned, 

Conquering  its  little  island  from  the  Dark, 
Sole  as  a  scholar's  lamp,  and  heard  men's 

steps, 

In  the  far  hurry  of  the  outward  world, 
Pass  dimly  forth  and  back,  sounds  heard 

in  dream.  13° 

As  Ganymede  by  the  eagle  was  snatched 

up 

From   the   gross   sod   to   be   Jove's    cup 
bearer, 

So  was  I  lifted  by  my  great  design : 
And  who  hath  trod   Olympus,   from  his 

eye 
Fades   not   that   broader  outlook   of   the 

gods; 
His    life's    low    valleys   overbrow    earth's 

clouds, 

And  that  Olympian  spectre  of  the  past 
Looms  towering  up  in  sovereign  memory, 
Beckoning  his  soul  from  meaner  heights 

of  doom. 
Had  but  the  shadow  of  the  Thunderer's 

bird,  MO 

Flashing  athwart  my  spirit,  made  of  me 
A  swift-betraying  vision's  Ganymede, 
Yet  to  have  greatly  dreamed  precludes  low 

ends; 

Great  days  have  ever  such  a  morning-red, 
On  such  a  base  great  futures  are  built  up, 
And  aspiration,  though  not  put  in  act, 
Comes  back  to  ask  its  plighted  troth  again, 
Still  watches  round  its  grave  the  unlaid 

ghost 

Of  a  dead  virtue,  and  makes  other  hopes, 
Save  that  implacable  one,  seem  thin  and 

bleak  150 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


281 


As  shadows  of  bare  trees  upon  the  snow, 
Bound    freezing    there    by    the    unpitying 
moon. 

While  other  youths  perplexed  their  man 
dolins, 
Praying    that    Thetis    would    her    fingers 

twine 

In  the  loose  glories  of  her  lover's  hair, 
And  wile  another  kiss  to  keep  back  day, 
I,    stretched   beneath   the   many-centuried 

shade 
'    Of   some   writhed    oak,   the   wood's   La- 

ocoon, 

Did  of  my  hope  a  dryad  mistress  make, 
Whom  I  would  woo  to  meet  me  privily,  l6° 
Or   underneath    the    stars,   or    when    the 

moon 

Flecked   all   the    forest   floor   with    scat 
tered  pearls. 

0  days  whose  memory  tames  to  fawning 

down 
The  surly  fell  of  Ocean's  bristled  neck! 

1  know  not  when  this  hope  enthralled  me 

first, 

But  from  my  boyhood  up  I  loved  to  hear 
The  tall  pine-forests  of  the  Apennine 
Murmur  their  hoary  legends  of  the  sea, 
Which  hearing,  I  in  vision  clear  beheld 
The    sudden    dark    of    tropic    night    shut 

down  J7° 

^Q'er  the  huge  whisper  of  great  watery y 
N^  wastes, 

The  while  a  pair  of  herons  trailingly 
Flapped  inland,  where  some  league-wide 

river  hurled 

The  yellow  spoil  of  unconjectured  realms 
Far  through  a  gulf's  green  silence,  never 

scarred 
By    any    but    the    North-wind's    hurrying 

keels. 
And  not  the  pines  alone;  all  sights  and 

sounds 

\To  my  world-seeking  heart  paid  fealty1_x' 
And  catered  for  it  as  the  Cretan  bees" 
Brought  honey  to  the  baby  Jupiter,        l8° 
Who  in  his  soft  hand  crushed  a  violet, 
Godlike   foremusing  the   rough  thunder's 

gripe ; 

Then  did  I  entertain  the  poet's  song, 
My  great  Idea's  guest,  and,  passing  o'er 
That  iron  bridge  the  Tuscan  built  to  hell. 
I  heard  Ulysses  tell  of  mountain-chains^ 
Whose  adamantine  links,  his  manacles, 
The   western   main   shook   growling,   and 

still  gnawed. 
I  brooded  on  the  wise  Athenian's  tale 


Of   happy   Atlantis,   and   heard    Bjorne's 

keel  '90 

Crunch  the  gray  pebbles  of  the  Vinland 

shore : 

I  listened,  musing,  to  the  prophecy 
Of  Nero's  tutor-victim;  lo,  the  birds 
Sing  darkling,  conscious  of  the  climbing 

dawn. 

And  I  believed  the  poets ;   it  is  they 
Who  utter  wisdom  from  the  central  deep, 
And,  listening  to  the  inner  flow  of  things, 
xSpeak  to  the  age  out  of  eternity, 
x 

Ah  me !  old  hermits  sought  for  solitude 
In  caves  and  desert  places  of  the  earth,  20° 
Where  their  own  heart-beat  was  the  only 

stir 

Of  living  thing  that  comforted  the  year; 
But  the  bald  pillar-top  of  Simeon, 
In  midnight's  blankest  waste,  were  popu 
lous, 

Matched  with  the  isolation  drear  and  deep 
Of  him  who  pines  among  the  swarm  of 

men, 

At  once  a  new  thought's  king  and  pris 
oner, 

Feeling  the  truer  life  within  his  life, 
The  fountain  of  his  spirit's  prophecy,   *>9 
Sinking  away  and  wasting,  drop  by  drop, 
In  the  ungrateful  sands  of  sceptic  ears, 
He  in  the  palace-aisles  of  untrod  woods 
Doth  walk  a  king;   for  him  the  pent-up 

cell 

Widens  beyond  the  circles  of  the  stars, 
And  all  the  sceptred  spirits  of  the  past 
Come  thronging  in  to  greet  him  as  their 

peer; 

But  in  the  market-place's  glare  and  throng 
He  sits  apart,  an  exile,  and  his  brow 
Aches  with  the  mocking  memory  of  its 

crown. 

Yet  to  the  spirit  select  there  is  no  choice; 
He  cannot  say,  This  will  I  do,  or  that,  221 
For  the  cheap  means  putting  Heaven's 

ends  in  pawn, 

And  bartering  his  bleak  rocks,  the   free 
hold  stern 

Of  destiny's  first-born,  for  smoother  fields 
That  yield  no  crop  of  self-denying  will; 
A  hand  is  stretched  to  him  from  out  the 

dark, 

Which  grasping  without  question,  he  is  led 
Where  there  is  work  that  he  must  do  for 

God. 

The  trial  still  is  the  strength's  comple 
ment,  229 
And  the  uncertain,  dizzy  path  that  scales 
The  sheer  heights  of  supremest  purposes 
Is  steeper  to  the  angel  than  the  child. 


282 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Chances  have  laws  as  fixed  as  planets 
have, 

And  disappointment's  dry  and  bitter  root, 

Envy's  harsh  berries,  and  the  choking  pool 

Of  the  world's  scorn,  are  the  right  mother- 
milk 

To  the  tough  hearts  that  pioneer  their 
kind, 

And  break  a  pathway  to  those  unknown 
realms 

That  in  the  earth's  broad  shadow  lie  en 
thralled; 

Endurance  is  the  crowning  quality,          24° 

And  patience  all  the  passion  of  great 
hearts ; 

These  are  their  stay,  and  when  the  leaden 
world 

Sets  its  hard  face  against  their  fateful 
thought, 

And  brute  strength,  like  the  Gaulish  con 
queror, 

Clangs  his  huge  glaive  down  in  the  other 
scale, 

The  inspired  soul  but  flings  his  patience 
in, 

And  slowly  that  outweighs  the  ponderous 
globe, — 

One  faith  against  a  whole  earth's  unbelief, 

One  soul  against  the  flesh  of  all  mankind. 

Thus   ever  seems   it  when   my   soul   can 

hear  25° 

The  voice  that  errs  not ;  then  my  triumph 

gleams, 
O'er  the  blank  ocean  beckoning,  and  all 

night 

v,My  heart  flies  on  before  me  as  I  sail; 
Far  on  I  see  my  lifelong  enterprise, 
That  rose  like  Ganges  'mid  the  freezing 

snows 
Of  a  world's  solitude,  sweep  broadening 

down, 
And,    gathering    to    itself    a    thousand 

streams, 

1   Grow  sacred  ere  it  mingle  with  the  sea; 
'    I  see  the  ungated  wall  of  chaos  old, 
With    blocks    Cyclopean    hewn    of    solid 

night,  2<5° 

Fade  like  a  wreath  of  unreturning  mist 
Before  the  irreversible  feet  of  light; — 
And  lo,  with  what  clear  omen  in  the  east 
On  day's  gray  threshold  stands  the  eager 

dawn, 

Like  young  Leander  rosy  from  the  sea 
Glowing  at  Hero's  lattice ! 

One  day  more 

These  muttering  shoalbrains  leave  the 
helm  to  me : 


God,   let  me  not   in  their  dull  ooze  be 

stranded ; 
Let    not   this   one    frail    bark,    to    hollow 

which  , 

I  have  dug  put  the  pith  and  sinewy  heart 
Of  my  aspiring  life's  fair  trunk,  be  so  27l 
Cast  up  to  warp  and  blacken  in  the  sun, 
Just  as  the  opposing  wind  'gins  whistle 

off 
His    cheek-swollen    pack,    and    from    the 

leaning  mast 
Fortune's  full  sail  strains  forward ! 

One  poor  day! — 

Remember  whose  and  not  how  short  it  is ! 
It  is  God's  day,  it  is  Columbus's. 
A   lavish   day!     One   day,   with   life   and 
heart,  278 

Is  more  than  time  enough  to  find  a  world. 


1844. 


In  "Poems,"  1848. 


THE   CHANGELING' 

I  had  a  little  daughter, 

And  she  was  given  to  me 
To  lead  me  gently  backward 

To  the  Heavenly  Father's  knee, 
That  I,  by  the  force  of  nature, 

Might  in  some  dim  wise  divine 
The  depth  of  His  infinite  patience 

To  this  wayward  soul  of  mine. 

I  know  not  how  others  saw  her, 

But  to  me  she  was  wholly  fair,  I0 

And   the   light  of   the   heaven   she   came 
from 

Still  lingered  and  gleamed  in  her  hair ; 
For  it  was  as  wavy  and  golden, 

And  as  many  changes  took, 
As  the  shadows  of  sun-gilt  ripples 

On  the  yellow  bed  of  a  brook. 

To  what  can  I  liken  her  smiling 

Upon  me,  her  kneeling  lover, 
How  it  leaped  from  her  lips  to  her  eye 
lids, 

And  dimpled  her  wholly  over,  2° 

Till  her  outstretched  hands  smiled  also, 

And  I  almost  seemed  to  see 
The  very  heart  of  her  mother 

Sending  sun  through  her  veins  to  me ! 

1  Blanche,  Lowell's  first  child,  was  born  in  De 
cember,  1845,  and  died  in  March,  1847.  His 
second  daughter,  Mabel,  was  born  in  September, 
1847.  See  She  Came  and  Went  and  The  First 
Snow-fall. 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


283 


She  had  been  with  us  scarce  a  twelve 
month, 

And  it  hardly  seemed  a  day, 
When  a  troop  of  wandering  angels 

Stole  my  little  daughter  away ; 
Or  perhaps  those  heavenly  Zingari 

But  loosed  the  hampering  strings,       3° 
And  when  they  had  opened  her  cage-door, 

My  little  bird  used  her  wings. 

But  they  left  in  her  stead  a  changeling, 

A   little   angel  child, 
That  seems  like  her  bud  in  full  blossom, 

And  smiles  as  she  never  smiled : 
When  I  wake  in  the  morning,  I  see  it 

Where  she  always  used  to  lie, 
And  I   feel  as  weak  as  a  violet 

Alone  'neath  the  awful  sky.  40 

As  weak,  yet  as  trustful  also; 

For  the  whole  year  long  I  see 
All  the  wonders  of  faithful  Nature 

Still  worked  for  the  love  of  me; 
Winds  wander,  and  dews  drip  earthward, 

Rain  falls,  suns  rise  and  set, 
Earth  whirls,  and  all  but  to  prosper 

A  poor  little  violet. 

This  child  is  not  mine  as  the  first  was, 

I  cannot  sing  it  to  rest,  5° 

I  cannot  lift  it  up  fatherly 

And  bliss  it  upon  my  breast: 
Yet  it  lies  in  my  little  one's  cradle 

And  sits  in  my  little  one's  chair, 
And  the  light  of-  the  heaven  she  's  gone  to 

Transfigures  its  golden  hair. 

1847  In  "Poems,"  1849. 


SHE  CAME  AND  WENT 

As  a  twig  trembles,  which  a  bird 
Lights  on  to  sing,  then  leaves  unbent, 

So  is  my  memory  thrilled  and  stirred; — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As  clasps  some  lake,  by  gusts  unriven, 
The  blue  dome's  measureless  content, 

So  my  soul  held  that  moment's  heaven ; — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As,  at  one  bound,  our  swift  spring  heaps 
The  orchards  full  of  bloom  and  scent,  I0 

So  clove  her  May  my  wintry  sleeps ; — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

An  angel  stood  and  met  my  gaze, 

Through  the  low  doorway  of  my  tent; 

The  tent  is  struck,  the  vision  stays ; — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 


Oh,  when  the  room  grows  slowly  dim, 
And  life's  last  oil  is  nearly  spent, 

One  gush  of  light  these  eyes  will  brim, 
Only  to  think  she  came  and  went.  x 

1847?  In  "Poems,"  1849. 

THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS1      fo 

FIRST   SERIES 

No.  I 
A  LETTER 2 

FROM  MR.  EZEKIEL  BIGLOW  OF  JAALAM  TO 
THE  HON.  JOSEPH  T.  BUCKINGHAM,  EDI 
TOR  OF  THE  BOSTON  COURIER,  INCLOSING  A 
POEM  OF  HIS  SON,  MR.  HOSEA  BIGLOW 

JAYLEM,  June  1846. 

MISTER  EDDYTER, — Our  Hosea  wuz  down 
to  Boston  last  week,  and  he  see  a  cruetin 
Sarjunt  a  struttin  round  as  popler  as  a 
hen  with  1  chicking,  with  2  fellers  a 
drummin  and  fifin  arter  him  like  all  nater. 
the  sarjunt  he  thout  Hosea  bed  n't  gut 
his  i  teeth  cut  cos  he  looked  a  kindo  's 
though  he  'd  jest  com  down,  so  he  cal'lated 
to  hook  him  in,  but  Hosy  wood  n't  take 
none  o'  his  sarse  for  all  he  hed  much  as 
20  Rooster's  tales  stuck  onto  his  hat  and 
eenamost  enuf  brass  a  bobbin  up  and 
down  on  his  shoulders  and  figureed  onto 
his  coat  and  trousis,  let  alone  wut  nater 
hed  sot  in  his  featers,  to  make  a  6  pounder 
out  on. 

wal,  Hosea  he  com  home  considerabal 
riled,  and  arter  I  'd  gone  to  bed  I  heern 
Him  a  thrashin  round  like  a  short-tailed 
Bull  in  fli-time.  The  old  Woman  ses  she 
to  me,  ses  she,  Zekle,  ses  she,  our  Hosee  's 
gut  the  chollery  or  suthin  another  ses 
she,  don't  you  Bee  skeered,  ses  I,  he  's 
oney  amakin  pottery 3  ses  i,  he  's  oilers 

1  "I   only   know  that   I  believed   our   war   with 
Mexico   (though  we  had  as  just  ground  for  it  as 
a  strong  nation  ever  has  against  a  weak  one)   to 
be  essentially  a  war  of  false  pretences,  and  that 
it   would   result  in  widening  the   boundaries  and 
so   prolong  the   life  of   slavery.     .     .     .     Against 
these  and  many  other  things  I  thought  all  honest 
men    should    protest."      Lowell,    in    a    letter    to 
Thomas  Hughes,   September    13,    1859. 

2  The   act   of   May    13,    1846,   authorized    Presi 
dent    Polk    to    employ    the    militia,    and    call    out 
50,000  volunteers,  if  necessary.     He  immediately 
called  for  the  full  number  of  volunteers,  asking 
Massachusetts  for  777  men. 

1  Ant  insanit,  aut  versos  facit.  H.  W.  (H.  W. 
is  Rev.  Homer  Wilbur,  A.M. — Parson  Wilbur — 
to  whom  Hosea  submits  his  manuscripts  for 
editing.) 


284 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


on  hand  at  that  ere  busynes  like  Da  & 
martin,  and  shure  enuf,  cum  mornin, 
Hosy  he  cum  down  stares  full  chizzle, 
hare  on  eend  and  cote  tales  flyin,  and  sot 
rite  of  to  go  reed  his  varses  to  Parson 
Wilbur  bein  he  haint  aney  grate  shows  o' 
book  larnin  himself,  bimeby  he  cum  back 
and  sed  the  parson  wuz  dreffle  tickled  with 
'em  as  i  hoop  you  will  Be,  and  said  they 
wuz  True  grit. 

Hosea  ses  taint  hardly  fair  to  call  'em 
hisn  now,  cos  the  parson  kind  o'  slicked 
off  sum  o'  the  last  varses,  but  he  told 
Hosee  he  did  n't  want  to  put  his  ore  in 
to  tetch  to  the  Rest  on  'em,  bein  they  wuz 
verry  well  As  thay  wuz,  and  then  Hosy 
ses  he  sed  suthin  a  nuther  about  Simplex 
Mundishes  or  sum  sech  feller,  but  I  guess 
Hosea  kind  o'  did  n't  hear  him,  for  I 
never  hearn  o'  nobody  o'  that  name  in 
this  villadge,  and  I  've  lived  here  man 
and  boy  76  year  cum  next  tater  diggin, 
and  thair  aint  no  wheres  a  kitting  spryer 
'n  I  be. 

If  you  print  'em  I  wish  you  'd  jest  let 
folks  know  who  hosy's  father  is,  cos  my 
ant  Kezian  used  to  say  it  's  nater  to  be 
curus  ses  she,  she  aint  livin  though  and 
he  's  a  likely  kind  o'  lad. 

EZEKIEL    BlGLOW. 


Thrash  away,  you'll  hev  to  rattle 

On  them  kittle-drums  o'  yourn, — 
'Taint  a  knowin'  kind  o'  cattle 

Thet  is  ketched  with  mouldy  corn; 
Put  in  stiff,  you  fifer  feller, 

Let  folks  see  how  spry  you  be, — 
Guess  you  '11  toot  till  you  are  yeller 

'Fore  you  git  ahold  o'  me! 

Thet  air  flag  's  a  leetle  rotten, 

Hope  it  aint  your  Sunday's  best; —     I0 
Fact !  it  takes  a  sight  o'  cotton 

To  stuff  out  a  soger's  chest: 
Sence  we  farmers  hev  to  pay  fer  't, 

Ef  you  must  wear  humps  like  these, 
S'posin'  you  should  try  salt  hay  fer  't, 

It  would  du  ez  slick  ez  grease. 

'T  would  n't  suit  them  Southun  fellers, 

They  're  a  dreffle  graspin'  set, 
We  must  oilers  blow  the  bellers 

Wen  they  want  their  irons  het;  2° 

May  be  it  's  all  right  ez  preachin', 

But  my  narves  it  kind  o'  grates, 
Wen  I  see  the  overreachin' 

O'  them  nigger-drivin'   States. 


Them  thet  rule  us,  them  slave-traders, 

Haint  they  cut  a  thunderin'  swarth 
(Helped  by  Yankee  renegaders), 

Thru  the  vartu  o'  the  North ! 
We  begin  to  think  it's  nater 

To  take  sarse  an'  not  be  riled; —         3° 
Who'd  expect  to  see  a  tater 

All  on  eend  at  bein'  biled? 

Ez  fer  war,  I  call  it  murder, — 

There  you  hev  it  plain  an'  flat; 
I  don't  want  to  go  no  furder 

Than  my  Testyment  fer  that; 
God  hez  sed  so  plump  an'  fairly, 

It  's  ez  long  ez  it  is  broad, 
An'  you  've  gut  to  git  up  airly 

Ef  you  want  to  take  in  God.  4° 

'T  aint  your  eppyletts  an'  feathers 

Make  the  thing  a  grain  more  right; 
'T  aint  afollerin'  your  bell-wethers 

Will  excuse  ye  in  His  sight; 
Ef  you  take  a  sword  an'  dror  it, 

An'  go  stick  a  feller  thru, 
Guv'ment  aint  to  answer  for  it, 

God  '11  send  the  bill  to  you. 

Wut  's  the  use  o'  meetin'-goin* 

Every  Sabbath,  wet  or  dry,  so 

Ef  it  's  right  to  go  amowin* 

Feller-men  like  pats  an'  rye? 
I  dunnq  but  wut  it  's  pooty 

Trainin'  round  in  bobtail  coats, — 
But  it  's  curus  Christian  dooty 

This  'ere  cuttin'  folks's  throats. 

They  may  talk  o'  Freedom's  airy 

Tell  they  're  pupple  in  the  face, — 
It  's  a  grand  gret  cemetary 

Fer  the  barthrights  of  our  race;  6° 

They  jest  want  this  Calif  or  ny 

So  's  to  lug  new  slave-States  in 
To  abuse  ye,  an'  to  scorn  ye, 

An'  to  plunder  ye  like  sin. 

Aint  it  cute  to  see  a  Yankee 

Take  sech  everlastin'  pains, 
All  to  get  the  Devil's  thankee 

Helpin'  on  'em  weld  their  chains? 
Wy,  it  's  jest  ez  clear  ez  figgers, 

Clear  ez  one  an'  one  make  two,  7° 

Chaps  thet  make  black  slaves  o'  niggers 

Want  to  make  wite  slaves  o'  you. 

Tell  ye  jest  the  eend  I've  come  to 

Arter  cipherin'  plaguy  smart, 
An"  it  makes  a  handy  sum,  tu, 

Any  gump  could  larn  by  heart; 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


285 


Laborin'  man  an'  laborin'  woman 
Hev  one  glory  an'  one  shame. 

Ev'y  thin'  thet  's  done  inhuman 
Injers  all  on  'em  the  same.  8° 

'T  aint  by  turnin'  out  to  hack  folks 

You  're  agoin'  to  git  your  right, 
Nor  by  lookin'  down  on  black  folks 

Coz  you  're  put  upon  by  wite; 
Slavery  aint  o'  nary  color, 

'T  aint  the  hide  thet  makes  it  wus, 
All  it  keers  fer  in  a  feller 

'S  jest  to  make  him  fill  its  pus. 

Want  to  tackle  me  in,  du  ye? 

I  expect  you  '11  hev  to  wait ;  9° 

Wen  cold  lead  puts  daylight  thru  ye 

You  '11  begin  to  kal'late ; 
S'pose  the  crows  wun't  fall  to  pickin' 

All  the  carkiss   from  your  bones, 
Coz  you  helped  to  give  a  lickin' 

To  them  poor  half-Spanish  drones? 

Jest  go  home  an'  ask  our  Nancy 

Wether  I  'd  be  sech  a  goose 
Ez  to  jine  ye, — guess  you  'd  fancy 

The  etarnal  bung  wuz  loose !  I0° 

She  wants  me  fer  home  consumption, 

Let  alone  the  hay  's  to  mow, — 
Ef  you  're  arter  folks  o'  gumption, 

You  've  a  darned  long  row  to  hoe. 

Take  them  editors  thet  's  crowin' 

Like  a  cockerel  three  months  old, — 
Don't  ketch  any  on  'em  goin', 

Though  they  'd  be  so  blasted  bold; 
Aint  they  a  prime  lot  o'  fellers? 

'Fore   they   think   on   't   guess   they   '11 
sprout  no 

(Like  a  peach  thet  's  got  the  yellers), 

With  the  meanness  bustin'  out. 

Wai,  go  'long  to  help  'em  stealin' 

Bigger  pens  to  cram  with  slaves, 
Help  the  men  thet  's  oilers  dealin' 

Insults  on  your  fathers'  graves ; 
Help  the  strong  to  grind  the  feeble, 

Help  the  many  agin  the  few, 
Help  the  men  thet  call  your  people 

Witewashed  slaves  an'  peddlin'  crew !  I2° 

Massachusetts,  God  forgive  her, 

She  's  akneelin*  with  the  rest, 
She,  thet  ough'  to  ha'  clung  ferever 

In  her  grand  old  eagle-nest; 
She  thet  ough'  to  stand  so  fearless 

Wile  the  wracks  are  round  her  hurled, 
Holdin'  up  a  beacon  peerless 

To  the  oppressed  of  all  the  world ! 


Ha'n't  they  sold  your  colored  seamen? 

Ha'n't  they  made  your  env'ys  w'iz?  ' 
Wut  '11  make  ye  act  like  freemen?        I3f> 

Wut  '11  git  your  dander  riz? 
Come,  I  '11  tell  ye  wut  I  'm  thinkin' 

Is  our  dooty  in  this  fix, 
They  'd  ha'  done  't  ez  quick  ez  winkin' 

In  the  days  o'  seventy-six. 

Clang  the  bells  in  every  steeple, 

Call  all  true  men  to  disown 
The  tradoocers  of  our  people, 

The  enslavers  o'  their  own;  J4° 

Let  our  dear  old  Bay  State  proudly 

Put  the  trumpet  to  her  mouth, 
Let  her  ring  this  messidge  loudly 

In  the  ears  of  all  the  South: — 

"I  '11  return  ye  good  fer  evil 

Much  ez  we  frail  mortils  can, 
But  I  wun't  go  help  the  Devil 

Makin'  man  the  cus  o'  man; 
Call  me  coward,  call  me  traiter, 

Jest  ez  suits  your  mean  idees, —  J5° 
Here  I  stand  a  tyrant-hater, 

An'  the  friend  o'  God  an'  Peace !" 

Ef  I  'd  my  way  I  hed  ruther 
We  should  go.  to  work  an'  part, 

They  take  one  way,  we  take  t'  other, 
Guess  it  would  n't  break  my  heart; 

Man  hed  ough'  to  put  asunder 
Them  thet  God  has  noways  jined; 

An'  I  should  n't  gretly  wonder 

Ef  there  's  thousands  o'  my  mind.  l6° 

June  17,   1846. 

No.   Ill 
WHAT  MR.  ROBINSON  THINKS  2 

Guvener  B.  is  a  sensible  man; 

He  stays  to  his  home  an'  looks  arter  his 

folks ; 

He  draws  his  furrer  ez  straight  ez  he  can, 
An'  into  nobody's  tater-patch  pokes; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  wunt  vote  for  Guvener  B. 

1  Mr.  Hoar  was  driven  out  of  South  Carolina 
and  Mr.  Hubbard  out  of  Louisiana  where  they 
had  gone  to  represent  Massachusetts  in  behalf  of 
free  colored  seamen  in  1844. 

*  Governor  B.  was  Geo.  N.  Briggs,  Governor 
of  Massachusetts  from  1844  to  1851.  General  C. 
was  Caleb  Gushing,  who  had  been  a  somewhat 
elusive  Congressman,  and  in  this  state  campaign 
of  1847  was  defeated  by  Briggs.  John  P.  was 
J.  P.  Robinson,  formerly  an  influential  Whig, 
who  in  this  campaign  went  over  to  the  side  of 
Gushing,  much  to  the  dissatisfaction  of  Mr. 
Lowell,  as  this  poem  shows. 


286 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


My!  aint  it  terrible?     Wut  shall  we  du? 
We  can't  never  choose  him  o'  course, — 

thet  's  flat; 

Guess  we  shall  hev  to  come  round  (don't 
you?)  I0 

An'  go  in  fer  thunder  an'  guns,  an'  all 
that; 

Fer  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  wunt  vote  for  Guvener  B. 

Gineral  C.  is  a  drefjfle  smart  man: 
He  's  ben  on  all  sides  thet  gives  places  or 

pelf; 
But  consistency  still  wuz  a  part  of  his 

plan, — 

He  's  ben  true  to  one  party, — an'  thet  is 
himself; — 

So  John  P. 

Robinson  he  2° 

Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 

Gineral  C.  he  goes  in  fer  the  war; 
He  don't  vally  princerple  more  'n  an  old 

cud; 
Wut  did  God  make  us  raytional  creeturs 

fer, 

But  glory  an'  gunpowder,  plunder  an' 
blood? 

So  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 

We  were  gittin'  on  nicely  up  here  to  our 

village, 

With  good  old  idees  o'  wut's  right  an' 

wut  aint,  3° 

We  kind  o'  thought  Christ  went  agin  war 

an'  pillage, 

An'  thet  eppyletts  worn't  the  best  mark 
of  a  saint; 

But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 

Sez  this  kind  o'  thing  's  an  exploded 
idee. 

The  side  of  our  country  must  oilers  be 

took, 
An'  President  Polk,  you  know,  he  is  our 

country. 
An'  the  angel  thet  writes  all  our  sins  in  a 

book 

Puts  the  debit  to  him,  an'  to  us  the  per 
contry; 

An'  John  P.  40 

Robinson  he 

Sez  this  is  his  view  o'  the  thing  to 
a  T. 


Parson   Wilbur   he   calls   all   these   argi- 

munts  lies; 
Sez  they  're  nothin'  on  airth  but  jest 

fee,  faw,  fum; 

An'  thet  all  this  big  talk  of  our  destinies 
Is  half  on  it  ign'ance,  an'  t'other  half 
rum; 

But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 

Sez   it   aint   no    sech   thing;    an',   of 
course,  so  must  we. 

Parson  Wilbur  sez  he  never  heerd  in  his 

life  so 

Thet  th'   Apostles   rigged  out  in  their 

swaller-tail  coats, 
An'  marched  round  in  front  of  a  drum 

an'  a  fife, 

To  git  some  on  'em  office,  an'  some  on 
'em  votes; 

But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 

Sez  they  didn't  know  everythin'  down 
in  Judee. 

Wai,  it  's  a  marcy  we  've  gut  folks  to  tell 

us 

The  rights  an'  the  wrongs  o'  these  mat 
ters,  I  vow, — 
God  sends  country  lawyers,  an'  other  wise 

fellers, 

To  start  the  world's  team  wen  it  gits  in 
in  a  slough;  6° 

Fer  John  P. 
Robinson  he 

Sez  the  world  '11  go  right,  ef  he  hol 
lers  out  Gee! 

Boston  Courier,  Nov.  2,  1847. 

[The  attentive  reader  will  doubtless 
have  perceived  in  the  foregoing  poem  an 
allusion  to  that  pernicious  sentiment,  "Our 
country,  right  or  wrong."  It  is  an  abuse 
of  language  to  call  a  certain  portion  of 
land,  much  more,  certain  personages, 
elevated  for  the  time  being  to  high  sta 
tion,  our  country.  I  would  not  sever  nor 
loosen  a  single  one  of  those  ties  by  which 
we  are  united  to  the  spot  of  our  birth, 
nor  minish  by  a  tittle  the  respect  due  to 
the  Magistrate.  I  love  our  own  Bay  State 
too  well  to  do  the  one,  and  as  for  the 
other,  I  have  myself  for  nigh  forty  years 
exercised,  however  unworthily,  the  func 
tion  of  Justice  of  the  Peace,  having  been 
called  thereto  by  the  unsolicited  kindness 
of  that  most  excellent  man  and  upright 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


287 


patriot,  Caleb  Strong.  Patrice  fumus  igne 
alieno  luculentior  is  best  qualified  with 
this, — Ubi  libertas,  ibi  patria.  We  are  in 
habitants  of  two  worlds,  and  owe  a  double, 
not  a  divided,  allegiance.  In  virtue  of 
our  clay,  this  little  ball  of  earth  exacts 
a  certain  loyalty  of  us,  while,  in  our  ca 
pacity  as  spirits,  we  are  admitted  citizens 
of  an  invisible  and  holier  fatherland. 
There  is  a  patriotism  of  the  soul  whose 
claim  absolves  us  from  our  other  and 
terrene  fealty.  Our  true  country  is  that 
ideal  realm  which  we  represent  to  our 
selves  under  the  names  of  religion,  duty, 
and  the  like.  Our  terrestrial  organiza 
tions  are  but  far-off  approaches  to  so  fair 
a  model,  and  all  they  are  verily  traitors 
who  resist  not  any  attempt  to  divert 
them  from  this  their  original  intend- 
ment.  When,  therefore,  one  would  have 
us  to  fling  up  our  caps  and  shout  with 
the  multitude,  "Our  country,  however 
bounded!"  he  demands  of  us  that  we 
sacrifice  the  larger  to  the  less,  the  higher 
to  the  lower,  and  that  we  yield  to  the 
imaginary  claims  of  a  few  acres  of  soil 
our  duty  and  privilege  as  liegemen  of 
Truth.  Our  true  country  is  bounded  on 
the  north  and  the  south,  on  the  east  and 
the  west,  by  Justice,  and  when  she  over 
steps  that  invisible  boundary-line  by  so 
much  as  a  hair's-breadth,  she  ceases  to 
be  our  mother,  and  chooses  n.ther  to  be 
looked  upon  quasi  noverca.  That  is  a 
hard  choice  when  our  earthly  love  of 
country  calls  upon  us  to  tread  one  path 
and  our  duty  points  us  to  another.  We 
must  make  as  noble  and  becoming  an 
election  as  did  Penelope  between  Icarius 
and  Ulysses.  Veiling  our  faces,  we  must 
take  silently  the  hand  of  Duty  to  follow 
her.  .  .  .  H.  W.] 


No.  VI 

THE  Pious  EDITOR'S  CREED 

I  du  believe  in  Freedom's  cause, 

Ez  fur  away  ez  Payris  is ; * 
I  love  to  see  her  stick  her  claws 

In  them  infarnal  Phayrisees; 
It  's  wal  enough  agin  a  king 

To  dror  resolves  an'  triggers, — 
But  libbaty  's  a  kind  o'  thing 

Thet  don't  agree  with  niggers. 

1  The  monarchy  of  Louis  Philippe  had  just 
been  overthrown  by  the  Revolution  of  1848  in 
France. 


I  du  believe  the  people  want 
A  tax  on  teas  an'  coffees, 

Thet  npthin'  aint  extravygunt, — 

Purvidin'  I  'm  in  office; 

Fer  I  hev  loved  my  country  sence 
My  eye-teeth  filled  their  sockets, 

An'  Uncle  Sam  I  reverence, 
Partic'larly  his  pockets. 


I  du  believe  in  any  plan 

O'  levyin'  the  texes, 
Ez  long  ez,  like  a  lumberman, 

I  git  jest  wut  I  axes; 
I  go  free-trade  thru  thick  an'  thin, 

Because  it  kind  o'  rouses 
The  folks  to  vote, — an'  keeps  us  in 

Our  quiet  custom-houses. 


I  du  believe  it  's  wise  an'  good 

To  sen'  out  furrin  missions, 
Thet  is,  on  sartin  understood 

An'   orthydox   conditions ; — 
I  mean  nine  thousan'  dolls,  per  ann., 

Nine  thousan'  more  fer  outfit,  3° 

An'  me  to  recommend  a  man 

The  place  'ould  jest  about  fit. 


I  du  believe  in  special  ways 

O'  prayin'  an'  convartin' ; 
The  bread  comes  back  in  many  days, 

An'  buttered,  tu,  fer  sartin; 
I  mean  in  preyin'  till  one  busts 

On  wut  the  party  chooses, 
An'  in  convartin'  public  trusts 

To  very  privit  uses. 


I  du  believe  hard  coin  the  stuff 

Fer  'lectioneers  to  spout  on; 
The  people  's  oilers  soft  enough 

To  make  hard  money  out  on; 
Dear  Uncle  Sam  peryides  fer  his, 

An'  gives  a  good-sized  junk  to  all, — 
I  don't  care  how  hard  money  is, 

Ez  long  ez  mine  's  paid  punctooal. 


I  du  believe  with  all  my  soul 

In  the  gret  Press's  freedom,  5° 

To  pint  the  people  to  the  goal 

An'  in  the  traces  lead  'em; 
Palsied  the  arm  thet  forges  yokes 

At  my   fat  contracts  squintin', 
An'  withered  be  the  nose  thet  pokes 

Inter  the  gov'ment  printin' ! 


288 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


I  du  believe  thet  I  should  give 

Wut  's  his'n  unto  Caesar, 
Fer  it  's  by  him  I  move  an'  live, 

Frum  him  my  bread  an'  cheese  air;    6° 
I  du  believe  thet  all  o'  me 

Doth  bear  his  superscription, — 
Will,  conscience,  honor,  honesty, 

An'  things  o'  thet  description. 

I  du  believe  in  prayer  an'  praise 

To  him  thet  hez  the  grantin' 
O'  jobs, — in  every  thin'  thet  pays, 

But  most  of  all  in  CANTIN'  ; 
This  doth  my  cup  with  marcies  fill, 

This  lays  all  thought  o'  sin  to  rest,      7° 
I  don't  believe  in  princerple, 

But  oh,  I  du  in  interest. 

/^~~~\ 

I  du  believe  in  bein'  this 

Or  thet,  ez  it  may  happen 
One  way  or  t'  other  hendiest  is 

To  ketch  the  people  nappin' ; 
It  a'int  by  princerples  nor  men 

My  preudunt  course  is  steadied, — 
I  scent  wich  pays  the  best,  an'  then 

Go  into  it  baldheaded.  8° 


I  du  believe  thet  holdin*  slaves 

Comes  nat'ral  to  a  Presidunt, 
Let  'lone  the  rowdedow  it  saves 

To  hev  a  wal-broke  precedunt; 
Fer  any  office,  small  or  gret, 

I  couldn't  ax  with  no   face, 
'uthout  I  'd  ben,  thru  dry  an'  wet, 

Th'  unrizzest  kind  o'  doughface. 

I  du  believe  wutever  trash 

'11  keep  the  people  in  blindness,  9° 

Thet  we  the  Mexicuns  can  thrash 

Right  inter  brotherly  kindness, 
Thet   bombshells,   grape,   an'    powder   'n' 
ball 

Air  good-will's  strongest  magnets, 
Thet  peace,  to  make  it  stick  at  all, 

Must  be  druv  in  with  bagnets. 

In  short,  I  firmly  du  believe 

In  Humbug  generally, 
Fer  it  's  a  thing  thet  I  perceive 

To  hev  a  solid  vally ;  I0° 

This  heth  my  faithful  shepherd  ben, 

In  pasturs  sweet  heth  led  me, 
An'  this  '11  keep  the  people  green 

To  feed  ez  they  hev  fed  me. 

The  Anti-Slavery  Standard,  May  4,  1848. 


FROM   PART   FIRST 

v 
As  Sir  Launfal  made  morn  through  the 

darksome  gate, 
He  was  'ware  of  a  leper,  crouched  by 

the  same, 
Who  begged  with  his  hand  and  moaned  as 

he  sate; 

And  a  loathing  over  Sir  Launfal  came ; 

The  sunshine  went  out  of  his  soul  with  a 

thrill,  151 

The  flesh  'neath  his  armor  'gan  shrink 

and  crawl, 
And  midway  its  leap  his  heart  stood  still 

Like  a  frozen  waterfall ; 
For  this  man,  so  foul  and  bent  of  stature, 
Rasped  harshly  against  his  dainty  nature, 
And  seemed  the  one  blot  on  the  summer 

morn, — 
So  he  tossed  him  a  piece  of  gold  in  scorn. 

VI 

The  leper  raised  not  the  gold   from  the 

dust: 

"Better  to  me  the  poor  man's  crust,      l6° 
Better  the   blessing  of   the   poor, 
Though  I  turn  me  empty  from  his  door ; 
That  is  no  true  alms  which  the  hand  can 

hold; 
He  gives  only  the  worthless  gold 

Who  gives  from  a  sense  of  duty; 
But  he  who  gives  but  a  slender  mite, 
And  gives  to  that  which  is  out  of  sight, 
That     thread     of     the     all-sustaining 

Beauty 

1  According  to  the  mythology  of  the  Romancers, 
the  San  Greal,  or  Holy  Grail,  was  the  cup  out 
of  which  Jesus  partook  of  the  Last  Supper 
with  his  disciples.  It  was  brought  into  England 
by_  Joseph  of  Arimathea,  and  remained  there,  an 
object  of  pilgrimage  and  adoration,  for  many 
years  in  the  keeping  of  his  lineal  descendants. 
It  was  incumbent  upon  those  who  had  charge  of 
it  to  be  chaste  in  thought,  word,  and  deed;  but 
one  of  the  keepers  having  broken  this  condition, 
the  Holy  Grail  disappeared.  From  that  time  it 
was  a  favorite  enterprise  of  the  knights  of  Ar 
thur's  court  to  go  in  search  of  it.  Sir  Galahad 
was  at  last  successful  in  finding  it,  as  may  be 
read  in  the  seventeenth  book  of  the  Romance  of 
King  Arthur.  Tennyson  has  made  Sir  Galahad 
the  subject  of  one  of  the  most  exquisite  of  his 
poems. 

The  plot  (if  I  may  give  that  name  to  anything 
so  slight)  of  the  following  poem  is  my  own,  and, 
to  serve  its  purposes,  I  have  enlarged  the  circle 
of  competition  in  search  of  the  miraculous  cup 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  include,  not  only  other 
persons  than  the  heroes  of  the  Round  Table,  but 
also  a  period  of  time  subsequent  to  the  supposed 
date  of  King  Arthur's  reign.  (.Author's  Note.) 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


289 


Which    runs    through    all    and    doth    all 

unite, — 
The  hand  cannot  clasp  the  whole  of  his 

alms,  J7° 

The  heart  outstretches  its  eager  palms, 
For  a  god  goes  with  it  and  makes  it  store 
To  the  soul  that  was  starving  in  darkness 

before." 

BAIT  SIC»NB 


IV 

"For  Christ's  sweet  sake,  I  beg  an  alms ;" 
The  happy  camels  may  reach  the  spring, 
But  Sir  Launfal  sees  only  the  grewsome 

thing, 

The  leper,  lank  as  the  rain-blanched  bone, 
That  cowers  beside  him,  a  thing  as  lone 
And  white  as  the  ice-aisles  of  Northern 

seas 
In  the  desolate  horror  of  his  disease. 


There  was  never  a  leaf  on  bush  or  tree, 

The  bare  boughs  rattled  shudderingly;  241 

The  river  was  dumb  and  could  not  speak, 

For  the  weaver  Winter  its  shroud  had 

spun; 

A  single  crow  on  the  tree-top  bleak 
From  his  shining  feathers  shed  off  the 

cold  sun; 
Again   it  was   morning,   but   shrunk   and 

cold, 

As  if  her  veins  were  sapless  and  old, 
And  she  rose  up  decrepitly 
For  a  last  dim  look  at  earth  and  sea. 


And  Sir  Launfal  said,  "I  behold  in  thee  280 
An  image  of  Him  who  died  on  the  tree; 
Thou  also  hast  had  thy  crown  of  thorns, 
Thou   also  hast  had  the  world's  buffets 

and  scorns, 

And  to  thy  life  were  not  denied 
The  wounds  in  the  hands  and  feet  and 

side: 

Mild  Mary's  Son,  acknowledge  me; 
Behold,  through  him,  I  give  to  thee !" 


Sir  Launfal  turned  from  his  own  hard 
gate,  25<> 

For  another  heir  in  his  earldom  sate; 
An  old,  bent  man,  worn  out  and  frail, 
He  came  back  from  seeking  the  Holy 

Grail ; 

Little  he  recked  of  his  earldom's  loss, 
No  more  on  his  surcoat  was  blazoned  the 

cross, 

But  deep  in  his  soul  the  sign  he  wore, 
The  badge  of  the  suffering  and  the  poor. 

in 

Sir  Launfal's  raiment  thin  and  spare 
Was  idle  mail  'gainst  the  barbed  air, 
For  it  was  just  at  the  Christmas  time;  26° 
So  he  mused,  as  he  sat,  of  a  sunnier  clime, 
And  sought  for  a  shelter  from  cold  and 

snow 

In  the  light  and  warmth  of  long-ago; 
He  sees  the  snake-like  caravan  crawl 
O'er  the  edge  of  the  desert,  black  and 

small, 

Then  nearer  and  nearer,  till,  one  by  one, 
He  can  count  the  camels  in  the  sun, 
As  over  the  red-hot  sands  they  pass 
To  where,  in  its  slender  necklace  of  grass, 
The  little  spring  laughed  and  leapt  in  the 

shade,  27° 

And    with   its    own    self    like   an    infant 

played, 
And  waved  its  signal  of  palms. 


VI 

Then  the  soul  of  the  leper  stood  up  in 

his  eyes 

And  looked  at  Sir  Launfal,  and  straight 
way  he 

Remembered  in  what  a  haughtier  guise  29° 
He  had  flung  an  alms  to  leprosie, 

When  he  girt  his  young  life  up  in  gilded 
mail 

And  set  forth  in  search  of  the  Holy  Grail. 

The  heart  within  him  was  ashes  and  dust ; 

He  parted  in  twain  his  single  crust, 

He  broke  the  ice  on  the  streamlet's  brink, 

And  gave  the  leper  to  eat  and  drink, 

'T  was  a  mouldy  crust  of  coarse  brown 

bread, 
'T  was  water  out  of  a  wooden  bowl — 

Yet  with  fine  wheaten  bread  was  the  leper 
fed,  3«> 

And  't  was  red  wine  he  drank  with  his 
thirsty  soul. 

VII 

As  Sir  Launfal  mused  with  a  downcast 

face, 

A  light  shone  round  about  the  place; 
The  leper  no  longer  crouched  at  his  side, 
But  stood  before  him  glorified. 
Shining  and  tall  and  fair  and  straight 
As  the  pillar  that  stood  by  the  Beautiful 

Gate,— 

Himself  the  Gate  whereby  men  can 
Enter  the  temple  of  God  in  Man. 


290 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


VIII 

His  words  were  shed  softer  than  leaves 

from  the  pine,  310 

And  they  fell  on  Sir  Launfal  as  snows  on 

the  brine, 
That  mingle  their  softness  and  quiet  in 

one 
With  the  shaggy  unrest  they  float  down 

upon; 
And  the  voice  that  was  softer  than  silence. 

said, 

"Lo,  it  is  I,  be  not  afraid! 
In  many  climes,  without  avail, 
Thou   hast   spent   thy  life   for  the   Holy 

Grail ; 

Behold,  it  is  here, — this  cup  which  thou 
Didst   fill   at   the    streamlet    for    me   but 

now ; 

This  crust  is  my  body  broken  for  thee,  320 
This   water   his   blood   that   died   on   the 

tree; 

The  Holy  Supper  is  kept,  indeed, 
In  whatso  we  share  with  another's  need; 
ot  what  we  give,  but  what  we  share, 

the  gift  without  the  giver  is  bare; 
gives  himself  with  his  alms   feeds 

three, 
imself,  his  hungering  neighbor,  and  me." 

IX 

Sir  Launfal  awoke  as  from  a  swound : 
"The  Grail  in  my  castle  here  is  found! 
Hang  my  idle  armor  up  on  the  wall,      33° 
Let  it  be  the  spider's  banquet-hall; 
He  must  be  fenced  with  stronger  mail 
Who  would  seek  and  find  the  Holy  Grail." 

x 

The  castle  gate  stands  open  now, 
And   the  wanderer   is   welcome   to   the 

hall 
As  the  hangbird  is  to  the  elm-tree  bough ; 

No  longer  scowl  the  turrets  tall, 
The  Summer's  long  siege  at  last  is  o'er; 
When  the  first  poor  outcast  went  in  at 

the  door, 

She  entered  with  him  in  disguise,          34° 
And  mastered  the  fortress  by  surprise ; 
There   is   no   spot   she   loves    so   well   on 

ground, 
She  lingers   and   smiles  there  the  whole 

year  round; 

The  meanest  serf  on  Sir  Launfal's  land 
Has  hall  and  bower  at  his  command ; 
And  there  's  no  poor  man  in  the  North 

Countree 
But  is  lord  of  the  earldom  as  much  as 

he. 
1848.  Separately  published,  1848. 


FROM   A   FABLE   FOR   CRITICS  * 

Reader!   walk   up    at    once    (it   will   soon    be    too 
late),  and  buy  at  a  perfectly  ruinous  rate 

A  FABLE  FOR  CRITICS: 

OR,    BETTER, 

(l     LIKE,     AS     A     THING    THAT     THE     READER'S     FIRST 
FANCY    MAY    STRIKE,    AN    OLD-FASHIONED    TITLE-PAGE, 
SUCH    AS    PRESENTS    A    TABULAR    VIEW    OF    THE    VOL 
UME'S  CONTENTS), 

A  GLANCE  AT  A  FEW  OF  OUR  LITERARY 
PROGENIES 

(MRS.    MALAPROP'S    WORD) 
FROM  THE  TUB   OF  DIOGENES; 

A     VOCAL     AND     MUSICAL     MEDLEY, 

THAT    IS, 
A    SERIES    OF    JOKES 

BY    A    WONDERFUL    QUIZ, 

WHO     ACCOMPANIES    'HIMSELF     WITH     A     RUB-A-DUB- 
DUB,    FULL    OF    SPIRIT    AND    GRACE,    ON    THE    TOP    OF 
THE  TUB. 

Set  forth  in  October,  the  3lst  day, 
In   the  year   '^g,   G.   P.   Putnam,   Broadway. 

"There  comes  Emerson  first,  whose  rich 

words,  every  one, 
Are   like  gold  nails   in  temples   to   hang 

trophies  on, 
Whose   prose    is   grand   verse,    while   hi 

verse,  the  Lord  knows, 
Is   some  of  it  pr —    No,   't   is  not   evr 

prose ; 
I    'm    speaking   of    metres;    some    poems 

have  welled 
From  those  rare  depths  of  soul  that  have 

ne'er  been  excelled ; 
They  're  not  epics,  but  that  does  n't  matter 

a  pin, 

In  creating,  the  only  hard  thing  's  to  begin  ; 
A  grass-blade  's  no  easier  to  make  than 

an  oak; 
If  you  've  once  found  the  way,  you  've 

achieved  the  grand  stroke;  I0 

1  This  jeu  d'esprit  was  extemporized,  I  may 
fairly  say,  so  rapidly  was  it  written,  purely  for 
my  own  amusement  and  with  no  thought  of  pub 
lication.  I  sent  daily  instalments  of  it  to  a 
friend  in  New  York,  the  late  Charles  F.  Briggs. 
He  urged  me  to  let  it  be  printed,  and  I  at  last 
consented  to  its  anonymous  publication.  The 
secret  was  kept  till  after  several  persons  had 
laid  claim  to  its  authorship.  (Author's  Note.) 

See  Scudder's  Life  of  Lowell,  vol.  i,  pp.  238- 
255. 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


291 


In  the  worst  of  his  poems  are  mines  of 

rich  matter, 
But  thrown  in  a  heap  with  a  crash  and  a 

clatter ; 

Now  it  is  not  one  thing  nor  another  alone 
Makes   a   poem,    but    rather   the   general 

tone, 
The    something    pervading,    uniting    the 

whole, 
The    before    unconceived,    unconceivable 

soul, 
So  that  just  in  removing  this  trifle  or  that, 

you 
Take  away,  as  it  were,  a  chief  limb  of  the 

statue ; 

Roots,  wood,  bark,  and  leaves  singly  per 
fect  may  be, 
But,    clapt    hodge-podge    together,    they 

don't  make  a  tree.  2° 

"But,  to  come  back  to  Emerson  (whom, 
by  the  way, 

I  believe  we  left  waiting), — his  is,  we 
may  say, 

A  Greek  head  on  right  Yankee  shoulders, 
whose  range 

Has  Olympus  for  one  pole,  for  t'  other 
the  Exchange; 

He  seems,  to  my  thinking  (although  I  'm 
afraid 

The  comparison  must,  long  ere  this,  have 
been  made), 

A  Plotinus-Montaigne,  where  the  Egyp 
tian's  gold  mist 

And  the  Gascon's  shrewd  wit  cheek-by- 
jowl  coexist; 

All  admire,  and  yet  scarcely  six  converts 
he's  got 

To  I  do  n't  (nor  they  either)  exactly  know 
what ;  30 

For  though  he  builds  glorious  temples, 
't  is  odd 

He  leaves  never  a  doorway  to  get  in  a 
god. 

'T  is  refreshing  to  old-fashioned  people 
like  me 

To  meet  such  a  primitive  Pagan  as  he, 

In  whose  mind  all  creation  is  duly  re 
spected 

As  parts  of  himself — just  a  little  pro 
jected; 

And  who  's  willing  to  worship  the  stars 
and  the  sun, 

A  convert  to — nothing  but  Emerson. 

So  perfect  a  balance  there  is  in  his  head. 

That  he  talks  of  things  sometimes  as  if 
they  were  dead  ;  40 

Life,  nature,  love,  God,  and  affairs  of  that 
sort, 


He  looks  at  as  merely  ideas ;  in  short, 
As  if  they  were  fossils  stuck  round  in  a 

cabinet, 
Of  such   vast   extent  that  our   earth's   a 

mere  dab  in  it; 
Composed  just  as  he  is  inclined  to  con-' 

jecture  her, 
Namely,  one  part  pure  earth,  ninety-nine 

parts  pure  lecturer; 
You  are  filled   with  delight  at  his  clear 

demonstration, 
Each  figure,  word,  gesture,  just  fits  the 

occasion, 
With  the  quiet  precision  of  science  he  '11 

sort  'em, 
But  you  can't  help  suspecting  the  whole  a 

post  mortem.  so 

"There  are  persons,  mole-blind  to  the 

soul's  make  and  style, 
Who  insist  on  a  likeness  'twixt  him  and 

Carlyle ; 
To   compare   him   with    Plato   would   be 

vastly  fairer, 
Carlyle  's  the  more  burly,  but  E.  is  the 

rarer ; 
He  sees  fewer  objects,  but  clearlier,  true- 

lier, 

If  C.  's  as  original,  E.  's  more  peculiar; 
That  he  's  more  of  a  man  you  might  say 

of  the  one, 

Of  the  other  he  's  more  of  an  Emerson ; 
C.  's  the  Titan,  as  shaggy  of  mind  as  of 

limb, — 
E.    the    clear-eyed    Olympian,    rapid    and 

slim ;  6° 

The  one  's  two  thirds  Norseman,  the  other 

half  Greek, 
Where   the   one   's   most    abounding   the 

other  's  to  seek; 
C.  's  generals  require  to  be  seen  in  the 

mass, — 
E.  's  specialties  gain  if  enlarged  by  the 

glass ; 
C.  gives  nature  and  God  his  own  fits  of 

the  blues, 

And  rims  common-sense  things  with  mys 
tical  hues, — 

E.  sits  in  a  mystery  calm  and  intense, 
And  looks  coolly  around  him  with  sharp 

common-sense ; 

C.  shows  you  how  every-day  matters  unite 
With    the    dim    transdiurnal    recesses    of 

night, —  7° 

While  E.,  in  a  plain,  preternatural  way. 
Makes  mysteries   matters  of  mere   every 

day; 
C.  draws  all  his  characters  quite  <J  la  Fu- 

seli, — 


292 


-AMERICAN    POETRY 


Not   sketching  their  bundles   of  muscles 

and  thews  illy, 
He  paints  with  a  brush  so  untamed  and 

profuse 
They  seem  nothing  but  bundles  of  muscles 

and  thews ; 
E.  is  rather  like  Flaxman,  lines  strait  and 

severe, 
And  a  colorless  outline,  but   full,  round, 

and  clear; — 
To  the  men  he  thinks  worthy  he  frankly 

accords 
The  design  of  a  white  marble  statue  in 

words.  8° 

C.  labors  to  get  at  the  centre,  and  then 
Take  a  reckoning  from  there  of  his  actions 

and  men; 
E.    calmly    assumes    the    said    centre    as 

granted, 
And,    given    himself,    has    whatever    is 

wanted. 

"He  has  imitators  in  scores,  who  omit 
No  part  of  the  man  but  his  wisdom  and 

wit, — 
Who  go  carefully  o'er  the  sky-blue  of  his 

brain, 
And  when  he  has  skimmed  it  once,  skim 

it  again; 
If  at  all  they  resemble  him,  you  may  be 

sure  it  is 
Because  their  shoals  mirror  his  mists  and 

obscurities,  9° 

As  a  mud-puddle  seems  deep  as  heaven 

for  a  minute, 
While  a  cloud  that  floats  o'er  is  reflected 

within  it. 


"There  is  Bryant,  as  quiet,  as  cool,  and 
as  dignified, 

As  a  smooth,  silent  iceberg,  that  never  is 
ignified, 

Save  when  by  reflection  't  is  kindled  o" 
nights 

With  a  semblance  of  flame  by  the  chill 
Northern  Lights. 

He  may  rank  (Griswold  says  so)  first 
bard  of  your  nation 

(There  's  no  doubt  that  he  stands  in  su 
preme  iceolation), 

Your  topmost  Parnassus  he  may  set  his 
heel  on, 

But  no  warm  applauses  come,  peal  follow 
ing  peal  on, —  I0° 

He  's  too  smooth  and  too  polished  to  hang 
any  zeal  on : 

Unqualified  merits,  I  '11  grant,  if  you 
choose,  he  has  'em, 


But  he  lacks  the  one  merit  of  kindling 

enthusiasm ; 

If  he  stir  you  at  all,  it  is  just,  on  my  soul, 
Like  being  stirred  up  with  the  very  North 

Pole. 

"He  is  very  nice  reading  in  summer, 

but  inter 
Nos,  we  do  n't  want   extra   freezing   in 

winter ; 
Take  him  up  in  the  depth  of  July,  my 

advice  is, 
When  you   feel  an  Egyptian  devotion  to 

ices. 
But,  deduct  all  you  can,  there  's  enough 

that  's  right  good  in  him,  I10 

He  has  a  true  soul  for  field,  river,  and 

wood  in  him; 
And  his  heart,  in  the  midst  of  brick  walls, 

or  where'er  it  is, 
Glows,  softens,  and  thrills  with  the  ten- 

derest  charities — 

To  you  mortals  that  delve  in  this  trade- 
ridden  planet? 
No,  to   old   Berkshire's   hills,   with   their 

limestone  and  granite. 
If  you  're  one  who  in  loco  (add/oco  here) 

desipis, 
You  will  get  of  his  outermost  heart  (as 

I  guess)  a  piece; 
But  you  'd  get  deeper  down  if  you  came 

as  a  precipice, 
And  would  break  the  last  seal  of  its  in- 

wardest  fountain, 
If  you  only  could  palm  yourself  off  for  a 

mountain.  I2° 

Mr.  Quivis,  or  somebody  quite  as  discern 
ing, 
Some  scholar  who  's  hourly  expecting  his 

learning, 
Calls  B.  the  American  Wordsworth;  but 

Wordsworth 
May  be  rated  at  more  than  your  whole 

tuneful   herd  's   worth. 
No,   don't   be  absurd,   he  's  an   excellent 

Bryant; 
But,  my  friends,  you  '11  endanger  the  life 

of  your  client, 
By  attempting  to  stretch  him  up  into  a 

giant : 
If  you  choose   to  compare  him,   I  think 

there  are  two  per- 
-sons    fit    for    a   parallel — Thomson    and 

Cowper ;  x 

1  To    demonstrate    quickly    and    easily    how    per 
versely  absurd  't  is  to  sound  this  name  Cowper, 
As  people  in  general  call  him  named  super, 
I  remark  that  he  rhymes  it  himself  with  horse- 
trooper. 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


293 


I  don't  mean  exactly, — there's  something 
of  each,  J3° 

There  's  T.'s  love  of  nature,  C.'s  penchant 
to  preach ; 

Just  mix  up  their  minds  so  that  C.'s  spice 
of  craziness 

Shall  balance  and  neutralize  T.'s  turn  for 
laziness, 

And  it  gives  you  a  brain  cool,  quite  fric- 
tionless,  quiet, 

Whose  internal  police  nips  the  buds  of  all 
riot, — 

A  brain  like  a  permanent  strait- jacket  put 
on 

The  heart  that  strives  vainly  to  burst  off 
a  button, — 

A  brain  which,  without  being  slow  or  me 
chanic, 

Does  more  than  a  larger  less  drilled,  more 
volcanic ; 

He  's  a  Cowper  condensed,  with  no  crazi 
ness  bitten,  J4° 

And  the  advantage  that  Wordsworth  be 
fore  him  had  written. 

"But,    my    dear   little    bardlings,    don't 

prick  up  your  ears 
Nor  suppose  I  would  rank  you  and  Bryant 

as  peers; 
If  I  call  him  an  iceberg,  I  don't  mean  to 

say 
There  is  nothing  in  that  which  is  grand 

in  its  way ; 
He  is  almost  the  one  of  your  poets  that 

knows 
How  much  grace,  strength,  and  dignity  lie 

in  Repose; 
If  he  sometimes  fall  short,  he  is  too  wise 

to  mar 
His  thought's  modest  fulness  by  going  too 

far; 
'T  would  be  well  if  your  authors  should 

all  make  a  trial  'S0 

Of  what  virtue  there  is   in   severe  self- 
denial, 
And  measure  their  writings  by  Hesiod's 

staff, 
Which  teaches  that  all  has  less  value  than 

half/ 

"There  is  Whittier,  whose  swelling  and 

vehement  heart 
Strains    the    strait-breasted    drab    of    the 

Quaker  apart, 
And  reveals  the  live  Man,  still  supreme 

and  erect, 
Underneath  the  bemummying  wrappers  of 

sect; 


There   was   ne'er  a   man  born   who   had 

more  of  the  swing 
Of  the  true  lyric  bard  and  all  that  kind 

of  thing; 
And  his   failures  arise    (though  he  seem 

not  to  know  it)  lfi° 

From  the  very  same  cause  that  has  made 

him  a  poet, — 

A  fervor  of  mind  which  knows  no  separa 
tion 

'Twixt    simple   excitement   and   pure   in 
spiration, 
As    my    Pythoness   erst   sometimes    erred 

from  not  knowing 
If  't  were  I  or  mere  wind  through   her 

tripod  was  blowing; 
Let  his  mind  once  get  head  in  its  favorite 

direction 
And  the  torrent  of  verse  bursts  the  dams 

of  reflection, 
While,  borne  with  the  rush  of  the  metre 

along, 
The  poet  may  chance  to  go  right  or  go 

wrong, 
Content  with  the  whirl  and  delirium  of 

song ;  •  J7° 

Then  his  grammar's  not  always   correct, 

nor  his  rhymes, 
And  he  's  prone  to  repeat  his  own  lyrics 

sometimes, 
Not  his  best,  though,  for  those  are  struck 

off  at  white-heats 

When  the  heart  in  his  breast  like  a  trip 
hammer  beats, 
And    can    ne'er    be    repeated    again    any 

more 

Than  they  could  have  been  carefully  plot 
ted  before : 
Like    old    what's-his-name    there    at    the 

battle  of  Hastings 
(Who,    however,   gave   more   than    mere 

rhythmical  bastings), 
Our  Quaker  leads  off  metaphorical  fights 
For  reform  and  whatever  they  call  human 

rights,  l8° 

Both  singing  and  striking  in  front  of  the 

war, 
And  hitting  his   foes  with  the  mallet  of 

Thor; 
Anne  here,  one  exclaims,  on  beholding  his 

knocks, 

Vestls  filii  tui,  O  leather-clad  Fox? 
Can  that  be  thy  son,  in  the  battle's  mid 

din, 
Preaching  brotherly  love  and  then  driving 

it  in 
To  the  brain  of  the  tough  old  Goliath  of 

sin, 


294 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


With  the  smoothest  of  pebbles  from  Cas- 

taly's  spring 
Impressed  on  his  hard  moral  sense  with 

a  sling? 

"There  comes  Poe,  with  his  raven,  like 

Barnaby  Rudge,  '9° 

Three  fifths  of  him  genius  and  two  fifths 

sheer  fudge, 

Who  talks  like  a  book  of  iambs  and  pen 
tameters, 
In  a  way  to  make  people  of  common  sense 

damn  metres, 
Who  has   written   some  things   quite  the 

best  of  their  kind, 
But  the  heart  somehow  seems  all  squeezed 

out  by  the  mind, 
Who—      But    hey-day!      What    's    this? 

Messieurs  Mathews  and  Poe, 
You  mustn't  fling  mud-balls  at  Longfellow 

so, 

Does  it  make  a  man  worse  that  his  char 
acter  's  such 
As  to  make  his  friends  love  him  (as  you 

think)  too  much? 
Why,  there  is  not  a  bard  at  this  moment 

alive  2°° 

More    willing  than   he    that    his    fellows 

should  thrive; 

While  you  are  abusing  him  thus,  even  now 
He  would  help  either  one  of  you  out  of  a 

slough ; 
You  may  say  that  he  's  smooth  and  all 

that  till  you  're  hoarse, 
But  remember  that  elegance  also  is  force; 
After  polishing  granite  as  much  as  you 

will, 
The  heart  keeps  its  tough  old  persistency 

still ; 
Deduct  all  you  can,  that  still  keeps  you  at 

bay; 
Why,  he  '11  live  till  men  weary  of  Collins 

and  Gray. 
I  'm  not  over- fond  of  Greek  metres   in 

English^  2I° 

To  me  rhyme  's  a  gain,  so  it  be  not  too 

jinglish, 
And  your  modern  hexameter  verses  are 

no  more 
Like  Greek  ones  than  sleek  Mr.  Pope  is 

like  Homer;  , 

As  the  roar  of  the  sea  to  the  coo  of  a 

pigeon  is, 
So,    compared   to   your   moderns,    sounds 

old  Melesigenes ; 
I  may  be  too  partial,  the  reason,  perhaps, 

o't  is 
That  I  've  heard  the  old  blind  man  recite 

his  own  rhapsodies, 


And  my  ear  with  that  music  impregnate 
may  be, 

Like  the  poor  exiled  shell  with  the  soul 
of  the  sea, 

Or  as  one  can't  bear  Strauss  when  his  na 
ture  is  cloven  22° 

To  its  deeps  within  deeps  by  the  stroke  of 
Beethoven ; 

But,  set  that  aside,  and  't  is  truth  that  I 
speak, 

Had  Theocritus  written  in  English,  not 
Greek, 

I  believe  that  his  exquisite  sense  would 
scarce  change  a  line 

In  that  rare,  tender,  virgin-like  pastoral 
Evangeline. 

That  's  not  ancient  nor  modern,  its  place 
is  apart 

Where  time  has  no  sway,  in  the  realm  of 
pure  Art, 

'T  is  a  shrine  of  retreat  from  Earth's  hub 
bub  and  strife 

As  quiet  and  chaste  as  the  author's  own 
life. 


"There  's  Holmes,  who  is  matchless 
among  you  for  wit ;  23° 

A  Leyden-jar  always  full-charged,  from 
which  flit 

The  electrical  tingles  of  hit  after  hit; 

In  long  poems  't  is  painful  sometimes,  and 
invites 

A  thought  of  the  way  the  new  Telegraph 
writes, 

Which  pricks  down  its  little  sharp  sen 
tences  spitefully 

As  if  you  got  more  than  you  'd  title  to 
rightfully, 

And  you  find  yourself  hoping  its  wild 
father  Lightning 

Would  flame  in  for  a  second  and  give 
you  a  fright'ning. 

He  has  perfect  sway  of  what  I  call  a 
sham  metre, 

But  many  admire  it,  the  English  pentame 
ter,  240 

And  Campbell,  I  think,  wrote  most  com 
monly  worse, 

With  less  nerve,  swing,  and  fire  in  the 
same  kind  of  verse. 

Nor  e'er  achieved  aught  in  't  so  worthy 
of  praise 

As  the  tribute  of  Holmes  to  the  grand 
Marseillaise. 

You  went  crazy  last  year  over  Bulwer's 
New  Timon ; — 

Why,  if  B.,  to  tne  day  of  his  dying,  should 
rhyme  on, 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


295 


Heaping  verses  on  verses  and  tomes  upon 

tomes, 
He  could  ne'er  reach  the  best  point  and 

vigor  of  Holmes. 
His  are  just  the  fine  hands,  too,  to  weave 

you  a  lyric 
Full  of  fancy,  fun,  feeling,  or  spiced  with 

satiric  25o 

In  a  measure  so  kindly  you  doubt  if  the 

toes 
That  are  trodden  upon  are  your  own  or 

your  foes'. 

"There  is  Lowell,  who  's  striving  Par 
nassus  to  climb 

With  a  whole  bale  of  isms  tied  together 
with  rhyme, 

He  might  get  on  alone,  spite  of  brambles 
and  boulders, 

But  he  can't  with  that  bundle  he  has  on 
his  shoulders, 

The  top  of  the  hill  he  will  ne'er  come 
nigh  reaching 

Till  he  learns  the  distinction  'twixt  sing 
ing  and  preaching; 

His  lyre  has  some  chords  that  would  ring 
pretty  well, 

But  he'd  rather  by  half  make  a  drum  of 
the  shell,  ^ 

And  rattle  away  till  he  's  old  as  Methusa- 
lem, 

At  the  head  of  a  march  to  the  last  new 
Jerusalem." 

1848. 


THE  FIRST  SNO 


The  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming, 

And  busily  all  the  night 
Had  been  heaping  field  and  highway 

With  a  silence  deep  and  white. 

Every  pine  and  fir  and  hemlock 
Wore  ermine  too  dear  for  an  earl,       i 

And  the  poorest  twig  on  the  elm-tree 
Was  ridged  inch  deep  with  pearl. 

From  sheds  new-roofed  with  Carrara 
Came  Chanticleer's  muffled  crow,      ;...! 

The  stiff  rails  softened  to  swan's-down, 
And  still  fluttered  down  the  snow. 

I  stood  and  watched  by  the  window 
The  noiseless  work  of  the  sky, 

And  the  sudden  flurries  of  snow-birds, 
Like  brown  leaves  whirling  by. 

1  See  The  Changeling  and  note. 


I  thought  of  a  mound  in  sweet  Auburn 
Where  a  little  headstone  stood; 

How  the  flakes  were  folding  it  gently, 
As  did  robins  the  babes  in  the  wood.  *° 

Up  spoke  our  own  little  Mabel, 
Saying,  "Father,  who  makes  it  snow?" 

And  I  told  of  the  good  All-father 
Who  cares  for  us  here  below. 

Again  I  looked  at  the  snow-fall, 
And  thought  of  the  leaden  sky 

That  arched  o'er  our  first  great  sorrow, 
When  that  mound  was  heaped  so  high. 

I  remembered  the  gradual  patience 
That  fell  from  that  cloud  like  snow,  3° 

Flake  by  flake,  healing  and  hiding 
The  scar  that  renewed  our  woe. 

And  again  to  the  child  I  whispered, 

"The  snow  that  husheth  all, 
Darling,  the  merciful  Father 

Alone  can  make  it  fall!" 

Then,  with   eyes  that  saw  not',  I  kissed 

her; 

And  she,  kissing  back,  could  not  know 
That  my  kiss  was  given  to  her  sister, 

Folded  close  under  deepening  snow.    4° 
1849. 

Anti-Slavery  Standard,  Dec.  27,  1849. 


WITHOUT  AND  WITHIN 

My  coachman,  in  the  moonlight  there, 
Looks    through    the    side-light    of    the 
door; 

I  hear  him  with  his  brethren  swear, 
As  I  could  do, — but  only  more. 

Flattening  his  nose  against  the  pane, 
He  envies  me  my  brilliant  lot, 

Breathes  on  his  aching  fists  in  vain, 
And  dooms  me  to  a  place  more  hot. 

He  sees  me  in  to  supper  go, 

A  silken  wonder  by  my  side,  I0 

Bare  arms,  bare  shoulders,  and  a  row 

Of  flounces,  for  the  door  too  wide. 

He  thinks  how  happy  is  my  arm 
'Neath    its    white-gloved    and    jewelled 
load ; 

And  wishes  me  some  dreadful  harm, 
Hearing  the  merry  corks  explode. 


296 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Meanwhile  I  inly  curse  the  bore 
Of  hunting  still  the  same  old  coon, 

And  envy  him,  outside  the  door, 
In  golden  quiets  of  the  moon.  2° 

The  winter  wind  is  not  so  cold 

As  the  bright  smile  he  sees  me  win, 
Nor  the  host's  oldest  wine  so  old 
k    As  our  poor  gabble  sour  and  thin. 

I  envy  him  the  ungyved  prance 
With  which  his  freezing  feet  he  warms, 

And  drag  my  lady's-chains  and  dance 
The  galley-slave  of  dreary  forms. 

Oh,  could  he  have  my  share  of  din, 
And  I  his  quiet ! — past  a  doubt  3° 

'T  would  still  be  one  man  bored  within, 
And  just  another  bored  without. 

Nay,  when,  once  paid  my  mortal  fee, 
Some  idler  on  my  headstone  grim 

Traces  the  moss-blurred  name,  will  he 
Think  me  the  happier,  or  I  him? 

Putnam's  Magazine,  April,  1854. 


AUF  WIEDERSEHEN * 

SUMMER 

The  little  gate  was  reached  at  last, 
Half  hid  in  lilacs  down  the  lane; 
She  pushed  it  wide,  and,  as  she  past, 
A  wistful  look  she  backward  cast, 
And  said, — "Auf  wiedersehen!" 

With  hand  on  latch,  a  vision  white 

Lingered  reluctant,  and  again 
Half  doubting  if  she  did  aright, 
Soft  as  the  dews  that  fell  that  night, 
She  said, — "Auf  wiedersehen!"  10 

The  lamp's  clear  gleam  flits  up  the  stair; 

I  linger  in  delicious  pain; 
Ah,  in  that  chamber,  whose  rich  air 
To  breathe  in  thought  I  scarcely  dare, 

Thinks  she, — "Auf  wiedersehen?"  .   .   . 

'T  is  thirteen  years;  once  more  I  press 
The  turf  that  silences  the  lane; 

I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 

I  smell  the  lilacs,  and — ah,  yes, 
I  hear  "Auf  wiedersehen!" 

1  Lowell  became  engaged  to  Miss  Maria  White 
in  1840.  They  were  married  in  1844,  and  Mrs. 
Lowell  died  in  October,  1853. 


Sweet  piece  of  bashful  maiden  art! 

The  English  words  had  seemed  too  fain, 
But  these — they  drew  us  heart  to  heart, 
Yet  held  us  tenderly  apart; 

She  said, — "Auf  wiedersehen!" 

Putnam's  Monthly,  Dec.,  1854. 


PALINODE 

AUTUMN 

Still  thirteen  years:  't  is  autumn  now 
On  field  and  hill,  in  heart  and  brain; 

The  naked  trees  at  evening  sough; 

The  leaf  to  the  forsaken  bough 
Sighs  not, — "Auf  wiedersehen!" 

Two  watched  yon  oriole's  pendent  dome, 
That  now  is  void,  and  dank  with  rain, 

And  one, — oh,  hope  more  frail  than  foam ! 

The  bird  to  his  deserted  home 

Sings  not, — "Auf  wiedersehen!"  I0 

The  loath  gate  swings  with  rusty  creak ; 

Once,  parting  there,  we  played  at  pain ; 
There  came  a  parting,  when  the  weak 
And  fading  lips  essayed  to  speak 

Vainly, — "Auf  wiedersehen!" 

Somewhere  is  comfort,  somewhere  faith, 

Though  thou  in  outer  dark  remain; 
One  sweet  sad  voice  ennobles  death, 
And  still,  for  eighteen  centuries  saith 
Softly, — "Auf  wiedersehen!"  *> 

If  earth  another  grave  must  bear, 

Yet  heaven  hath  won  a  sweeter  strain, 
And  something  whispers  my  despair, 
That,  from  an  orient  chamber  there, 
Floats  down,  "Auf  Wiedersehen!" 

Putnam's  Monthly,  Dec.,  1854. 


INVITA  MINERVA 

The  Bardling  came  where  by  a  river  grew 
The   pennoned    reeds,   that,  as   the   west- 
wind  blew, 
Gleamed  and  sighed  plaintively,  as  if  they 

knew 

What  music  slept  enchanted  in  each  stem, 
Till   Pan  should  choose  some  happy  one 

of  them, 

And  with  wise  lips  enlife  it  through  and 
through. 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


297 


The  Bardling  thought,   "A  pipe  is  all  I 

need; 
Once  I  have  sought  me  out  a  clear,  smooth 

reed, 

And  shaped  it  to  my  fancy,  I  proceed 
To   breathe  such   strains  as,  yonder  mid 

the  rocks,  I0 

The  strange  youth  blows,  that  tends  Ad- 

metus's  flocks, 
And    all   the    maidens    shall    to   me   pay 

heed." 

The    summer    day   he    spent   in    questful 

round, 
And  many  a  reed  he  marred,  but  never 

found 
A  conjuring-spell  to  free  the  imprisoned 

sound ; 

At  last  his  vainly  wearied  limbs  he  laid 
Beneath  a  sacred  laurel's  flickering  shade, 
And   sleep   about   his   brain   her   cobweb 

wound. 

Then  strode  the  mighty  Mother  through 

his  dreams, 
Saying:    "The    reeds    along    a    thousand 

streams  2° 

Are  mine,  and  who  is  he  that  plots  and 

schemes 
To    snare    the    melodies    wherewith    my 

breath 
Sounds  through  the  double  pipes  of  Life 

and  Death, 
Atoning  what  to  men  mad  discord  seems? 

"He  seeks  not  me,  but  I  seek  oft  in  vain 
For    him    who    shall    my    voiceful    reeds 

constrain, 
And    make    them    utter    their    melodious 

pain; 
He  flies  the  immortal   gift,    for  well  he 

knows 

His  life  of  life  must  with  its  overflows 
Flood    the    unthankful    pipe,    nor    come 

again.  3" 

"Thou  fool,  who  dost  my  harmless  sub 
jects  wrong, 

'T  is  not  the  singer's  wish  that  makes  the 
song: 

The  rhythmic  beauty  wanders  dumb,  how 
long, 

Nor  stoops  to  any  daintiest  instrument, 

Till,  found  its  mated  lips,  their  sweet 
consent 

Makes  mortal  breath  than  Time  and  Fate 
more  strong." 

The  Crayon,  May  30,  1855. 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  DIDACTIC 
POETRY 

When  wise  Minerva  still  was  young 

And  just  the  least  romantic, 
Soon  after  from  Jove's  head  she  flung 

That  preternatural  antic, 
'T  is  said,  to  keep  from  idleness 

Or  flirting,  those  twin  curses, 
She  spent  her  leisure,  more  or  less, 

In  writing  po ,  no,  verses. 

How  nice  they  were!  to  rhyme  with  far 

A  kind  star  did  not  tarry;  l° 

The  metre,  too,  was  regular 

As  schoolboy's  dot  and  carry ; 
And  full  they  were  of  pious  plums, 

So  extra-super-moral, — 
For  sucking  Virtue's  tender  gums 

Most  tooth-enticing  coral. 

A  clean,  fair  copy  she  prepares, 

Makes  sure  of  moods  and  tenses, 
With  her  own  hand, — for  prudence  spares 

A  man-(or  woman- )-uensis;  2° 

Complete,  and  tied  with  ribbons  proud, 

She  hinted  soon  how  cosy  a 
Treat  it  would  be  to  read  them  loud 

After  next  day's  Ambrosia. 

The  Gods  thought  not  it  would  amuse 

So  much  as  Homer's  Odyssees, 
But  could  not  very  well  refuse 

The  properest  of  Goddesses; 
So  all  sat  round  in  attitudes 

Of  various  dejection,  30 

As  with  a  hem!  the  queen  of  prudes 

Began  her  grave  prelection. 

At  the  first  pause  Zeus  said,  "Well  sung ! — 

I  mean — ask  Phcebus, — he  knows." 
Says  Phoebus,  "Zounds !  a  wolfs  among 

Admetus's  merinos ! 
Fine !  very  fine !  but  I  must  go ; 

They  stand  in  need  of  me  there ; 
Excuse  me !"  snatched  his  stick,  and  so 

Plunged  down  the  gladdened  ether.      40 

With  the  next  gap,  Mars  said,  "For  me 

Don't  wait, — naught  could  be  finer, 
But  I  'm  engaged  at  half  past  three, — 

A  fight  in  Asia  Minor!" 
Then   Venus   lisped,   "I  'm   sorely  tried, 

These  duty-calls  are  vip'rous; 
But  I  must  go ;  I  have  a  bride 

To  see  about  in  Cyprus." 


298 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Then  Bacchus, — "I  must  say  good-by, 

Although  my  peace  it  jeopards;  5° 

I  meet  a  man  at  four,  to  try 

A  well-broke  pair  of  leopards." 
His  words  woke  Hermes.    "Ah !"  he  said, 

"I  so  love  moral  theses !" 
Then  winked  at  Hebe,  who  turned  red, 

And  smoothed  her  apron's  creases. 

Just  then  Zeus  snored, — the  Eagle  drew 

His  head  the  wing  from  under; 
Zeus   snored, — o'er  startled   Greece   there 
flew 

The  many-volumed  thunder.  6° 

Some  augurs  counted  nine,  some,  ten ; 

Some  said  't  was  war,  some,  famine, 
And  all,  that  other-minded  men 

Would  get  a  precious . 

Proud  Pallas  sighed,  "It  will  not  do; 

Against  the  Muse  I  've  sinned,  oh !" 
And  her  torn  rhymes  sent  flying  through 

Olympus's  back  window. 
Then,  packing  up  a  peplus  clean, 

She  took  the  shortest  path  thence,       7° 
And  opened,  with  a  mind  serene, 

A  Sunday-school  in  Athens. 

The  verses?     Some  in  ocean  swilled, 

Killed  every  fish  that  bit  to  'em; 
Some  Galen  caught,  and,  when  distilled, 

Found  morphine  the  residuum; 
But  some  that  rotted  on  the  earth 

Sprang  up  again  in  copies, 
And  gave  two  strong  narcotics  birth, 

Didactic  verse  and  poppies.  8° 

Years  after,  when  a  poet  asked 

The  Goddess's  opinion, 
As  one  whose  soul  its  wings  had  tasked 

In  Art's  clear-aired  dominion, 
"Discriminate,"  she  said,  "betimes; 

The  Muse  is  unforgiving; 
Put  all  your  beauty  in  your  rhymes, 

Your  morals  in  your  living." 

The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Nov.,  1857. 


THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD 

OCTOBER,    1861 

Along  a  river-side,  I  know  not  where, 
I  walked  one  night  in  mystery  of  dream; 
A  chill   creeps   curdling  yet   beneath   my 

hair, 
To  think  what  chanced  me  by  the  pallid 

gleam 
Of   a   moon-wraith   that   waned   through 

haunted  air. 


Pale  fireflies  pulsed  within  the  meadow- 
mist 

Their  halos,  wavering  thistle  downs  of 
light; 

The  loon,  that  seemed  to  mock  some  gob 
lin  tryst, 

Laughed ;  and  the  echoes,  huddling  in  af 
fright, 

Like  Odin's  hounds,  fled  baying  down  the 
night.  10 

Then  all  was  silent,  till  there  smote  my  ear 
A  movement  in  the  stream  that  checked 

my  breath : 

Was  it  the  slow  plash  of  a  wading  deer? 
But    something   said,    "This    water    is    of 

Death ! 
The  Sisters  wash  a  shroud, — ill  thing  to 

hear !" 

I,  looking  then,  beheld  the  ancient  Three 
Known  to  the  Greek's  and  to  the  North 
man's  creed, 

That  sit  in  shadow  of  the  mystic  Tree, 
Still  crooning,  as  they  weave  their  endless 

brede, 

One  song :  "Time  was,  Time  is,  and  Time 
shall  be."  x 

No  wrinkled  crones  were  they,  as  I  had 

deemed, 

But  fair  as  yesterday,  to-day,  to-morrow, 
To  mourner,  lover,  poet,  ever  seemed; 
Something  too  high  for  joy,  too  deep  for 

sorrow, 
Thrilled   in   their   tones,   and   from   their 

faces  gleamed. 

"Still  men  and  nations  reap  as  they  have 

strawn," 
So  sang  they,  working  at  their  task  the 

while ; 
"The  fatal  raiment  must  be  cleansed  ere 

dawn; 
For    Austria?     Italy?      the    Sea-Queen's 

isle? 
O'er  what  quenched  grandeur  must  our 

shroud  be  drawn?  3° 

"Or  is  it  for  a  younger,  fairer  corse, 
That  gathered  States  like  children  round 

his  knees, 
That  tamed  the  wave  to  be  his  posting 

horse, 

Feller  of  forests,  linker  of  the  seas, 
Bridge-builder,    hammerer,    youngest    son 

of  Thor's? 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


299 


"What  make   we,   murmur'st  thou?    and 

what  are  we? 
When  empires  must  be  wound,  we  bring 

the  shroud, 

The  time-old  web  of  the  implacable  Three : 
Is  it  too  coarse  for  him,  the  young  and 

proud? 
Earth's    mightiest   deigned   to   wear   it, — 

why  not  he?"  4° 

"Is  there  no  hope?"  I  moaned,  "so  strong, 

so  fair ! 
Our    Fowler    whose    proud    bird    would 

brook  erewhile 

No  rival's  swoop  in  all  our  western  air ! 
Gather  the  ravens,  then,  in  funeral  file 
For   him,   life's   morn  yet  golden   in   his 

hair? 


"Leave  me  not  hopeless,  ye  unpitying 
dames ! 

I  see,  half  seeing.     Tell  me,  ye  who  scanned 

The  stars,  Earth's  elders,  still  must  no 
blest  aims 

Be  traced  upon  oblivious  ocean-sands? 

Must  Hesper  join  the  wailing  ghosts  of 
names?  so 

"When  grass-blades  stiffen  with  red  bat 
tle-dew, 

Ye  deem  we  choose  the  victor  and  the 
slain : 

Say,  choose  we  them  that  shall  be  leal  and 
true 

To  the  heart's  longing,  the  high  faith  of 
brain  ? 

Yet  there  the  victory  lies,  if  ye  but  knew. 

"Three  roots  bear  up  Dominion :  Knowl 
edge,  Will, — 

These  twain  are  strong,  but  stronger  yet 
the  third  — 

Obedience, — 't  is  the  great  tap-root  that 
still, 

Knit  round  the  rock  of  Duty,  is  not  stirred, 

Though  Heaven  -  loosed  tempests  spend 
their  utmost  skill.  &> 


"Is  the  doom  sealed  for  Hesper?     'T  is 

not  we 

Denounce  it,  but  the  Law  before  all  time : 
The  brave  makes  danger  opportunity; 
The  wayerer,   paltering  with   the  chance 

sublime, 
Dwarfs  it  to  peril :  which  shall  Hesper  be? 


"Hath   he   let   vultures   climb  his   eagle's 

seat 
To  make  Jove's  bolts  purveyors  of  their 

maw? 
Hath  he  the  Many's  plaudits  found  more 

sweet 
Than  Wisdom?    held  Opinion's  wind  for 

Law? 
Then  let  him  hearken  for  the  doomster's 

feet !  70 

"Rough  are  the  steps,  slow-hewn  in  flint 
iest  rock, 

States  climb  to  power  by;  slippery  those 
with  gold 

Down  which  they  stumble  to  eternal 
mock : 

No  charterer's  hand  shall  long  the  sceptre 
hold, 

Who,  given  a  Fate  to  shape,  would  sell 
the  block. 

"We  sing  old  Sagas,  songs  of  weal  and 

woe, 

Mystic  because  too  cheaply  understood ; 
Dark  sayings  are  not  ours;  men  hear  and 

know, 

See  Evil  weak,  see  strength  alone  in  Good, 
Yet  hope  to  stem  God's  fire  with  walls  of 

tow.  8° 

"Time  Was  unlocks  the  riddle  of  Time  Is, 
That  offers  choice  of  glory  or  of  gloom; 
The  solver  makes  Time  Shall  Be  surely 

his. 
But  hasten,   Sisters !     for   even  now   the 

tomb 
Grates  its  slow  hinge  and  calls  from  the 

abyss." 

"But  not  for  him,"  I  cried,  "not  yet  for 

him, 
Whose  large  horizon,  westering,  star  by 

star 
Wins  from  the  void  to  where  on  Ocean's 

rim 
The  sunset  shuts  the  world  with  golden 

bar, 
Not  yet  his  thews  shall  fail,  his  eye  grow 

dim!  90 

"His  shall  be  larger  manhood,  saved  for 
those 

That  walk  unblenching  through  the  trial- 
fires; 

Not  suffering,  but  faint  heart,  is  worst  of 
woes, 

And  he  no  base-born  son  of  craven  sires, 

Whose  eye  need  blench  confronted  with 
his  foes. 


300 


AMERICAN   POETRY 


"Tears  may  be  ours,  but  proud,  for  those 

who  win 

Death's  royal  purple  in  the  f oeman's  lines ; 
Peace,   too,   brings   tears;    and   'mid   the 

battle-din, 

The  wiser  ear  some  text  of  God  divines, 
For   the   sheathed   blade   may  rust   with 

darker  sin.  I0° 

"God,  give  us  peace!  not  such  as  lulls  to 
sleep, 

But  sword  on  thigh,  and  brow  with  pur 
pose  knit! 

And  let  our  Ship  of  State  to  harbor 
sweep, 

Her  ports  all'  up,  her  battle-lanterns  lit, 

And  her  leashed  thunders  gathering  for 
their  leap !" 

So  cried  I  with  clenched  hands  and  pas 
sionate  pain, 

Thinking  of  dear  ones  by  Potomac's  side ; 

Again  the  loon  laughed  mocking,  and 
again 

The  echoes  bayed  far  down  the  night  and 
died, 

While  waking  I  recalled  my  wandering 
brain.  1I0 

1861.     The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Nov.,  1861. 


THE    BIGLOW    PAPERS 

SECOND    SERIES 

No.  I 
THE  CouRTiN'1 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still 
Fur  'z  you  can  look  or  listen, 

Moonshine  an'  snow  on  field  an'  hill, 
All  silence  an'  all  glisten. 

Zekle  crep'  up  quite  unbeknown 
An'  peeked  in  thru'  the  winder, 

An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 
'ith  no  one  nigh  to  bender. 

1  The  only  attempt  I  had  ever  made  at  any 
thing  like  a  pastoral  (if  that  may  be  called  an 
attempt  which  was  the  result  almost  of  pare  acci 
dent)  was  in  "The  Courtin'."  While  the  Intro 
duction  to  the  First  Series  was  going  through 
the  press,  I  received  word  from  the  printer  that 
there  was  a  blank  page  left  which  must  be  filled. 
I  sat  down  at  once  and  improvised  another  fic 
titious  "notice  of  the  press,"  in  which,  because 
verse  would  fill  up  space  more  cheaply  than  prose, 
I  inserted  an  extract  from  a  supposed  ballad  of 
Mr.  Biglow.  I  kept  no  copy  of  it,  and.  the 
printer,  as  directed,  cut  it  off  when  the  gap  was 
filled.  Presently  I  began  to  receive  letters  ask- 


A  fireplace  filled  the  room's  one  side 
With  half  a  cord  o'  wood  in —  »° 

There   war   n't   no    stoves    (tell   comfort 

died) 
To  bake  ye  to  a  puddin'. 

The  wa'nut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 
Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  her, 

An'  leetle  flames  danced  all  about 
The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

Agin  the  chimbley  crook-necks  hung, 

An'  in  amongst  'em  rusted 
The  ole  queen's-arm  thet  gran'ther  Young 

Fetched  back  f'om  Concord  busted.     2° 

The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in, 
Seemed  warm  f'om  floor  to  ceilin', 

An'  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 
Ez  the  apples  she  was  peelin'. 

'T  was  kin'  o'  kingdom-come  to  look 

On  sech  a  blessed  cretur, 
A  dpgrose  blushin'  to  a  brook 

Ain't  modester  nor  sweeter. 

He  was  six  foot  o'  man,  A  1, 

Clear  grit  an'  human  natur'.  3° 

None  could  n't  quicker  pitch  a  ton 

Nor  dror  a  furrer  straighten 

He  'd  sparked  it  with  full  twenty  gals, 
Hed  squired  'em,  danced  'em,  druv  'em, 

Fust  this  one,  an'  then  thet,  by  spells — 
All  is,  he  could  n't  love  'em. 

But  long  o'  her  his  veins  'ould  run 

All  crinkly  like  curled  maple, 
The  side  she  breshed  felt  full  o'  sun 

Ez  a  south  slope  in  Ap'il.  4° 

She  thought  no  v'ice  bed  sech  a  swing 

Ez  hisn  in  the  choir; 
My!  when  he  made  Ole  Hunderd  ring, 

She  knowed  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

ing  for  the  rest  of  it,  sometimes  for  the  balance 
of  it.  I  had  none,  but  to  answer  such  demands, 
I  patched  a  conclusion  upon  it  in  a  later  edition. 
Those  who  had  only  the  first  continued  to  im 
portune  me.  Afterward,  being  asked  to  write  it 
out  as  an  autograph  for  the  Baltimore  Sanitary 
Commission  Fair,  I  added  other  verses,  into  some 
of  which  I  infused  a  little  more  sentiment  in  a 
homely  way,  and  after  a  fashion  completed  it  by 
sketching  in  the  characters  and  making  a  con 
nected  story.  Most  likely  I  have  spoiled  it,  but 
I  shall  put  it  at  the  end  of  this  Introduction, 
to  answer  once  for  all  those  kindly  importunings. 
(LOWELL,  in  the  "Introduction"  to  the  Biglow 
Papers,  1866.) 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


301 


An'  she  'd  blush  scarlit,  right  in  prayer, 
When  her  new  meetin'-bunnet 

Felt  somehow  thru'  its  crown  a  pair 
O'  blue  eyes  sot  upun  it. 

Thet  night,  I  tell  ye,  she  looked  some! 

She  seemed  to  've  gut  a  new  soul,      5° 
For  she  felt  sartin-sure  he  'd  come, 

Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole. 

She  heered  a  foot,  an'  knowed  it  tu, 

A-raspin"  on  the  scraper, — 
All  ways  to  once  her  feelins  flew 

Like  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper. 


He  kin'  o'  1'itered  on  the  mat, 
Some  doubtfle  o'  the  sekle, 

His  heart  kep'  goin'  pity-pat, 
But  hern  went  pity  Zekle. 


60 


An'  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk 
Ez  though  she  wished  him  furder, 

An'  on  her  apples  kep'  to  work, 
Parin'  away  like  murder. 

"You  want  to  see  my  Pa,  I  s'pose?" 
"Wai  ...  no  ...  I  come  dasignin' " — 

"To  see  my  Ma?     She  's  sprinklin'  clo'es 
Agin  to-morrer's  i'nin'." 

To  say  why  gals  acts  so  or  so, 

Or  don't,  'ould  be  persumin';  7° 

Mebby  to  mean  yes  an'  say  no 

Comes  nateral  to  women. 

He  stood  a  spell  on  one  foot  fust, 
Then  stood  a  spell  on  t'  other, 

An'  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wust 
He  could  n't  ha'  told  ye  nuther. 

Says  he,  "I  'd  better  call  agin;" 
Says  she,  "Think  likely,  Mister :" 

Thet  last  word  pricked  him  like  a  pin, 
An'  .  .  .  Wai,  he  up  an'  kist  her.        80 

When  Ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes, 
All  kin'  o'  smily  roun'  the  lips 

An'  teary  roun'  the  lashes. 

For  she  was  jes'  the  quiet  kind 

Whose  naturs  never  vary, 
Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer  mind 

Snowhid  in  Jenooary. 

The  blood  clost  roun'  her  heart  felt  glued 
Too  tight  for  all  expressin',  9° 

Tell  mother  see  how  metters  stood, 
An'  gin  'em  both  her  blessin'. 


Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 

Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy, 
An'  all  I  know  is  they  was  cried 

In  meetin'  come  nex'  Sunday. 
1848-1866? 

With  "Biglow  Papers,"  1st  ser.,  1848. 

No.  II 
MASON  AND  SLIDELL  :  A  YANKEE  IDYLL  1 

I  love  to  start  out  arter  night  's  begun, 
An'   all   the   chores   about   the    farm   are 

done, 
The   critters   milked   an'    foddered,   gates 

shet   fast, 
Tools    cleaned    aginst    to-morrer,    supper 

past, 

An'  Nancy  darnin'  by  her  ker'sene  lamp, — 
I  love,  I  say,  to  start  upon  a  tramp, 
To  shake  the  kinkles  out  o'  back  an'  legs, 
An'  kind  o'   rack  my   life  off   from  the 

dregs 

Thet  's  apt  to  settle  in  the  buttery-hutch 
Of  folks  thet  f oiler  in  one  rut  too  much : 
Hard  work  is  good  an'  wholesome,  past 

all  doubt;  " 

But  't  ain't  so,  ef  the  mind  gits  tuckered 

out. 

Now,  bein'  born  in  Middlesex,  you  know, 
There  's  certin  spots  where  I  like  best  to 

go: 
The  Concord  road,   for   instance   (I,   for 

one, 
Most    gin'lly    oilers    call    it    John    Bull's 

Run), 
The    field    o'    Lexin'ton    where    England 

tried 

The  fastest  colours  thet  she  ever  dyed. 
An'  Concord  Bridge,  thet  Davis,  when  he 

came, 
Found  was  the  bee-line  track  to  heaven 

an'    fame,  2° 

*In  1861,  John  M.  Mason  and  John  Slidell, 
commissioners  from  the  Confederacy  to  England 
and  France,  after  having  eluded  the  Union  block 
ade,  were  taken  off  a  British  steamer  and  held 
as  prisoners  of  war.  Two  issues  were  involved 
in  the  British  demand  for  their  release.  To  give 
them  up  was  to  establish  the  American  conten 
tion  against  the  analogous  act  of  impressing  Brit 
ish  seamen  found  on  neutral  vessels;  but  to  give 
them  up  was  to  concede  that  while  hostile  mes 
sages  were  contraband  of  war,  the  bearers  of 
such  messages  were  not  subject  to  interference. 
The  comniissioners  were  surrendered,  but  the 
whole  episode  was  complicated  by  the  kind  of 
Acrimonious  debate  that  has  accompanied  many 
of  the  decisions  in  international  law  during  the 
more  recent  European  war.  Lowell  uttered, 
through  the  Bridge  and  the  Monument,  almost 
all  the  basic  contentions  of  1914-1917. 


302 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Ez  all  roads  be  by  natur',  ef  your  soul 
Don't  sneak  thru  shun-pikes  so  's  to  save 
the  toll. 

They  're   'most  too   fur   away,   take  too 

much  time 

To  visit  of'en,  ef  it  ain't  in  rhyme; 
But  the'  's  a  walk  thet  's  hendier,  a  sight, 
An'    suits    me    fust-rate    of    a    winter's 

night, — 

I  mean  the  round  whale's-back  o'  Pros 
pect  Hill. 
I  love  to  1'iter  there  while  night  grows 

still, 

An'  in  the  twinklin'  villages  about, 
Fust    here,    then    there,    the    well-saved 

lights  goes  out,  3» 

An'    nary    sound    but    watch-dogs'    false 

alarms, 
Or  muffled  cock-crows   from  the  drowsy 

farms, 
Where  some  wise  rooster   (men  act  jest 

thet  way) 
Stands  to  't  thet  moon-rise  is  the  break 

o'   day 
(So  Mister  Seward  sticks  a  three-months' 

pin 
Where  the  war  'd  oughto  eend,  then  tries 

agin; 
My  gran'ther's  rule  was  safer   n    t  is  to 

crow : 

Don't  never  prophesy — onless  ye  know}. 
I  love  to  muse  there  till  it  kind  p'  seems 
Ez    ef    the    world    went    eddyin'    off    in 

dreams ;  4° 

The  northwest  wind  thet  twitches  at  my 

baird 
Blows    out    o'    sturdier    days    not    easy 

scared, 
An'  the  same  moon  thet  this  December 

shines 

Starts  out  the  tents  an'  booths  o'   Put 
nam's  lines; 
The  rail- fence  posts,  acrost  the  hill  thet 

runs, 
Turn  ghosts  o'  sogers  should'rin'  ghosts 

o'  guns; 
Ez    wheels   the   sentry,    glints    a   flash   o' 

light, 

Along  the  firelock  won  at  Concord  Fight, 
An',    'twixt    the   silences,    now    fur,   now 

nigh, 
Rings  the  sharp  chellenge,  hums  the  low 

reply.  5° 

Ez  I  was  settin*  so,  it  warn't  long  sence, 
Mixin'  the  puffict  with  the  present  tense, 
I  heerd  two  voices  som'ers  in  the  air, 
Though,  ef  I  was  to  die,  I  can't  tell  where : 


Voices  I  call  'em :  't  was  a  kind  o'  sough 
Like  pine-trees  thet  the  wind's  ageth'rin 

through ; 
An',   fact,  I   thought  it  was  the  wind'  a 

spell, 
Then   some  misdoubted,   could  n't   fairly 

tell, 
Fust  sure,  then  not,  jest  as  you  hold  an 

eel, 
I  knowed,  an'  did  n't, — fin'lly  seemed  to 

feel  60 

'T  was  Concord  Bridge  a  talkin'  off  to  kill 
With  the  Stone   Spike  thet  's  druv  thru 

Bunker's   Hill; 

Whether  't  was  so,  or  ef  I  on'y  dreamed, 
I  could  n't  say;  I  tell  it  ez  it  seemed. 

THE  BRIDGE 

Wai,  neighbor,  tell  us  wut  's  turned  up 

thet  's  new? 
You  're  younger  'n  I  be, — nigher  Boston, 

tu: 
An'  down  to   Boston,  ef  you  take  their 

showin', 
Wut  they  don't  know  ain't  hardly  wuth 

the  knowin'. 
There  's  sunthin'  goin'  on,  I  know :  las' 

night 

The  British  sogers  killed  in  our  gret  fight 
(Nigh  fifty  year  they  hed  n't  stirred  nor 

spoke)    '  7i 

Made  seen  a  coil  you  'd  thought  a  dam 

hed  broke : 

Why,  one  he  up  an'  beat  a  revellee 
With  his  own  crossbones  on  a  holler  tree, 
Till  all  the  graveyards  swarmed  out  like 

a  hive 

With  faces  I  hain't  seen  sence  Seventy- 
five. 
Wut  is  the  news  ?  'T  ain't  good,  or  they  'd 

be  cheerin'. 
Speak  slow  an'  clear,  for  I  'm  some  hard 

o'  hearin'. 


THE    MONIMENT 

I  don't  know  hardly  ef  it 's  good  or  bad, — 

THE    BRIDGE 

At  wust,  it  can't  be  wus  than  wut  we  've 
had.  80 

THE   MONIMENT 

You  know  them  envys  thet  the   Rebbles 

sent, 
An'    Cap'n    Wilkes    he    borried    o'    the 

Trent? 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


303 


THE    BRIDGE 


Wut !  they  ha'n't  hanged  'em  ?    Then  their 

wits  is  gone! 
Thet  's  the  sure  way  to  make  a  goose  a 


THE   MONIMENT 


No :   England   she   would  hev   'em,   Fee, 

Faw,  Fum! 
(Ez  though  she  hed  n't  fools  enough  to 

home), 
So  they  've  returned  'em — 


THE    BRIDGE 

Hev  they?    Wai,  by  heaven, 
Thet  's  the  wust  news  I  've  heerd  sence 

Seventy-seven ! 

By  George,  I  meant  to  say,  though  I  de 
clare 

It    's   'most    enough    to    make    a    deacon 
swear.  90 

THE   MONIMENT 

Now  don't  go  off  half-cock:   folks  never 

gains 

By  usin'  pepper-sarse  instid  o'  brains. 
Come,  neighbor,  you  don't  understan' — 


THE    BRIDGE 

How?     Hey? 

Not  understan'?     Why,  wut  's  to  hender, 

pray? 

Must  I  go  huntin'  round  to  find  a  chap 
To  tell  me  when  my  face  hez  hed  a  slap? 

THE   MONIMENT 

See  here :  the  British  they  found  out  a 

flaw 

In  Cap'n  Wilkes's  readin'  o'  the  law 
(They  make  all  laws,  you  know,  an'  so,  o' 

course, 
It  's  nateral  they  should  understan'  their 

force)  :  I0° 

He  'd  oughto  ha'  took  the  vessel  into  port, 
An'  hed  her  sot  on  by  a  reg'lar  court; 
She  was  a  mail-ship,  an'  a  steamer,  tu, 
An'  thet,  they  say,  hez  changed  the  pint  o' 

view, 

Coz  the  old  practice,  bein'  meant  for  sails, 
Ef  tried  upon  a  steamer,  kind  o'  fails; 
You   may   take   out    despatches,    but   you 

mus'  n't 
Take  nary  man — 


THE    BRIDGE 

You  mean  to  say,  you  dus'  n't! 
Changed  pint  o'  view !    No,  no, — it 's  over 
board 
With   law  an'  gospel,   when  their  ox   is 

gored !  no 

I  tell  ye,  England's  law,  on  sea  an'  land, 
Hez  oilers  ben,  "/  've  gut  the  heaviest 

hand." 
Take   nary    man?     Fine   preachin'    from 

her  lips ! 
Why,  she  hez  taken  hunderds  from  our 

ships, 
An'  would  agin,  an'  swear  she  had  a  right 

to, 
Ef  we  warn't  strong  enough  to  be  perlite 

to. 

Of  all  the  sarse  thet  I  can  call  to  mind, 
England  doos  make  the  most  onpleasant 

kind  : 
It  's  you  're  the  sinner  oilers,  she  's  the 

saint ; 
Wut  's  good  's  all  English,  all  thet  is  n't 

ain't ;  120 

Wut  profits  her  is  oilers  right  an'  just, 
An'  ef  you  don't  read  Scriptur  so,  you 

must; 
She    's   praised    herself    ontil    she    fairly 

thinks 
There  ain't  no  light  in  Natur  when  she 

winks ; 
Hain't  she  the  Ten  Comman'ments  in  her 

pus? 
Could  the  world  stir  'thout  she  went,  tu, 

ez  nus? 
She   ain't   like   other    mortals,    thet   's   a 

fact; 

She  never  stopped  the  habus-corpus  act, 
Nor  specie  payments,  nor  she  never  yet 
Cut  down  the  int'rest  on  her  public  debt; 
She  don't  put  down  rebellions,   lets  'em 

breed,  '3' 

An'  's  oilers  willin'  Ireland  should  secede; 
She  's   all   thet   's   honest,   honnable,   an' 

fair, 
An'  when  the  vartoos  died  they  made  her 

heir. 


THE   MONIMENT 

Wai,  wal,  two  wrongs  don't  never  make 

a  right; 
Ef  we  're   mistaken,   own  up,   an'    don't 

fight: 
For  gracious'  sake,  ha'n't  we  enough  to 

du 

'thout  gettin'  up  a  fight  with  England,  tu? 
She  thinks  we  're  rabble-rid — 


304 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


THE   BRIDGE 

An'  so  we  can't 
Distinguish  'twixt  You  oughtn  't  an'  You 

sha'n't!  MO 

She  jedges  by  herself;  she  's  no  idear 
How  't   stiddies   folks  to  give  'em  their 

fair  sheer : 
The  odds  'twixt  her  an'  us  is  plain  's  a 

steeple, — 
Her  People  's  turned  to  Mob,  our  Mob  's 

turned  People. 


THE   MONIMENT 

She  's  riled  jes'  now — 

THE   BRIDGE 

Plain  proof  her  cause  ain't  strong, — 
The  one  thet  fust  gits  mad  's  'most  oilers 

wrong.       , 
Why,  sence  she  helped  in  lickin'  Nap  the 

Fust 

An'  pricked  a  bubble  jest  agoin'  to  bust, 
With    Rooshy,    Prooshy,   Austry,   all   as- 

sistin', 
Th'  ain't  nut  a  face  but  wut  she  's  shook 

her  fist  in,  Ts° 

Ez  though  she  done  it  all,  an'  ten  times 

more, 

An'  nuthin'  never  hed  gut  done  afore, 
Nor    never    could    agin,    'thout    she    wuz 

spliced 
On  to  one  eend  an'  gin  th'  old  airth  a 

hoist. 

She  is  some  punkins,  thet  I  wun't  deny 
(For   ain't   she    some   related   to   you   'n 

I?), 

But  there  's  a  few  small  intrists  here  be 
low 

Outside  the  counter  o'  John  Bull  an'  Co, 

An'  though  they  can't  conceit  how  't 
should  be  so, 

I  guess  the  Lord  druv  down  Creation's 
spiles  l6° 

'thout  no  gret  helpin'  from  the  British 
Isles, 

An'  could  contrive  to  keep  things  pooty 
stiff 

Ef  they  withdrawed  from  business  in  a 
miff; 

I  ha'n't  no  patience  with  sech  swellin'  fel 
lers  ez 

Think  God  can't  forge  'thout  them  to 
blow  the  bellerses. 


THE   MONIMENT 

You  're  oilers  quick  to  set  your  back 
aridge, 

Though  't  suits  a  tom-cat  more  'n  a  sober 
bridge : 

Don't  you  git  het:  they  thought  the  thing 
was  planned; 

They  '11  cool  off  when  they  come  to  un 
derstand. 

THE    BRIDGE 

Ef  thet  's  wut  you  expect,  you  '11  hev  to 
wait ;  'TO 

Folks  never  understand  the  folks  they 
hate: 

She  '11  fin'  some  other  grievance  jest  ez 
good, 

'fore  the  month  's  out,  to  git  misunder 
stood. 

England  cool  off!  She  'II  do  it,  ef  she 
sees 

She  's  run  her  head  into  a  swarm  o'  bees. 

I  ain't  so  prejudiced  ez  wut  you  spose: 

I  hev  thought  England  was  the  best  thet 
goes; 

Remember  (no,  you  can't),  when  I  was 
reared, 

God  save  the  King  was  all  the  tune  you 
heerd : 

But  it  's  enough  to  turn  Wachuset  roun' 

This   stumpin'    fellers   when  you   think 
they  're  down.  lSl 

THE   MONIMENT 

But,  neighbor,  ef  they  prove  their  claim 

at  law, 

The  best  way  is  to  settle,  an'  not  jaw. 
An'   don't  le'  's   mutter  'bout   the   awfle 

bricks 

We  '11  give  'em,  ef  we  ketch  'em  in  a  fix : 
That  'ere  's  most  frequently  the  kin'  o' 

talk 
Of   critters   can't   be   kicked   to   toe   the 

chalk ; 
Your  "You  '11  see  nex'  time!"  an'  "Look 

out  bumby !" 

'Most  oilers  ends  in  eatin'  umble-pie. 
'T  wun't  pay  to  scringe  to  England :  will 

it  pay  '90 

To  fear  thet  meaner  bully,  old  "They  '11 

say"  ? 
Suppose  they  du  say:  words  are  dreffle 

bores, 

But  they  ain't  quite  so  bad  ez  seventy- 
fours. 
Wut  England  wants  is  jest  a  wedge  to  fit 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


305 


Where  it  '11  help  to  widen  out  our  split : 
She  's  found  her  wedge*,  an'  't  ain't  for 

us  to  come 
An'   lend   the   beetle  thet   's   to   drive   it 

home. 
For  growed-up  folks  like  us  't  would  be 

a  scandle, 
When  we  git  sarsed,  to  fly  right  off  the 

handle. 
England  ain't  all  bad,  coz  she  thinks  us 

blind :  **> 

Ef   she   can't   change   her   skin,   she   can 

her  mind; 

An'  we  shall  see   her  change  it  double- 
quick, 
Soon  ez  we  've  proved  thet  we  're  a-goin' 

to  lick. 

She  an"  Columby  's  gut  to  be  fas'  friends : 
For   the   world   prospers   by   their   privit 

ends: 
'T  would  put  the  clock  back  all  o'  fifty 

years 
Ef  they  should  fall  together  by  the  ears. 

THE  BRIDGE 

I  'gree  to  thet;  she  's  nigh  us  to  wut 
France  is; 

But  then  she  '11  hev  to  make  the  fust  ad 
vances  ; 

We  'ye  gut  pride,  tu,  an'  gut  it  by  good 
rights,  2I° 

An'  ketch  me  stoopin'  to  pick  up  the  mites 

O'  condescension  she  '11  be  lettin'  fall 

When  she  finds  out  we  ain't  dead  arter 
all! 

I  tell  ye  wut,  it  takes  more  'n  one  good 
week 

Afore  my  nose  forgits  it 's  hed  a  tweak. 


THE    MONIMENT 

She  '11  come  out  right  bumby,  thet  I  '11 
engage, 

Soon  ez  she  gits  to  seein'  we  're  of  age ; 

This  talkin'  down  o'  hers  ain't  wuth  a 
fuss; 

It  's  nat'ral  ez  nut  likin'  't  is  to  us; 

Ef  we  're  agoin'  to  prove  we  be  growed- 
up,  22° 

'T  wun't  be  by  barkin'  like  a  tarrier  pup, 

But  turnin'  to  an'  makin'  things  ez  good 

Ez  wut  we  're  oilers  braggin'  that  we 
could ; 

We  're  boun*  to  be  good  friends,  an'  so 
we  'd-oughto, 

In  spite  of  all  the  fools  both  sides  the 
water. 


THE    BRIDGE 

I  b'lieve  thet  's  so;  but  harken  in  your 

ear, — 
I    'm    older    'n    you, — Peace    wun't   keep 

house  with  Fear : 
Ef  you  want  peace,  the  thing  you  've  gut 

tu  du 

IP  jest  to  show  you  're  up  to  fightin',  tu. 
7  recollect  how  sailors'  rights  was  won, 
Yard  locked  in  yard,  hot  gun-lip  kissin' 

gun :  23' 

Why,  afore  thet,  John  Bull  sot  up  thet  he 
Hed  gut  a  kind  o'  mortgage  on  the  sea; 
You    'd    thought    he    held    by    Gran'ther 

Adam's  will, 
An'  ef  you  knuckle  down,  he  '11  think  so 

still. 

Better  thet  all  our  ships  an'  all  their  crews 
Should  sink  to  rot  in  ocean's  dreamless 

ooze, 
Each    torn    flag    wavin'    chellenge    ez    it 

went, 
An'  each  dumb  gun  a  brave  man's  moni- 

ment, 
Than   seek   sech   peace   ez   only  cowards 

crave :  24° 

Give  me  the  peace  of   dead  men  or  of 

brave ! 

THE   MONIMENT 

I  say,  ole  boy,  it  ain't  the  Glorious  Fourth : 
You  'd  oughto  larned  'fore  this  wut  talk 

wuz  worth. 

It  ain't  our  nose  thet  gits  put  out  o'  jint; 
It  's  England  thet  gives  up  her  dearest 

pint. 

We  've  gut,  I  tell  ye  now,  enough  to  du 
In   our  own    f em  ly   fight,   afore   we   're 

thru. 
I  hoped,  las'  spring,  jest  arter   Sumter's 

shame, 
When  every  flag-staff  flapped  its  tethered 

flame, 
An'   all   the   people,    startled    from   their 

doubt,  2s° 

Come  must'rin'  to  the  flag  with   sech   a 

shout, — 

I  hoped  to  see  things  settled  'fore  this  fall, 
The   Rebbles   licked,   Jeff   Davis   hanged, 

an'  all ; 
Then  come  Bull  Run,  an'  sence  then  I  've 

ben  waitin' 

Like  boys  in  Jennooary  thaw  for  skatin", 
Nothin"    to    du    but    watch    my   shadder's 

trace 
Swing,  like  a  ship  at  anchor,  roun'  my 

base, 


306 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


With  daylight's  flood  an'  ebb :  it  's  gittin' 

slow, 

An"  I  'most  think  we  'd  better  let  'em  go. 
I  tell  ye  wut,  this  war  's  a-goin'  to  cost — 


THE    BRIDGE 

An'  I  tell  you  it  wun't  be  money  lost;  ^ 
Taxes   milks   dry,   but,   neighbor,   you  '11 

allow 

Thet  havin'  things  onsettled  kills  the  cow : 
We  've  gut  to  fix  this  thing  for  good  an' 

all; 

It  's  no  use  buildin'  wut  's  a-goin'  to  fall. 
I  'm  older  'n  you,  an'  I  've  seen  things  an' 

men, 

An'  my  experunce, — tell  ye  wut  it  's  ben : 
Folks  thet  worked  thorough  was  the  ones 

thet  thriv, 

But  bad  work  follers  ye  ez  long  's  ye  live ; 
You  can't  git  red  on  't;  jest  ez  sure  ez 

sin,  27<> 

It  's  oilers  askin'  to  be  done  agin : 
Ef  we  should  part,  it  would  n't  be  a  week 
'Fore    your    soft-soddered    peace    would 

spring  aleak. 
We  've  turned  our  cuffs  up,  but,  to  put 

her  thru, 

We  must  git  mad  an'  off  with  jackets,  tu; 
'T  wun't  du  to  think  thet  killin'  ain't  per- 

lite,— 

You  've  gut  to  be  in  airnest,  ef  you  fight; 
Why,  two  thirds  o'  the  Rebbles  'ould  cut 

dirt, 
Ef    they    once    thought    thet    Guv'ment 

meant  to  hurt; 

An'  I  du  wish  our  Gin'rals  hed  in  mind 
The  folks  in   front  more  than  the   folks 

behind;  ** 

You  wun't  do  much  ontil  you  think  it  's 

God, 

An'  not  constitoounts,  thet  holds  the  rod; 
We  want  some  more  o'  Gideon's  sword, 

I  jedge, 

For  proclamations  ha'n't  no  gret  of  edge; 
There   's   nothin'    for    a   cancer   but   the 

knife, 
Onless  you  set  by  't  more  than  by  your 

life. 

I  've  seen  hard  times ;  I  see  a  war  begun 
Thet  folks  thet  love  their  bellies  never  'd 

won; 
Pharo's  lean  kine  hung  on  for  seven  long 

year ;  29° 

But  when  't  was  done,  we  did  n't  count  it 

dear; 

Why,  law  an'  order,  honor,  civil  right, 
Ef  they  ain't  wuth  it,  wut  is  wuth  a  fight? 


I  'm  older  'n  you :  the  plough,  the  axe,  the 

mill, 

All  kin's  o'  labor  an'  all  kin's  o'  skill, 
Would  be  a  rabbit  in  a  wile-cat's  claw, 
Ef  't  warn't  for  thet  slow  critter,  'stab- 

lished  law ; 

Onsettle  thet,  an'  all  the  world  goes  whiz, 
A  screw  's  gut  loose  in  everythin'  there  is : 
Good   buttresses   once   settled,   don't   you 
fret  300 

An'  stir  'em;   take  a  bridge's  word   for 

thet! 
Young  folks  are  smart,  but  all  ain't  good 

thet  's  new; 

I  guess  the  gran'thers  they  knowed  sun- 
thin',   tu. 

THE   MONIMENT 

Amen  to  thet !  build  sure  in  the  beginnin' : 
An'  then  don't  never  tech  the  underpin- 

nin' : 
Th'    older   a   guv'ment   is,    the   better   't 

suits ; 
New  ones  hunt  folks's  corns  out  like  new 

boots : 
Change  jes'  for  change,  is  like  them  big 

hotels 

W^ere  they  shift  plates,  an'  let  ye  live  on 
"  smells. 

THE    BRIDGE 

Wai,  don't  give  up  afore  the  ship  goes 

down :  3'o 

It   's   a  stiff  gale,   but   Providence   wun't 

drown ; 
An'   God   wun't  leave  us  yit  to  .sink   or 

swim, 
Ef  we  don't  fail  to  du  wut  's  right  by 

Him. 

This  land  o'  ourn,  I  tell  ye,  's  gut  to  be 
A  better  country  than  man  ever  see. 
I  feel  my  sperit  swellin'  with  a  cry 
Thet  seems  to  say,  "Break  forth  an'  pro 
phesy  !" 
O  strange  New  World,  thet  yit  wast  never 

young, 
Whose  youth  from  thee  by  gripin'  need 

was  wrung, 
Brown    foundlin'    o'    the    woods,    whose 

baby-bed  320 

Was  prowled  roun'  by  the  Injun's  crack- 

lin'  tread, 
An'   who  grew'st   strong  thru   shifts  an' 

wants  an'  pains, 
Nussed    by   stern    men    with    empires    in 

their  brains, 
Who   saw   in   vision   their   young   Ishmel 

strain 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


307 


With    each   hard   hand   a   vassal   ocean's 

mane, 
Thou,    skilled   by    Freedom    an'    by   gret 

events 
To  pitch  new  States  ez  Old-World  men 

pitch  tents, 
Thou,  taught  by  Fate  to  know  Jehovah's 

plan 

Thet  man's  devices  can't  unmake  a  man, 
An'    whose    free   latch-string   never   was 

drawed  in  330 

Against  the  poorest  child  of  Adam's  kin, — • 
The  grave  's  not  dug  where  traitor  hands 

shall  lay 
In     fearful    haste    thy    murdered    corse 

away ! 
I  see — 

Jest  here  some  dogs  begun  to  bark, 
So  thet  I  lost  old  Concord's  last  remark : 
I  listened  long,  but  all  I  seemed  to  hear 
Was  dead  leaves  gossipin'  on  some  birch- 
trees  near; 

But  ez  they  hed  n't  no  gret  things  to  say, 
An'  sed  'em  often,  I  come  right  away, 
An',  walkin'  home'ards,  jest  to  pass  the 
time,  34° 

I  put  some  thoughts  thet  bothered  me  in 

rhyme ; 

I  hain't  hed  time  to  fairly  try  'em  on, 
But  here  they  be — it  's 


JONATHAN  TO  JOHN 

It  don't  seem  hardly  right,  John, 
When  both  my  hands  was  full, 
To  stump  me  to  a  fight,  John, — 
Your  cousin,  tu,  John  Bull! 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
We  know  it  now,"  sez  he, 
"The  lion's  paw  is  all  the  law,  3S<> 

Accordin'  to  J.  B., 
Thet  's  fit  for  you  an'  me!" 

You  wonder  why  we  're  hot,  John? 

Your  mark  wuz  on  the  guns, 
The  neutral  guns,  thet  shot,  John, 
Our  brothers   an'  our  sons : 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
There  's  human  blood,"  sez  he, 
"By  fits  an'  starts,  in  Yankee  hearts, 

Though  't  may  surprise  J.  B.          360 
More  'n  it  would  you  an'  me." 

Ef  I  turned  mad  dogs  loose,  John, 

On  your  front-parlor  stairs, 
Would  it  jest  meet  your  views,  John, 

To  wait  an'  sue  their  heirs? 


Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess, 
I  on'y  guess,"  sez  he, 
"Thet  ef  Vattel  on  his  toes  fell, 
'T  would  kind  o'  rile  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me!"  370 

Who  made  the  law  thet  hurts,  John, 

Heads  I  win, — ditto  tails? 
"J.  B."  was  on  his  shirts,  John, 
Onless  my  memory  fails. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
(I  'm  good  at  thet),"  sez  he  I 

"Thet  sauce  for  goose  ain't  jest  the  juice 
For  ganders  with  J.  B., 
No  more  'n  with  you  or  me !" 

When  your  rights  was  our  wrongs,  John, 
You  did  n't  stop  for  fuss, —  381 

Britanny's  trident  prongs,  John, 
Was  good  'nough  law  for  us. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess, 
Though  physic  's  good,"  sez  he, 

"It  does  n't  foller  thet  he  can  swaller 
Prescriptions   signed   'J-   B.,' 
Put  up  by  you  an'  me!" 

We  own  the  ocean,  tu,  John : 

You  mus'  n'  take  it  hard,  390 

Ef  we  can't  think  with  you,  John, 
It  's  jest  your  own  back-yard. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess, 
Ef  thet  's  his  claim,"  sez  he, 
"The  fencin'-stuff  -'11  cost  enough 
To  bust  up  friend  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me !" 

Why  talk  so  dreffle  big,  John, 

Of  honor  when  it  meant 
You  did  n't  care  a  fig,  John,  *   4°° 

But  jest  for  ten  per  cent? 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
He  's  like  the  rest,"  sez  he 
"When  all  is  done,  it  's  number  one 
Thet  's  nearest  to  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  t'  you  an'  me !" 

We  give  the  critters  back,  John, 

Cos  Abram  thought  't  was  right; 
It  warn't  your  bullyin'  clack,  John, 
Provokin'  us  to  fight.  4«> 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
We  've  a  hard  row,"  sez  he, 
"To  hoe  jest  now;  but  thet,  somehow, 
May  happen  to  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me!" 

We  ain't  so  weak  an'  poor,  John, 

With  twenty  million  people, 
An'  close  to  every  door,  John, 

A  school-house  an'  a  steeple. 


308 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess,        42° 
It  is  a  fact,"  sez  he, 
"The  surest  plan  to  make  a  Man 
Is,  think  him  so,  J.  B., 
Ez  much  ez  you  or  me !" 

Our  folks  believe  in  Law,  John; 

An'  it  's  for  her  sake,  now, 
They  've  left  the  axe  an'  saw,  John, 
The  anvil  an'  the  plough. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess, 
Ef  't  warn't  for  law,"  sez  he,          430 
"There  'd   be   one  shindy   from  here  to 

Indy;- 

An'  thet  don't  suit  J.  B. 
(When  't  ain't  'twixt  you  an'  me!)" 

We  know  we  've  got  a  cause,  John, 

Thet  's  honest,  just,  an'  true; 
We  thought  't  would  win^  applause,  John, 
Ef  nowheres  else,  from  you. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
His  love  of  right,"  sez  he, 
"Hangs  by  a  rotten  fibre  o'  cotton:      44° 
There  's  natur'  in  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  'z  in  you  an'  me!" 

The  South  says,  "Poor  folks  down!"  John, 

An'  "All  men  up!"  say  we, — 
White,  yaller,  black,  an'  brown,  John : 
Now  which  is  your  idee? 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess, 
John  preaches  wal,"  sez  he; 
"But,  sermon  thru,  an'  come  to  du, 

Why,  there  's  the  old  J.  B.  45° 

A-crowdin'  you  an'  me!" 

Shall  "it  be  love,  or  hate,  John? 

It  's  you  thet  's  to  decide; 
Ain't  your  bonds  held  by  Fate,  John, 
Like  all  the  world's  beside? 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess 
Wise  men  forgive,"  sez  he, 
"But  not  forgit;  an'  some  time  yit 
Thet  truth  may  strike  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me!"  460 

God  means  to  make  this  land,  John, 

Clear  thru,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Believe  an'  understand,  John, 
The  wuth  o*  bein'  free. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "I  guess, 
God's  price  is  high,"  sez  he ; 
"But  nothin'  else  than  wut  He  sells 
Wears  long,  an'  thet  J.  B. 
May  larn,  like  you  an'  me!" 

December,  1861. 

The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Feb.,  1862. 


No.   X 

MR.   HOSEA   BlGLOW  TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE 

ATLANTIC  MONTHLY 

Dear  Sir, — Your  letter  come  to  han' 
Requestin'  me  to  please  be  funny; 
But  I  ain't  made  upon  a  plan 
Thet    knows    wut    's    comin',    gall    or 

honey : 
Ther'   's   times   the   world   does   look   so 

queer, 

Odd  fancies  come  afore  I  call  'em; 
An'  then  agin,  for  half  a  year, 
No  preacher  'thout  a  call  's  more  sol 
emn. 

You  're  'n  want  o'  sunthin'  light  an'  cute, 

Rattlin'  an'   shrewd  an'  kin'  o'  jingle- 
ish,  10 

An'  wish,  pervidin'  it  'ould  suit, 

I  'd  take  an'  citify  my  English. 
I  ken  write  long-tailed,  ef  I  please, — 

But  when  I  'm  jokin',  na,  I  thankee; 
Then,  'fore  I  know^  it,  my  idees 

Run  helter-skelter  into  Yankee. 

Sence  I  begun  to  scribble  rhyme, 

I  tell  ye  wut,  I  hain't  ben  foolin'; 
The  parson's  books,  life,  death,  an'  time 

Hev  took  some  trouble  with  my  school- 
in';  2° 
Nor  th'  airth  don't  git  put  out  with  me, 

Thet   love   her   'z    though    she    wuz    a 

woman ; 
Why,  th'  ain't  a  bird  upon  the  tree 

But  half  forgives  my  bein'  human. 

An'  yit  I  love  th'  unhighschooled  way 

Ol'  farmers  hed  when  I  wuz  younger ; 
Their  talk  wuz  meatier,  an'  'ould  stay, 

While  book-froth  seems  to  whet  your 

hunger ; 
For  puttin'  in  a  downright  lick 

'twixt  Humbug's  eyes,  ther'  's  few  can 
metch  it,  3° 

An'  then  it  helves  my  thoughts  ez  slick 

Ez  stret-grained  hickory  doos  a  hetchet. 

But  when  I  can't,  I  can't,  thet  's  all, 

For  Natur'  won't  put  up  with  gullin'; 
Idees  you  hev  to  shove  an'  haul. 

Like  a  druv  pig  ain't  wuth  a  mullein : 
Live  thoughts  ain't  sent  for;  thru  all  rifts 

O'  sense  they  pour  an'  resh  ye  onwards, 
Like  rivers  when  south-lyin'  drifts 

Feel  thet  th'  old  airth  's  a-wheelin'  sun 
wards.  4° 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


309 


Time    wuz,    the    rhymes    come    crowdin' 
thick 

Ez  office-seekers  arter  'lection, 
An'  into  ary  place  'ould  stick 

Without  no  bother  nor  objection; 
But  sence  the  war  my  thoughts  hang  back 

Ez  though  I  wanted  to  enlist  'em, 
An'  subs'tutes, — they  don't  never  lack, 

But  then   they  '11  slope  afore  you  've 
mist  'em. 

Nothin'  don't  seem  like  wut  it  wuz ; 

I  can't  see  wut  there  is  to  hender,  5° 
An'  yit  my  brains  jes'  go  buzz,  buzz, 

Like  bumblebees  agin  a  winder ; 
'fore  these  times  come,  in  all  airth's  row, 

Ther'  wuz  one  quiet  place,  my  head  in. 
Where  I  could  hide  an'  think, — but  now 

It  's  all  one  teeter,  hopin',  dreadin'. 

Where   's    Peace?     I    start,    some   clear- 
blown  night, 
When  gaunt  stone  walls  grow  numb  an' 

number, 

An',  creakin'  'cross  the  snow-crus'  white, 
Walk  the  col'  starlight  into  summer;   6° 
Up  grows  the  moon,  an'  swell  by  swell 

Thru  the  pale  pasturs  silvers  dimmer 
Than  the  last  smile  thet  strives  to  tell 
O'  love  gone  heavenward  in  its  shim 
mer. 

I  hev  been  gladder  p'  sech  things 

Than  cocks  o'  spring  or  bees  o'  clover, 
They  filled  my  heart  with  livin'  springs, 

But  now  they  seem  to  freeze  'em  over; 
Sights  innercent  ez  babes  on  knee, 

Peaceful  ez  eyes  o'  pastur'd  cattle,  7° 
Jes'  coz  they  be  so,  seem  to  me 

To  rile  me  more  with  thoughts  o'  battle. 

Indoors  an'  out  by  spells  I  try; 

Ma'am    Natur'    keeps    her    spin'wheel 

goin', 
But  leaves  my  natur'  stiff  and  dry 

Ez  fiel's  o'  clover  arter  mowin'; 
An'  her  jes'  keepin'  on  the  same, 

Calmer  'n  a  clock,  an'  never  carin', 
An'  findin'  nary  thing  to  blame, 

Is  wus  than  ef  she  took  to  swearin'.   8° 

Snow-flakes  come  whisperin'  on  the  pane 

The  charm  makes  blazin'  logs  so  pleas 
ant, 
But  I  can't  hark  to  wut  they  're  say'n', 

With  Grant  or  Sherman  oilers  present; 
The  chimbleys  shudder  in  the  gale, 

Thet  lulls,  then  suddin  takes  to  flappin' 
Like  a  shot  hawk,  but  all  's  ez  stale 

To  me  ez  so  much  sperit-rappin'. 


Under  the  yaller-pines  I  house, 

When   sunshine   makes   'em   all   sweet- 
scented,  90 
An'  hear  among  their  furry  boughs 

The  baskin'  west-wind  purr  contented, 
While  'way  o'erhead,  ez  sweet  an'  low 

Ez  distant  bells  thet  ring  for  meetin', 
The   wedged    wil'   geese    their   bugles 
blow, 

Further  an'  further  South  retreatin'. 

Or  up  the  slippery  knob  I  strain 

An'  see  a  hundred  hills  like  islan's 
Lift  their  blue  woods  in  broken  chain 

Out  o'  the  sea  o'  snowy  silence;          I0° 
The  farm-smokes,  sweetes'  sight  on  airth, 

Slow  thru  the  winter  air  a-shrinkin' 
Seem  kin'  o'  sad,  an'  roun'  the  hearth 

Of  empty  places  set  me  thinkin'. 

Beaver  roars  hoarse  with  meltin'  snows, 

An'  rattles  di'mon's  from  his  granite; 
Time  wuz,  he  snatched  away  my  prose, 

An'  into  psalms  or  satires  ran  it; 
But  he,  nor  all  the  rest  thet  once 

Started  my  blood  to  country-dances,  "° 
Can't  set  me  goin'  more  'n  a  dunce 

Thet  hain't  no  use  for  dreams  an'  fan- 


Rat-tat-tat-tattle  thru  the  street 

I  hear  the  drummers  makin'  riot, 
An'  I  set  thinkin'  o'  the  feet 

Thet  follered  once  an'  now  are  quiet, — 
White  feet  ez  snowdrops  innercent,- 

Thet  never  knowed  the  paths  o'  Satan, 
Whose   comin?   step   ther'   's   ears   thet 
won't, 

No,  not  lifelong,  leave  off  awaitin'.     I2° 

Why,  hain't  I  held  'em  on  my  knee?1 

Did  n't  I  love  to  see  'em  growin', 
Three  likely  lads  ez  wal  could  be, 

Hahnsome  an'  brave  an'  not  tu  know- 
in'? 
I  set  an'  look  into  the  blaze 

Whose    natur',    jes'    like    theirn,    keeps 

climbin', 
Ez  long  'z  it  lives,  in  shinin'  ways, 

An'  half  despise  myself  for  rhymin'. 

Wut  's  words  to  them  whose  faith  an' 
truth 

On  War's  red  techstone  rang  true  metal. 
Who  ventered  life  an'  love  an'  youth  '3' 

For  the  gret  prize  o'  death  in  battle? 

1  Lowell  had  three  nephews  who  were  killed 
during  the  war. 


310 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


To  him  who,  deadly  hurt,  agen 
Flashed  on  afore  the  charge's  thunder,1 

Tippin'  with  fire  the  bolt  of  men 
Thet  rived  the  Rebel  line  asunder? 

'T  ain't  right  to  hev  the  young  go  fust, 

All  throbbin'  full  o'  gifts  an'  graces, 
Leavin'  life's  paupers  dry  ez  dust 

To  try  an  make  b'lieve  fill  their  places : 
Nothin'  but  tells  us  wut  we  miss,  M* 

Ther'  's  gaps  our  lives  can't  never  fay 

in, 
An'  thet  world  seems  so  fur  from  this 

Lef  for  us  loafers  to  grow  gray  in! 

My  eyes  cloud  up  for  rain;  my  mouth 

Will  take  to  twitchin'  roun'  the  corners ; 
I  pity  mothers,  tu,  down  South, 

For  all  they  sot  among  the  scorners : 
I'd  sooner  take  my  chance  to  stan' 

At  Jedgment  where  your  meanest  slave 
is,  'so 

Than  at  God's  bar  hoi'  up  a  han' 

Ez  drippin'  red  ez  yourn,  Jeff  Davis ! 

Come,  Peace !  not  like  a  mourner  bowed 

For  honor  lost  an'  dear  ones  wasted, 
But  proud,  to  meet  a  people  proud, 

With  eyes  thet  tell  o'  triumph  tasted ! 
Come,  with  han'  grippin'  on  the  hilt, 

An'  step  thet  proves  ye  Victory's  daugh 
ter! 
Longin'  for  you,  our  sperits  wilt 

Like   shipwrecked   men's   on   raf's    for 
water.  l6° 

Come,  while  our  country  feels  the  lift 

Of  a  gret  instinct  shoutin'  "Forwards !" 
An'  knows  thet  freedom  ain't  a  gift 

Thet  tarries  long  in  han's  o'  cowards! 
Come,  sech  ez  mothers  prayed  for,  when 

They  kissed  their  cross  with  lips  thet 

quivered, 
An'  bring  fair  wages  for  brave  men 

A  nation  saved,  a  race  delivered ! 

The  Atlantic  Monthly,  April,  1865. 

ON   BOARD   THE  76 

Written  for  Mr.  Bryant's  Seventieth 
Birthday,  November  3,  1864. 

Our  ship  lay  tumbling  in  an  angry  sea, 
Her  rudder  gone,  her  mainmast  o'er  the 

side; 
Her    scuppers,    from    the    waves'    clutch 

staggering  free, 

1  General  Charles  Russell  Lowell,  a  nephew, 
at  the  battle  of  Cedar  Creek,  in  which  he  was 
mortally  wounded. 


Trailed    threads    of    priceless    crimson 

through  the  tide; 

Sails,  shrouds,  and  spars  with  pirate  can 
non  torn, 
We  lay,  awaiting  morn. 

Awaiting  morn,  such  morn  as  mocks  de 
spair  ; 
And  she  that  bare  the  promise  of  the 

world 
Within  her  sides,  now  hopeless,  helmless, 

bare, 

At   random   o'er   the   wildering   waters 
hurled ;  I0 

The  reek  of  battle  drifting  slow  alee 
Not  sullener  than  we. 

Morn  ca,me  at  last  to  peer  into  our  woe, 
When  lo,  a  sail !     Now  surely  help  was 

nigh; 
The     red     cross     flames     aloft,     Christ's 

pledge ;  but  no, 
Her    black    guns    grinning    hate,    she 

rushes  by 
And  hails  us  :— :"Gains  the  leak !    Ay,  so 

we"  thought ! 
Sink,  then,  with  curses  fraught !" 

I  leaned  against  my  gun  still  angry-hot, 
And  my  lids  tingled  with  the  tears  held 
back :  2° 

This  scorn  methought  was  crueller  than 

shot: 

The    manly    death-grip    in    the    battle- 
wrack, 
Yard-arm  to  yard-arm,  were  more  friendly 

far 
Than  such  fear-smothered  war. 

There  our  foe  wallowed,  like  a  wounded 

brute 
The   fiercer   for   his   hurt.     What   now 

were  best? 

Once  more  tug  bravely  at  the  peril's  root, 
Though  death  came  with  it?     Or  evade 

the  test 
If  right  or  wrong  in  this  God's  world  of 

ours 
Be  leagued  with  mightier  powers?   3° 

Some,  faintly  loyal,  felt  their  pulses  lag 
With    the    slow   beat   that   doubts    and 

then  despairs ; 
Some,  caitiff,  would  have  struck  the  starry 

flag 
That  knits  us  with  our  past,  and  makes 

us  heirs 

Of  deeds  high-hearted  as  were  ever  done 
'Neath  the  all-seeing  sun. 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


311 


But  there  was  one,  the  Singer  of  our  crew, 
Upon  whose  head  Age  waved  his  peace 
ful  sign, 
But  whose  red  heart's-blood  no  surrender 

knew; 
And  couchant  under  brows  of  massive 

line, 

The  eyes,  like  guns  beneath  a  parapet, 
Watched,  charged  with  lightnings  yet. 


The  voices  of  the  hills  did  his  obey; 
The  torrents  flashed  and  tumbled  in  his 

song; 
He   brought   our   native   fields    from    far 

away, 

Or  set  us  'mid  the  innumerable  throng 
Of  dateless  woods,  or  where  we  heard  the 

calm 
Old  homestead's  evening  psalm. 

But  now  he  sang  of  faith  to  things  unseen, 
Of  freedom's  birthright  given  to  us  in 
trust ;  so 

And  words  of  doughty  cheer  he  spoke  be 
tween, 
That  made  all  earthly  fortune  seem  as 

dust, 
Matched  with  that  duty,  old  as  Time  and 

new, 
Of  being  brave  and  true. 

We,    listening,    learned    what   makes   the 

might  of  words, — 
Manhood  to  back  them,  constant  as  a 

star; 
His    voice    rammed    home    our    cannon, 

edged  our  swords, 
And  sent  our  boarders  shouting;  shroud 

and  spar 
Heard  him  and  stiffened;  the  sails  heard, 

and  wooed 
The  winds  with  loftier  mood.  fo 


In  our  dark  hours  he  manned  our  guns 

again ; 

Remanned  ourselves  from  his  own  man 
hood's  stores ; 
Pride,  honor,  country,  throbbed  through 

all  his  strain ; 
And  shall  we  praise?   God's  praise  was 

his  before; 

And  on  our  futile  laurels  he  looks  down, 
Himself  our  bravest  crown. 

1864. 

The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Jan.,  1865. 


ODE  RECITED  AT  THE  HARVARD 
COMMEMORATION  ' 


July  21,  1865. 


:-winged  is  song,  "X 

Nor  aims  at  that  clear-ethered  height 
Whither  the  brave  deed  climbs  for  light/ 

We  seem  to  do  them  wrong, 
Bringing   our   robin's-leaf   to    deck   their 

hearse 
Who  in  warm  life-blood  wrote  their  nobler 

verse, 
Our    trivial    song    to    honor    those    who 

come 
With  ears  attuned  to  strenuous  trump  and 

drum, 
And    shaped    in    squadron-strophes   their 

desire, 
Live   battle-odes   whose   lines   were   steel 

and  fire :  i° 

Yet   sometimes   feathered   words   are 

strong, 

A  gracious  memory  to  buoy  up  and  save 
From  Lethe's  dreamless  ooze,  the  com- 
Ln0/ -mon  grave 

Of  the  unventurous  throng. 


3-day  our  Reverend  Mother  welcomes 

Her  wisest  Scholars,  those  who  under 
stood 

The  deeper  teaching  of  her  mystic  tome, 
And  offered  their  fresh  lives  to  make  it 
good : 

No  lore  of  Greece  or^Rome, 
No  science  peddling  with  the  names   of 
things,  ~  20 

Or  reading  stars  to  find  inglorious  fates, 

Can  lift  our  life  with  wings 
Far  from  Death's  idle  gulf  that  for  the 
many  waits, 

And  lengthen  out  our  dates 
With  that  clear  fame  whose  memory  sings 
In  manly  hearts  to  come,  and  nerves  them 

and  dilates : 

Nor  such  thy  teaching,  Mother  of  us  all ! 
Not  such  the  trumpet-call 
Of  thy  diviner  mood, 
That  could  thy  sons  entice          3° 
From  happy  homes  and  toils,  the  fruitful 

nest 

Of   those   half-virtues    which   the    world 
calls  best, 

1  Written  for  a  memorial  exercise  July  21, 
186S,  in  commemoration  of  the  ninety-three  Har 
vard  men  who  had  been  killed  in  the  Civil  War. 


312 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Into  War's  tumult  rude; 
But  rather  far  that  stern  device 
The  sponsors  chose  that  round  thy  cradle 

stood 

,  In  the  dim,  unventured  wood,       . 
I  The  VERITAS  that  lurks  beneath   } 

The  letter's  unprolific  sheath, 
Life  of  whate'er  makes  life  worth  liv 
ing, 

Seed-grain    of    high    emprise,     immortal 
food,  40 

One  heavenly  thing  whereof  earth  hath 
the  giving. 


Many  loved  Truth,  and  lavished  life's  best 

oil 

Amid  the  dust  of  books  to  find  her, 
Content  at  last,  for  guerdon  of  their  toil, 
With  the  cast  mantle  she  hath  left  be 
hind  her. 

Many  in  sad  faith  sought  for  her, 
Many  with  crossed  "Bands  sighed  for 
j        her; 

But  these,   our  brothers,   fought   for 

1          her, 

\     At  life's  dear  peril  wrought  for  her, 
So  loved  her  that  they  digd  for  her,  so 
Tasting  the  raptured  fleetness 
Of  her  divine  completeness: 
Their  higher  instinct  knew 
Those  love  her  best  who  to  themselves 

are  true, 
And  what  they  dare  to  dream  of,  dare  to 

do; 

They  followed  her  and  Joyndjher 
Where  all  may  hope  to  find" 
Not  in  the  ashes  of  the  burnt-out  mind, 
But    beautiful,    with    danger's    sweetness 

round  her. 

Where  faith  made  whole  with  deed  6° 
Breathes  its  awakening  breath 
Into  the  lifeless  creed, 
They  saw  her  plumed  and  mailed, 
With  sweet,  stern   face  unveiled, 
And  all-repaying  eyes,  look  proud  on  them 
in  death. 


Our    slender   life  runs    rippling   by,    and 

glides 
Into  the  silent  hollow  of  the  past; 

What  is  there  that  abides 
To  make  the  next  age  better   for  the 

last? 

Is  earth  too  poor  to  give  us  7° 

Something  to   live    for  here   that   shall 
outlive  us? 


Some  more  substantial  boon 
Than  such  as  flows  and   ebbs  with  For 
tune's  fickle  moon? 
The  little  that  we  see 
From  doubt  is  never  free; 
The  little  that  we  do 
Is  but  half-nobly  true; 
With  our  laborious  hiving 
What  men  call  treasure,  and  the  gods  call 

dross, 

Life  seems  a  jest  of  Fate's  contriving,  8° 
Only  secure  in  every  one's  conniving, 
A    long   account    of    nothings    paid    with 

loss, 

Where  we  poor  puppets,  jerked^by  unseen 
t          wires,          '      '" 
(After  our  little  hour  of  strut  and  rave, 
/  With  all  our  pasteboard  passions  and  de 
sires, 
Loves,    hates,    ambitions,    and    immortal 

fires, 
Are    tossed    pell-mell    together    in    the 

grave. 

•ut  stay !  no  age  was  e'er  degenerate, 
:Unless  men  held  it  at  too  cheap  a  rate, 
.For  in  our  likeness  still  we  shape  our 
fate.  90 

Ah,  there  is  something  here 
'  Un fathomed  by  the  cynic's  sneer, 
Something  that  gives  our  feeble  light 
A  high  immunity  from  Night, 
Something  that  leaps  life's  narrow  bars 
To  claim  its  birthright  with  the  hosts  of 

heaven ; 

A  seed  of  sunshine  that  can  leaven 
Our  earthly  dullness  with  the  beams  of 
stars, 

And  glorify  our  clay 
With   light   from    fountains   elder   than 
the  Day;  I0° 

A  conscience  more  divine  than  we, 
A  gladness  fed  with  secret  tears, 
A  vexing,    forward-reaching   sense 
Of  some  more  noble  permanence; 

A  light  across  the  sea, 
Which  haunts  the  soul  and  will  not  let 

It  be, 

Still  beaconing  from  the  heights  of  unde- 
generate  years. 


Whither  leads  the  path 
To  ampler  fates  that  leads? 
Not  down  through  flowery  meads, 
To  reap  an  aftermath  I:i 

Of  youth's  vainglorious  weeds, 
But  up  the  steep,  amid  the  wrath 
And  shock  of  deadly-hostile  creeds, 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


Where  the  world's  best  hope  and  stay 
By  battle's  flashes  gropes  a  desperate  way, 
And  every  turf  the  fierce  foot  clings  to 
\  bleeds. 

rl     Peace  hath  her  not  ignoble  wreath, 

Ere  yet  the  sharp,  decisive  word 
Light  the  black  lips  of  cannon,  and  the 
sword  I2° 

Dreams  in  its  easeful  sheath ; 
But   some   day   the   live   coal   behind   the 

thought, 

Whether  from  Baal's  stone  obscene, 
Or  from  the  shrine  serene 
Of  God's  pure  altar  brought, 
Bursts  up  in  flame;   the  war  of  tongue 

and  pen 
v   Learns  with  what  deadly  purpose  it  was 

fraught, 

And,  helpless  in  the  fiery  passion  caught, 
Shakes  all  the  pillared  state  with  shock 

of  men : 

Some  day  the  soft  Ideal  that  we  wooed  J3° 
Confronts  us  fiercely,  foe-beset,  pursued, 
And  cries  reproachful:  "Was  it,  then,  my 

praise, 
And  not  myself  was  loved?    Prove  now 

thy  truth; 

I  claim  of  thee  the  promise  of  thy  youth ; 
Give    me    thy    life,    or    cower    in    empty 

phrase, 

The  victim  of  thy  genius,  not  its  mate !" 
I       Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways, 

And  loyalty  to  Truth  be  sealed, 
As  bravely  in  the  closet  as  the  field, 

So  bountiful  is  Fate;  140 

But  then  to  stand  beside  her, 
Jf       When  craven  churls  deride  her, 
f  To  front  a  lie  in  arms  and  not  to  yield, 
This  shows,  methinks,  God's  plan 
And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man, 
Limbed  like  the  old  heroic  breeds, 
Who  stands  self-poised  on  manhood's 
•  solid  earth, 
Not   forced  to   frame  excuses   for  his 

birth, 

Fed  from  within  with  all  the  strength  he 
needs. 


Such  was  he,  our  Martyr-Chief,  »s<> 

Whom  late  the  Nation  he  had  led, 
With  ashes  on  her  head, 

Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief : 

Forgive    me,    if    from    present    things    I 
turn 

To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat  and 
burn, 

And  hang  my  wreath  on  his  world-hon 
ored  urn. 


Nature,  they  say,  doth  d 
And  cannot  make  a  man 
Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 
Repeating  us  by  rote :  l6° 

For  him  her  Old- World  moulds  aside  she 

threw, 

And   choosing   sweet   clay    from   the 
breast  / 

Of  the  unexhausted  West, 
With  stuff  untainted  shaped  a  hero  new, 
Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of  God, 

and  true. 

How  beautiful  to  see 
Once  more   a   shepherd   of   manki 

deed, 
Who  loved  his  charge,  but  never  loved  to 

lead; 
One  whose  meek  flock  the  people  joyed  to 

be, 

— **-Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth,      '7° 
But  by  his  clear-grained  human  worth, 
And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity ! 

They    knew    that    outward    grace    is 

dust; 

They  could  not  choose  but  trust 
In    that    sure-footed    mind's    unfaltering 

skill, 

And  supple-tempered  will 
That  bent  like  perfect  steel  to  spring  again 

and  thrust. 
His  was  no  lonely  mountain-peak  of 

mind, 

Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy 
bars, 

sea-mark  now,  now  lost  in  vapors 
blind;  '&> 

road    prairie    rather,    genial,    level- 
lined, 
Fruitful  and  friendly  for  all  human 

kind, 

also   nigh   to   heaven   and   loved   of 
loftiest  stars. 

Nothing  of  Europe  here, 
Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  mornward 

still, 

Ere  any  names  of  Serf  and  Peer 
Could  Nature's  equal  scheme  deface 
And  thwart  her  genial  will ; 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder 

race, 

And  one  of   Plutarch's   men  talked  with 
us  face  to  face.  190 

I  praise  him  not;  it  were  too  late; 
And  some  innative  weakness  there  must 

be 

In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 
Such    as    the    Present   gives,    and    cannot 

wait. 
Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 


Yet 


314 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


So  always  firmly  he: 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
And  can  his  fame  abide, 
Still  patient  *n  his  simple  faith  sublime, 

Till  the  wise  years  decide.        200 
Great    captains,    with    their    guns    and 

drums, 
Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour, 

But  at  last  silence  comes; 
These,  all  are  gone,  and,  standing  like  a 

tower, 

Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame. 
The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foreseeing 

man, 
Sagacious,    patient,   dreading  praise,   not 

blame, 

New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first 
American. 

Long  as 

pferft  T 

Or  only  guess  some  more  inspiring 

goal  2I° 

OutsMe  of  Self,  enduring  as  the  pole, 

Along   whose    course   the    flying   axles 

burn 

Of  spirits  bravely-pitched,  earth's  man 
lier  brood; 

Long  as  below  we  cannot  find 
The    meed    that    stills    the    inexorable 

mind; 

So  long  this  faith  to  some  ideal  Good, 
Under  whatever  mortal  names  it  masks, 
Freedom,   Law,   Country,   this   ethereal 

mood 
That  thanks  the  Fates  for  their  severer 

tasks, 

Feeling  its  challenged  pulses  leap,       22° 

While  others  skulk  in  subterfuges  cheap, 

And,  set  in  Danger's  van,  has  all  the  boon 

it  asks, 
Shall   win   man's   praise   and    woman's 

love, 

Shall  be  a  wisdom  that  we  set  above 
All  other  skills  and  gifts  to  culture  dear, 
A  virtue  round  whose  forehead  we  in- 

wreathe 
Laurels    that    with    a    living    passion 

breathe 
When  other  crowns  grow,  while  we  twine 

them,  sear. 
What  brings   us  thronging  these   high 

rites  to  pay, 

And  seal  these  hours  the  noblest  of  our 
year, 


VIII 

We  sit  here  in  the  Promised  Land 
That  flows  with  Freedom's  honey  and 

milk; 

But  't  was  they  won  it,  sword  in  hand, 
Making  the  nettle  dangerf  soft  for  us  as 

silk.  ^ 

We  welcome  back  our  bravest  and  our 

best ; — 
Ah  me !  not  all !  some  come  not  with 

the  rest, 
Who  went  forth  brave  and  bright  as  any 

here ! 

I  strive  to  mix  some  gladness  with  my 
strain, 

But  the  sad  strings  complain,   24° 
And  will  not  please  the  ear : 
I  sweep  them  for  a  paean,  but  they  wane 

Again  and  yet  again 
Into  a  dirge,  and  die  away,  in  pain. 
In  these  brave  ranks  I  only  see  the  gaps, 
Thinking  of  dear  ones  whom  the  dumb 

turf  wraps, 
Dark  to  the  triumph  which  they  died  to 

gain : 

Fitlier  may  others  greet  the  living, 
For  me  the  past  is  unforgiving; 
-null*'  I  with  uncovered  head  250 

Salute  the  sacred  dead, 
Who  went,  and  who  return  not. — Say  not 


d 


so! 


'T  is  not  the  grapes  of  Canaan  that  repay, 
But  the  high  faith  that  failed  not  by  the 
/          way ;  N 

JVirtue  treads  paths  that  .end  not  in  the 
H  grave ; 

No  ban  of  endless  night  exiles  the  brave ; 

And  to  the  saner  mind 
We  rather  seem  the  dead  that  stayed  be 
hind. 

Blow,  trumpets,  all  your  exultations  blow ! 
For  never  shall   tbeir   aureoled   presence 
lack :  260 

I  see  them  muster  in  a  gleaming  row, 
With    ever-youthful    brows    that    nobler 

show; 

We  find  in  our  dull  road  their  shining 
track ; 

In  every  nobler  mood 
We  feel  the  orient  of  their  spirit  glow, 
Part  of  our  life's  unalterable  good, 
Of  all  our  saintlier  aspiration; 

They  come  transfigured  back, 
Secure  from  change  in  their  high-hearted 

ways, 
/Beautiful  evermore,  and  with  the  rays  27° 


Save  that  our  brothers  found  this  better  /  Of  morn  on  their  white  Shields  of  Ex- 
way  ?      —  "*"*•      \  pectation !   ~- 


JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 


315 


But  is  theref  hopg?  to  save 
Even   this    etherear~essence    from   the 

grave  ? 
What    ever    'scaped    Oblivion's    subtle 

wrong 

Save    a    few    clarion    names,    or   golden 
threads  of  song? 

Before  my  musing  eye 
The  mighty  ones  of  old  sweep  by, 
Disvoiced  now  and  insubstantial  things, 
As  noisy  once  as  we;  poor  ghosts  of 

kings, 

Shadows  of  empire  wholly  gone  to  dust, 
And  many  races,  nameless  long  ago,  &1 
To  darkness  driven  by  that  imperious 

gust 

Of   ever-rushing  Time  that  here   doth 
f        blow : 

/  O  visionary  world,  condition  strange, 
Where^  naught    abiding    is    but    only 

Ch'ange, 
Where  the   deep-bolted   stars   themselves 

still  shift  and  range ! 
Shall  we  to  more  continuance  make  pre 
tence? 

Renown   builds   tombs ;    a   life  -  estate   is 
Wit; 

And,  bit  by  bit, 

The  cunning  years  steal  all  from  us  but 
woe;  290 

Leaves  are  we,  whose  decays  no  harvest 
^  g      sow. 

But,  when  we  vanish  hence, 
•~T  Shall  they  lie  forceless  in  the  dark  be 
low, 
Save  to  make  green  their  little  length 

of  sods, 

Or  deepen  pansies  for  a  year  or  two, 
Who  now  to  us  are  shining-sweet  as 

gods  ? 

^*>\  Was  dying  all  they  had  the  skill  to  do? 
That  were  not  fruitless :  but  the  Soul^ 

resents 
Such    short-lived,  service,    as    if    blind 

Ruled  without  her,  or  earth  could  so 
endure;  3«> 

She  claims  a  more  divine  investiture 

Of  longer  tenure  than  Fame's  airy  rents ; 

Whate'er  she  touches  doth  her  nature 
share ; 

Her  inspiration  haunts  the  ennobled  air, 
Gives  eyes  to  mountains  blind, 

Ears  to  the  deaf  earth,  voices  to  the 
wind, 

And  her  clear  trump  sings  succor  every 
where 

By  lonely  bivouacs  to  the  wakeful  mind; 


For  soul   inherits  all  that   soul   could 
dare :  309 

r/          Yea,  Manhood  hath  a  wider  span 
(And  larger  privilege  of  life  than  man. 
The  single  deed,  the  private  sacrifice, 
So"  radiant  now  through  proudly-hidden 

tears, 

Is  covered  up  erelong  from  mortal  eyes 
With  thoughtless  drift  of  the  deciduous 

years ; 
But  that  high  privilege  that  makes  all 

merPpeers, 
That  Te'Sp'Of  heart  whereby  a  people  rise 

Up  to  a  noble  anger's  height, 
And,  flamed  on  by  the  Fates,  not  shrink, 

but  grow  more  bright, 
That  swift  validity  in  noble  veins,  3»> 
Of   choosing   danger   and   disdaining 
shame, 

Of  being  set  on  flame 
By  the  pure  fire  that  flies  all  contact 

base 
But  wraps  its  chosen  with  angelic  might, 

These  are  imperishable  gains, 
Sure  as  the  sun,  medicinal  as  light, 
These  hold  great  futures  in  their  lusty 

reins 
And  certify  to  earth  a  new  imperial  race. 


now  shall  sneer? 

Who  dare  again  to  say  we  trace     33° 
/  Our  lines  to  a  plebeian  race? 
V       Roundhead  and  Cavalier! 
Dumb  are  those  names  erewhile  in  battle 

loud; 
Dream-footed  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud, 

They  flit  across  the  ear: 
That  is   best  blood   that   hath   most  iron 

in  't, 
To    edge    resolve   with,    pouring   without 

stint 

For  what  makes  manhood  dear. 
Tell  us  not  of  Plantagenets, 
Hapsburgs,  and  Guelfs,  whose  thin  bloods 
crawl  340 

Down    from    some    victor   in    a    border- 
brawl  ! 

How  poor  their  outworn  coronets, 
Matched  with  one  leaf  of  that  plain  civic 

wreath 

Our  brave   for  honor's  blazon   shall  be 
queath, 
Through  whose  desert  a  rescued  Nation 

sets 

Her  heel  on  treason,  and  the  trumpet  hears 
Shout  victory,  tingling  Europe's  sullen  ears 
h  vain  resentments  and  more  vain 
,  regrets! 


316 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


XI 

Not  in  anger,  not  in  pride, 
Pure  from  passion's  mixture  rude  35<> 
Ever  to  base  earth  allied, 
But  with  far-heard  gratitude, 
Still  with  heart  and  voice  renewed, 
To   heroes   living   and   dear   martyrs 

dead, 
The  strain  should  close  that  consecrates 

our  brave. 

Lift  the  heart  and  lift  the  head! 
Lofty  be  its  mood  and  grave, 
Not  without  a  martial  ring, 
Not  without  a  prouder  tread 
And  a  peal  of  exultation:  3&> 

Little  right  has  he  to  sing 
Through  whose  heart  in  such  an  hour 
Beats  no  march  of  conscious  power, 
-  Sweeps  no  tumult  of  elation! 
"•" *  'T  is  no  Man  we  celebrate, 
^  By  his  country's  victories  great, 
A  hero  half,  and  half  the  whim  of  Fate, 
But  the  pith  and  marrow  of  a  Nation 
Drawing  force  from  all  her  men, 
Highest,  humblest,  weakest,  all,        37° 
For  her  time  of  need,  and  then 
Pulsing  it  again  through  them, 
Till  the  basest  can  no  longer  cower, 
Feeling  his  soul  spring  up  divinely  tall, 
Touched  but  in  passing  by  her  mantle- 
hem. 
Come  back,  then,  noble  pride,  for  't  is 

her  dower ! 

If  his  passions,  hopes,  and  fears, 
How  could  poet  ever  tower, 
If  his  triumphs  and  his  tears, 
Kept  not  measure  with  his  people?  380 
Boom,  cannon,  boom  to  all  the  winds  and 

waves ! 
Clash  out,  glad  bells,  from  every  rocking 

steeple ! 
Banners,  advance  with  triumph,  bend  your 

staves ! 

And  from  every  mountain-peak 
Let  beacon-fire  to  answering  beacon 

speak, 
Katahdin  tell  Monadnock,  Whiteface 

he, 
And  so  leap  on  in  light  from  sea  to  sea, 

Till  the  glad  news  be  sent 
Across  a  kindling  continent, 
Making    earth    feel    more    firm    and    air 
breathe  braver :  39° 

"Be  proud !  for  she  is  saved,  and  all  have 
—-t    '         helped  to  save  her ! 

She  that  lifts  up  the  manhood  of  the 

-poor, 

She  of  the  open  soul  and  open  door, 


With  room  about  her  hearth  for  all 

mankind ! 
The  fire  is  dreadful  in  her  eyes  no 

more; 
From   her   bold   front   the   helm   she 

doth  unbind, 
Sends  all  her  handmaid  armies  back 

to  spin, 
And   bids   her  navies,  that  so  lately 

hurled 
Their     crashing     battle,     hold     their 

thunders  in, 
Swimming  like  birds   of  calm   along 

the  unharmful  shore.  4°o 

No  challenge  sends  she  to  the  elder 

world, 
That    looked   askance   and    hated;    a 

light  scorn 
Plays  o'er  her  mouth,  as  round  her 

mighty  knees 
She  calls  her  children  back,  and  waits 

the  morn 
Of   nobler    day,    enthroned    between    her 

subject  seas." 

XII 

I  Bow    down,    dear    Land,    for    thou    hast 

found  release ! 

Thy  God,  in  these  distempered  days, 
Hath  taught  thee  the  sure  wisdom  of 

His  ways, 
And  through  thine  enemies  hath  wrought 

thy  peace ! 

Bow  down  in  prayer  and  praise !     410 
No  poorest  in  thy  borders  but  may  now 
Lift  to  the  juster  skies  a  man's  enfran- 
t  chised  brow. 

/O     Beautiful!     my    country!     ours    once 

more! 
Smoothing   thy   gold    of    war-dishevelled 

hair 
O'er   such    sweet   brows   as   never   other 

wore, 

And  letting  thy  set  lips, 
Freed  from  wrath's  pale  eclipse, 
The  rosy  edges  of  their  smile  lay  bare, 
What  words  divine  of  lover  or  of  poet 
Could  tell  our  love  and  make  thee  know 

it, 

Among  the  Nations  bright  beyond  com 
pare?  421 
What  were  our  lives  without  thee? 
What  all  our  lives  to  save  thee? 
We  reck  not  what  we  gave  thee; 
_We  will  not  dare  to  doubt  thee, 
But  ask  whatever  else,  and  we  will  dare ! 

1865.      The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Sept.,  1865. 


—    W&AAJiW 


POEMS   OF    THE    CIVI1 
(1861-1865) 

(Under  this  heading  ore  included  representative  verse  which  would  not  otherwise  have  appeared 
in  this  volume.  A  full  list  of  the  poems  of  the  War  printed  in  the  index,  includes  also  contributions 
on  this  fruitful  theme  from  Bryant,  Whittier,  Lowell,  Timrod,  Hayne,  Longfellow,  Hoimes,  Lanier, 
and  Whitman.) 

Then  they  seized  another  brave  boy, — not 

amid  the  heat  of  battle, 
But  in  peace,  behind  his  ploughshare, — 

and  they  loaded  him  with  chains, 
And  with  pikes,  before  their  horses,  even 

as  they  goad  their  cattle, 
Drove  him  cruelly,  for  their  sport,  and 
at  last  blew  out  his  brains; 
Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Raised^  his  right  hand  up  to  Heaven,  call 
ing  Heaven's  vengeance  down. 

And  he  swore  a  fearful  oath,  by  the  name 

of  the  Almighty, 

He  would  hunt  this  ravening  evil  that 
had  scathed  and  torn  him  so ;  3° 

He  would  seize  it  by  the  vitals ;  he  would 

crush  it  day  and  night;  he 
Would  so  pursue  its   footsteps,  so  re 
turn  it  blow  for  blow, 
That  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Should  be  a  name  to  swear  by,  in  back 
woods  or  in  town ! 

Then  his  beard  became  more  grizzled,  and 

his  wild  blue  eye  grew  wilder, 
And  more  sharply  curved  his  hawk's- 

nose,  snuffing  battle  from  afar; 
And  he  and  the  two  boys  left,  though  the 

Kansas  strife  waxed  milder, 
Grew   more   sullen,    till    was    over   the 
bloody  Border  War, 

And  Old  Brown,  4° 

Osawatomie  Brown, 

Had  gone  crazy,  as  they  reckoned  by  his 
fearful  glare  and  frown. 

So  he  left  the  plains  of  Kansas  and  their 

bitter  woes  behind  him, 
Slipt  off  into  Virginia,  where  the  states 
men  all  are  born, 
Hired  a  farm  by  Harper's  Ferry,  and  no 

one  knew  where  to  find  him, 
Or  whether  he'd  turned  parson,  or  was 
jacketed  and  shorn; 


OW  OLD  BROWN  TOOK 
HARPER'S  FERRY  i 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN 

John    Brown    in    Kansas    settled,    like    a 

steadfast  Yankee  farmer, 
Brave   and   godly,    with    four   sons,   all 

stalwart  men  of  might. 
There  he  spoke  aloud   for  freedom,  and 

the  Border-strife  grew  warmer, 
Till  the  Rangers  fired  his  dwelling,  in 
his  absence,  in  the  night; 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Came  homeward  in  the  morning — to  find 
his  house  burned  down. 

Then  he  grasped  his  trusty  rifle  and  boldly 

fought  for  freedom; 
Smote    from    border    unto    border    the 

fierce,  invading  band; 
And   he   and    his    brave    boys   vowed — so 
might  Heaven  help  and  speed  'em ! — 
They     would     save     those     grand     old 
prairies    from  the  curse  that  blights 
the  land;  " 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Said,  "Boys,  the  Lord  will  aid  us!"  and 
he  shoved  his  ramrod  down. 

And  the  Lord  did  aid  these  men,  and  they 

labored  day  and  even, 
Saving  Kansas  from  its  peril;  and  their 

very  lives  seemed  charmed, 
Till    the    ruffians    killed    one    son,    in   the 

blessed  light  of  Heaven, — 
In  cold  blood  the  fellows  slew  him,  as 
he  journeyed  all  unarmed; 
Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown,  *> 

Shed  not  a  tear,  but  shut  his  teeth,  and 
frowned  a  terrible  frown ! 

1  Printed  without  signature,  under  the  title 
"John  Brown's  Invasion."  Emerson,  who  is 
said  to  have  often  enjoyed  reading  this  aloud 
to  his  family,  included  it  in  his  volume  of  selec 
tions,  "Parnassus." 


317 


318 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


For  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Mad  as  he  was,  knew   texts   enough   to 
wear  a  parson's  gown. 

He    bought    no    ploughs    and    harrows 
spades  and  shovels,  and  such  trifles ; 
But  quietly  to  his  rancho  there  came  by 
every  train,  si 

Boxes  full  of  pikes  and  pistols,  and  his 

well-beloved   Sharp's  rifles ; 
And   eighteen   other 'madmen   joined 
their  leader  there  again. 
Says  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

"Boys,  we've  got  an  army  large  enough  to 
march  and  take  the  town ! 


"Take  the  town,  and  seize  the  muskets, 
free  the  negroes  and  then  arm  them; 
Carry   the   County   and   the   State,   ay, 

and  all  the  potent  South. 
On  their  own  heads  be  the  slaughter,  if 

their  victims  rise  to  harm  them — 
These  Virginians !  who  believed  not,  nor 
would  heed  the  warning  mouth."     6° 
Says  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

"The  world  shall  see  a  Republic,  or  my 
name  is  not  John  Brown." 

'Twas  the  sixteenth   of  October,  on  the 

evening  of  a  Sunday : 
"This   good   work,"    declared   the   cap 
tain,  "shall  be  on  a  holy  night!" 
It  was  on  a  Sunday  evening,  and  before 

the  noon  of  Monday, 
With  two  sons,  and  Captain   Stephens, 
fifteen  privates  black  and  white, 
Captain  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Marched  across  the  bridged  Potomac,  and 
knocked  the  sentry  down;  7° 

Took  the   guarded   armory-building,   and 

the  muskets  and  the  cannon; 
Captured  all  the  county  majors  and  the 

colonels,  one  by  one; 
Scared  to  death  each  gallant  scion  of  Vir 
ginia  they  ran  on 

And   before   the    noon    of    Monday,    I 
say,  the  deed  was  done. 
Mad  old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

And  the  bold  two  thousand  citizens  ran 
off  and  left  the  town. 


Then    was    riding    and    railroading    and 

expressing  here  and  thither; 
And     Martinsburg    Sharpshooters    and 

the  Charlestown  Volunteers, 
And  the  Shepherdstown  and  Winchester 
Militia  hastened  whither  8° 

Old  Brown  was  said  to  muster  his  ten 
thousand  grenadiers. 
General  Brown ! 
Osawatomie  Brown ! ! 
Behind    whose    rampant    banner    all    the 
North  was  pouring  down. 

But  at  last,  'tis  said,  some  prisoners  es 
caped  from  Old  Brown's  durance, 
And  the  effervescent  valor  of  the  Chiv 
alry  broke  out, 
When  they  learned  that  nineteen  madmen 

had  the  marvellous  assurance — 
Only  nineteen — thus  to  seize  the  place 
and  drive  them  straight  about; 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown,  9° 

Found   an   army   come   to   take  him,   en 
camped  around  the  town. 

But  to  storm,  with  all  the  forces  I  have 

mentioned,  was  too  risky;    . 
So  they  hurried  off  to   Richmond    for 

the  Government  Marines, 
Tore  them   from  their  weeping  matrons, 
fired  their  souls  with  Bourbon  whis 
key, 

Till  they  battered  down  Brown's  castle 
with  their  ladders  and  machines  ; 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Received  three  bayonet  stabs,  and  a  cut 
on  his  brave  old  crown. 

Tallyho!  the  old  Virginia  gentry  gather 

to  the  baying! 

In    they    rished    and   killed    the    game, 

shooting  lustily  away;  I0° 

And    whene'er   they    slew    a   rebel,    those 

who  came  too  late  for  slaying, 
Not  to  lose  a  share  of  glory,  fired  their 
bullets  in  his  clay; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Saw  his  sons   fall  dead  beside  him,  and 
between  them  laid  him  down. 

How  the  conquerors  wore  their  laurels ; 

how  they  hastened  on  the  trail ; 
How  Old   Brown  was  placed,  half  dy 
ing,  on  the  Charlestown  court-house 
floor; 


POEMS    OF   THE    CIVIL    WAR 


319 


How  he  spoke  his  grand  oration,  in  the 

scorn  of  all  denial ; 

What  the  brave  old  madman  told  them, 
— these  are  known  the  country  o'er. 
"Hang  Old  Brown,  II0 

Osawatomie  Brown," 
Said    the    judge,    "and    all    such    rebels !" 
with  his  most  judicial  frown. 

But,   Virginians,   don't  do   it!    for   I   tell 

you  that  the  flagon, 

Filled  with  blood  of  Old  Brown's  off 
spring,  was  first  poured  by  Southern 
hands; 

And   each   drop   from   Old  Brown's   life- 
veins,  like  the  red  gore  of  the  dragon, 
May  spring  up  a  vengeful  Fury,  hissing 
through  your  slave-worn  lands ! 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

May  trouble  you   more  than   ever,  when 
you've  nailed  his  coffin  down! 

The  New  York  Tribune,  Nov.  12,  1859. 


. 


THE  GREAT  BELL  ROLAND 


Suggested  by  the  President's  Call  for 
Volunteers. 

THEODORE  TILTON 


Toll!  Roland,  toll! 

— High  in  St.  Bavon's  tower, 

At  midnight  hour, 

The  great  bell  Roland  spoke, 
And  all  who  slept  in  Ghent  awoke, 

— What  meant  its  iron  stroke? 

Why  caught  each  man  his  blade? 

Why  the  hot  haste  he  made? 

Why  echoed  every  street 

With  tramp  of  thronging  feet —      I0 
All  flying  to  the  city's  wall? 

It  was  the  call 

Known  well  to  all, 

That  Freedom  stood  in  peril  of  some  foe : 
And  even  timid  hearts  grew  bold 

Whenever  Roland  tolled, 
And  every  hand  a  sword  could  hold; — 
For  men 
Were  patriots  then, 

Three  hundred  years  ago!  *> 


Toll!  Roland,  toll! 
Bell  never  yet  was  hung, 
Between  whose  lips  there  swung 
So  true  and  brave  a  tongue ! 


— If  men  be  patriots  still, 

At  thy  first  sound 

True  hearts  will  bound, 

Great  souls  will  thrill — 
Then  toll !  and  wake  the  test 

In  each  man's  breast,  30 

And  let  him  stand  confess'd! 


in 

Toll !    Roland,  toll ! 
— Not  in  St.  Bavon's  tower 
At  midnight  hour, — 
Nor  by  the   Scheldt,  nor   far-off  Zuyder 

Zee; 

But  here — this  side  the  sea ! 
And  here  in  broad,  bright  day ! 

Toll !   Roland,  toll ! 
For  not  by  night  awaits 
A  brave  foe  at  the  gates,  40 

But    Treason    stalks    abroad — inside  ! — at 

noon ! 

Toll!    Thy  alarm  is  not  too  soon! 
To  arms !   Ring  out  the  Leader's  call ! 
Reecho  it  from  East  to  West, 
Till  every  dauntless  breast 
Swell  beneath  plume  and  crest ! 

Toll!  Roland,  toll! 
Till  swords  from  scabbards  leap ! 

Toll!  Roland,  toll! 
— What  tears  can  widows  weep         s° 
Less  bitter  than  when  brave  men  fall ! 

Toll!  Roland,  toll! 
Till  cottager  from  cottage-wall 
Snatch  pouch  and  powder-horn  and  gun — 
The  heritage  of  sire  to  son, 
Ere  half  of  Freedom's  work  was  done ! 

Toll!  Roland,  toll! 
Till  son,  in  memory  of  his  sire, 

Once  more  shall  load  and  fire ! 

Toll!  Roland,  toll!  &> 

Till  volunteers  find  out  the  art 
Of  aiming  at  a  traitor's  heart! 


Toll !    Roland,  toll ! 
— St.  Bavon's  stately  tower 
Stands  to  this  hour, — 
And   by   its   side  stands   Freedom   yet   in 

Ghent ; 

For  when  the  bells  now  ring. 
Men  shout,  "God  save  the  King!" 
Until  the  air  is  rent ! 
— Amen  ! — So  let  it  be ;  7° 

For  a  true  king  is  he 
Who  keeps  his  people  free. 
Toll!  Roland,  toll! 
This  side  the  sea! 


320 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


No  longer  they,  but  we, 
Have  now  such  need  of  thee ! 

Toll!  Roland,  toll! 
And  let  thy  iron  throat 
Ring  out  its  warning  note, 
Till  Freedom's  perils  be  out  braved,        8° 
And  Freedom's  flag,  wherever  waved, 
Shall  overshadow  none  enslaved ! 
Toll !  till  from  either  ocean's  strand, 
Brave  men  shall  clasp  each  other's  hand, 
And  shout,  "God  save  our  native  land !" 
— And    love    the    land    which    God    hath 
saved ! 
Toll !   Roland,  toll ! 

Independent,  April  18,  1861. 

THE  PICKET-GUARD 
ETHEL  LYNN  BEERS. 

"All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say, 

"Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
'Tis  nothing:  a  private  or  two,  now  and 
then, 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle; 
Not  an  officer  lost — only  one  of  the  men, 

Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death  rattle." 

All. quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 
Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dream 
ing  ;  I0 
Their    tents    in    the    rays    o'f    the    clear 

autumn  moon, 
Or    the    light    of    the    watch-fire,    are 

gleaming. 

A  tremulous  sigh  of  the  gentle  night-wind 
Through    the    forest    leaves    softly    is 

creeping, 

While  the  stars  up  above,  with  their  glit 
tering  eyes, 
Keep  guard,  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's 

tread 
As   he   tramps    from   the   rock  to   the 

fountain, 

And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle- 
bed 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain.  2° 
His  musket  falls  slack ;  his  face,  dark  and 

grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children 

asleep^— 

For  their  mother — may  Heaven-  defend 
her! 


The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly 

as  then 

That  night,  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped   up   to    his    lips — when    low-mur 
mured  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his 

eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling,   30 

And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine- 
tree; 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary ; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad 

belt  of  light, 
Towards   the    shade   of   the    forest   so 

dreary. 
Hark !  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled 

the  leaves? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flash 
ing? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle.   .    .    .    "Ha !  Mary, 

goodby !" 

The  red  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plash 
ing.  4° 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night — 
No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river, 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face    of 

the  dead — 
The  picket's  off  duty  forever! 

November,  1861. 

FAREWELL  TO  BROTHER 
JONATHAN i 

By  CAROLINE 

Farewell !  we  must  part ;  we  have  turned 
from  the  land 

Of  our  cold-hearted  brother,  with  tyran 
nous  hand, 

Who  assumed  all  our  rights  as  a  favor 
to  grant, 

And  whose  smile  ever  covered  the  sting 
of  a  taunt; 

Who  breathed  on  the  fame  he  was  bound 

to  defend. — 
Still  the  craftiest  foe,  'neath  the  guise  of 

a  friend ; 
Who    believed    that    our    bosoms    would 

bleed  at  a  touch. 
Yet    could   never   believe    he   could   goad 

them  too  much ; 

1  See   "Brother   Jonathan's   Lament   for    Sister 
Caroline,"  by   Holmes,  page   440. 


POEMS    OF   THE    CIVIL   WAR 


321 


Whose    conscience    affects    to    be    seared 

with  our  sin, 

Yet  is  plastic  to  take  all  its  benefits  in ;   10 
The   mote   in   our   eye  so   enormous   has 

grown, 
That  he  never  perceived  there's  a  beam 

in  his  own. 

O  Jonathan,  Jonathan !  vassal  of  pelf, 
Self-righteous,    self-glorious,    yes,    every 

inch  self, 

Your  loyalty  now  is  all  bluster  and  boast, 
But  was  dumb  when  the  foemen  invaded 

our  coast. 

In  vain  did  your  country  appeal  to  you 

then, 
You  coldly  refused  her  your  money  and 

men ; 
Your  trade  interrupted,  you   slunk   from 

her  wars. 
And  preferred  British  gold  to  the  Stripes 

and  the  Stars  !  2° 

Then  our  generous  blood  was  as  water 

poured  forth, 
And    the    sons    of    the    South    were    the 

shields  of  the  North; 
Nor  our  patriot  ardor  one  moment  gave 

o'er, 
Till  the  foe  you  had  fed  we  had  driven 

from  the  shore! 

Long  years  we  have  suffered  opprobrium 
and  wrong, 

But  we  clung  to  your  side  with  affection 
so  strong, 

That  at  last,  in  mere  wanton  aggression, 
you  broke 

All  the  ties  of  our  hearts  with  one  mur 
derous  stroke. 

We  are  tired  of  contest  for  what  is  our 

own, 
We  are  sick  of  a  strife  that  could  never 

be  done ;  30 

Thus  our  love  has  died  out,  and  its  altars 

are  dark, 
Not  Prometheus's  self  could  rekindle  the 

spark. 

O  Jonathan,  Jonathan !  deadly  the  sin, 
Of  your  tigerish  thirst  for  the  blood  of 

your  kin ; 
And  shameful  the  spirit  that  gloats  over 

wives 
And    maidens    despoiled    of    their    honor 

and  lives ! 


Your  palaces  rise  from  the  fruits  of  our 
toil, 

Your  millions  are  fed  from  the  wealth 
of  our  soil ; 

The  balm  of  our  air  brings  the  health  to 
your  cheek; 

And  our  hearts  are  aglow  with  the  wel 
come  we  speak.  4° 

O  brother !  beware  how  you  seek  us  again, 

Lest  you  brand  on  your  forehead  the  sig 
net  of  Cain ; 

That  blood  and  that  crime  on  your  con 
science  must  sit; 

We  may  fall — we  may  perish — but  never 
submit ! 

The  pathway  that  leads  to  the  Pharisee's 

door 
We  remember,  indeed,  but  we  tread  it  no 

more; 
Preferring   to    turn,    with   the    Publican's 

faith, 
To    the    path    through    the    valley    and 

shadow  of  death ! 

1861. 


HE   HEART   OF  LOUISIANA 
HARRIET  STANTON 

Oh !  let  me  weep,  while  o'er  our  land 
Vile  discord  strides,  with  sullen  brow, 

And  drags  to  earth,  with  ruthless  hand, 
The  flag  no  tyrant's  power  could  bow ! 

Trailed  in  the  dust,  inglorious  laid, 
While  one  by  one  her  stars  retire, 

And  pride  and  power  pursue  the  raid, 
That  bids  our  liberty  expire. 

Aye,  let  me  weep !  for  surely  Heaven 
In  anger  views  the  unholy  strife;         I0 

And  angels  weep  that  thus  is  riven 
The  tie  that  give  to  Freedom  life. 

I  cannot  shout — I  will  not  sing 
Loud  paeans  o'er  a  severed  tie ; 

And  draped  in  woe,  in  tears  I  fling 
Our  State's  new  flag  to  greet  the  sky. 

I  can  but  choose,  while  senseless  zeal 
And  lawless  hate  is  clothed  with  power, 

The  bitter  cup;  but  still  I  feel 
The  sadness  of  this  parting  hour !       2° 


322 


AMERICAN   POETRY 


I  know  that  thousand  hearts  will  bleed 
While  loud  huzzas  the  welkin  rend; 

The  thoughtless  crowd  will  shout,  Secede! 
But  ah !  will  this  the  conflict  end  ? 

Oh  !  let  me  weep  and  prostrate  lie 
Low  at  the  footstool  of  my  God; 

I  cannot  breathe  one  note  of  joy, 
While  yet  I  feel  His  chastening  rod. 

Sure,  we  have  as  a  nation  sinned — 
Let  every  heart  its  folly  own,  3° 

And  sackcloth,  as  a  girdle  bind, 

And  mourn  our  glorious  Union  gone ! 

Sisters,  farewell !    You  know  not  half 
The  pain  your  pride,  injustice,  give; 

You  spurn  our  cause,  and  lightly  laugh, 
And  hope  no  more  the  wrong  shall  live. 

New  Orleans  Delta,  1861. 


MARYLAND 

JAMES  R.  RANDALL 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland ! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 

Maryland !     My  Maryland  ! 

Hark  to  wand'ring  son's  appeal, 

Maryland !  10 

My  mother  State !  to  thee  I  kneel, 
Maryland ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 

Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 

And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 
Maryland !     My  Maryland  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland !  *> 

Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust ; 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, — 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland !     My  Maryland ! 

Come!  'tis  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come !  with  thy  panoplied  array,  • 

Maryland ! 


With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood,  at  Monterey,         3° 
With  fearless  Lowe,  and  dashing  May, 
Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Come !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland! 
Come !  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland ! 

Come !  to  thine  own  heroic  throng, 
That  stalks  with  Liberty  along, 
And  gives  a  new  Key  x  to  thy  song 

Maryland !     My  Maryland !  4° 

Dear  Mother !    burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland ! 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain : 
"Sic  semper"  'tis  the  proud  refrain, 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise,  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland !     My  Maryland !  5<> 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
But  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland  1 

But  lo !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek, — 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland ! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland !  6° 

Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 
Maryland ! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 

Better  the  blade,  the  shot,  the  bowl, 

Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 
Maryland  !     My  Maryland ! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland ! 
The  Old  Line's  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland !  7° 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb : 
Huzza !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum ! 
She    breathes — she    burns !    she'll    come ! 
she'll  come ! 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland ! 

Pointe  Coupee,  April  22,  1861. 

1  Francis    Scott    Key,    author    of    "The    Star- 
Spangled    Banner." 


POEMS    OF   THE    CIVIL   WAR 


323 


THE   BATTLE   SUMMER 
HENRY  R.  TUCKERMAN 


The  summer  wanes, — her  languid  sighs 
now  yield 

To  autumn's  cheering  air; 
The  teeming  orchard  and  the  waving  field 

Fruition's  glory  wear. 

More   clear   against   the   flushed   horizon 

wall, 

Stand  forth  each  rock  and  tree; 
More  near  the  cricket's  note,  the  plover's 

call, 
More  crystalline  the  sea. 

The  sunshine  chastened,  like  a  mother's 
gaze, 

The  meadow's  vagrant  balm;  I0 

The  purple  leaf  and  amber-tinted  maize 

Reprove  us  while  they  calm; 

For   on   the    landscape's   brightly   pensive 

face, 

War's  angry  shadows  lie; 
His    ruddy    stains    upon    the    woods    we 

trace, 
And  in  the  crimson  sky. 

No   more   we  bask  in   Earth's   contented 

smile, 

But  sternly  muse  apart; 
Vainly  her  charms  the  patriot's  soul  be 
guile, 
Or  woo  the  orphan's  heart.  2° 

Yon  keen-eyed  stars  with  mute  reproaches 

brand 

The  lapse  from  faith  and  law, — 
No  more  harmonious  emblems  of  a  land 
Ensphered  in  love  and  awe. 

As  cradled  in  the  noontide's  warm  em 
brace, 

And  bathed  in  dew  and  rain, 
The    herbage    freshened,    and    in    billowy 

grace 
Wide  surged  the  ripening  grain; 


And  the  wild  rose  and  clover's  honeyed 

cell 

Exhaled  their  peaceful  breath,  3° 

On  the  soft  air  broke  Treason's  fiendish 

yell  — 
\The  harbinger  of  death! 


Nor  to  the  camp  alone  his  summons  came, 

To  blast  the  glowing  day, 
But  heavenward  bore  upon  the  wings  of 
flame 

Our  poet's  mate  away ;  * 

And  set  his  seal  upon  the  statesman's  lips 

On  which  a  nation  hung ;  2 
And  rapt  the  noblest  life  in  cold  eclipse, 

By  woman  lived  or  sung.  3  4° 

How  shrinks  the  heart  from  Nature's  fes 
tal  noon, 

As  shrink  the  withered  leaves, — 
In    the    wan-light    of    Sorrow's    harvest- 
moon 
To  glean  her  blighted  sheaves. 

Newport,  R.  I.,  Sept.,  1861. 

DIXIE 
ALBERT  PIKE 

Southrons,  hear  your  country  call  you! 
Up,  lest  worse  than  death  befall  you ! 

To  arms  !  To  arms  !  To  arms,  in  Dixie ! 
Lo !  all  the  beacon-fires  are  lighted, — 
Let  all  hearts  be  now  united! 
To  arms  !   To  arms  !  To  arms,  in  Dixie ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie ! 

Hurrah !     Hurrah ! 
For  Dixie's  land  we  take  our  stand, 

And  live  and  die  for  Dixie !  I0 

To  arms  !     To  arms  ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie! 

To  arms  !     To  arms ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie  • 

Hear  the  Northern  thunders  mutter! 
Northern  flags  in  South  winds  flutter! 
Send  them  back  your  fierce  defiance ! 
Stamp  upon  the  accursed  alliance! 

Fear  no  danger !    Shun  no  labor ! 
Lift  up  rifle,  pike,  and  sabre !  *> 

Shoulder  pressing  close  to  shoulder, 
Let  the  odds  make  each  heart  bolder! 

How  the  South's  great  heart  rejoices 
At  your  cannon's  ringing  voices ! 
For  faith  betrayed,  and  pledges  broken, 
Wrongs  inflicted,  insults  spoken. 

Strong  as  lions,  swift  as  eagles, 

Back  to  their  kennels  hunt  these  beagles ! 

Cut  the  unequal  bonds  asunder ! 

Let  them  hence  each  other  plunder!        3° 

1  Mrs.   Longfellow. 

J  Cavour. 

*  Mrs.  Browning. 


324 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Swear  upon  your  country's  altar 
Never  to  submit  or  falter, 
Till  the  spoilers  are  defeated 
Till  the  Lord's  work  is  completed ! 

If  the  loved  ones  weep  in  sadness, 
Victory  soon  shall  bring  them  gladness, — 

To  arms ! 

Exultant  pride  soon  banish  sorrow ; 
Smiles  chase  tears  away  to-morrow.       39 
To  arms  !  To  arms  !  To  arms,  in  Dixie  ! 

Advance  to  the  flag  of  Dixie! 

Hurrah !     Hurrah ! 
For  Dixie's  land  we  take  our  stand, 
And  live  or  die  for  Dixie ! 

To  arms  !     To  arms ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie ! 

To  arms  !     To  arms ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie! 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  EXILE 
(Dixie) 

Oh !  here  I  am  in  the  land  of  cotton, 
The  flag  once  honored  is  now  forgotten ; 
Fight  away,  fight  away,  fight  away  for 

Dixie's  land. 

But  here  I  stand  for  Dixie  "dear, 
To  fight  for  freedom,  without  fear; 
Fight  away,  fight  away,  fight  away  for 

Dixie's  land. 

For  Dixie's  land  I'll  take  my  stand, 
To  live  or  die  for  Dixie's  land. 
Fight  away,  fight  away,  fight  away  for 
Dixie's  land. 

Oh !  have  you  heard  the  latest  news,      I0 
Of  Lincoln  and  his  kangaroos; 

Fight  away,  fight  away,  fight  away  for 

Dixie's  land. 

His  minions  they  would  now  oppress  us, 
With   war  and  bloodshed   they'd   distress 

us! 

Fight  away,  fight  away,  fight  away  for 
Dixie's  land. 

Abe  Lincoln  tore  through  Baltimore, 
In  a  baggage-car,  with  fastened  door; 
Fight  away,  fight  away,  fight  away  for 

Dixie's  land. 

And  left  his  wife,  alas!  alack! 
To  perish  on  the  railroad  track!  2° 

Fight  away,  fight  away,  fight  away  for 
Dixie's  land. 


Abe  Lincoln  is  the  President, 
He  '11  wish  his  days  in  Springfield  spent; 
Fight  away,  fight  away,  fight  away  for 

Dixie's  land. 

We  I'l  show  him  that  old  Scott  's  a  fool, 
We  '11  ne'er  submit  to  Yankee  rule ! 

Fight  away,  fight  away,  fight  away  for 
Dixie's  land. 


At  first  our  States  were  only  seven, 
But  now  we  number  stars  eleven; 

Fight  away,  fight  away,  fight  away  for 
Dixie's  land.  3° 

Brave  old  Missouri  shall  be  ours, 
Despite  old  Lincoln's  Northern  powers ! 
Fight  away,  fight  away,  fight  away  for 
Dixie's  land. 


We  have  no  ships,  we  have  no  navies, 
But  mighty  faith  in  great  Jeff.  Davis ; 
Fight  away,  fight  away,  fight  away  for 

Dixie's  land. 

Due  honor,  too,  we  will  award 
To  gallant  Bragg  and  Beauregard. 

Fight  away,  fight  away,  fight  away  for 
Dixie's  land. 


Abe's  proclamation  in  a  twinkle,  4° 

Stirred  up  the  blood  of  Rip  Van  Winkle ; 

Fight  away,  fight  away,  fight  away  for 

Dixie's  land. 

Jeff.  Davis's  answer  was  short  and  curt : 
"Fort     Sumter's     taken,     and     'nobody's 

hurt !'  " 

Fight  away,  fight  away,  fight  away  for 
Dixie's  land. 


We  hear  the  words  of  this  same  ditty, 
To  the  right  and  left  of  the  Mississippi; 
Fight  away,  fight  away,  fight  away  for 

Dixie's  land. 

In  the  land  of  flowers, "hot  and  sandy, 
From  Delaware  Bay  to  the  Rio  Grande ! 
Fight  away,  fight  away,  fight  away  for 
Dixie's  land.  si 


The  ladies  cheer  with  heart  and  hand, 
The  men  who  fight  for  Dixie's  land ; 
Fight  away,  fight  away,  fight  away  for 

Dixie's  land. 

The  "Stars  and  Bars"  are  waving  o'er  us, 
And  Independence  is  before  us! 

Fight  away,  fight  away,  fight  away  for 
Dixie's  land. 

Martinsburg,  Va, 


POEMS    OF    THE    CIVIL   WAR 


325 


THE  SOUTHERN   CROSS 
ST.  GEORGE  TUCKER 

Oh,  say,  can  you  see  through  the  gloom 

and  the  storm, 
More  bright  for  the  darkness,  that  pure 

constellation? 
Like  the  symbol  of  love  and  redemption 

its  form, 
As  it  points  to  the  haven  of  hope  for  the 

nation. 

How  radiant  each  star,  as  the  beacon  afar, 
Giving  promise  of  peace  or  assurance  of 

war! 
'Tis  the  Cross  of  the  South,  which  shall 

ever  remain, 
To  light  us  to  freedom  and  glory  again ! 

How   peaceful   and  'blest   was   America's 

soil 
Till  betrayed  by  the  guile  of  the  Puritan 

demon,  I0 

Which    lurks    under    virtue    and    springs 

from   its  coil 
To   fasten  its   fangs  in  the  life  blood  of 

freemen. 
Then  boldly  appeal  to  each  heart  that  can 

feel, 
And  crush  the  foul  viper  'neath  Liberty's 

heel! 

And  the  Cross  of  the  South  shall  in  tri 
umph  remain 
To  light  us  to  freedom  and  glory  again ! 

'Tis  the  emblem  of  peace,  'tis  the  day-star 
of  hope, 

Like  the  sacred  Labarum  that  guided  the 
Roman ; 

From  the  shore  of  the  Gulf  to  the  Dela 
ware's  slope 

'Tis  the  trust  of  the  free  and  the  terror 
of  foeman.  2° 

Fling  its  folds  to  the  air,  while  we  loudly 
declare 

The  rights  we  demand  or  the  deeds  that 
we  dare ! 

While  the  Cross  of  the  South  shall  in  tri 
umph  remain 

To  light  us  to  freedom  and  glory  again ! 

And  if  peace  should  be  hopeless  and  jus 
tice  denied, 

And  war's  bloody  vulture  should  flap  its 
black  pinions, 

Then  gladly  to  arms !  while  we  hurl,  in 
our  pride, 

Defiance  to  tyrants  and  death  to  their  min 
ions. 


With    our    front    to    the    field,    swearing 
never  to  yield, 

Or  return,  like  the  Spartans,  in  death  on 
our  shield.  3° 

And  the  Cross  of  the  South  shall  triumph 
antly  wave 

As  the  flag  of  the  free,  or  the  pall  of  the 
brave. 

1861. 

ON  TO  RICHMOND 

After  Southey's  "March  to  Moscow" 
JOHN  R.  THOMPSON 

Major  General  Scott 

An  order  had  got 
To  push  on  the  column  to  Richmond; 

For  loudly  went  forth, 

From  all  parts  of  the  North, 
The  cry  that  an  end  of  the  war  must  be 

made 

In  time  for  the  regular  yearly  Fall  Trade : 
Mr.  Greeley  spoke  freely  about  the  delay, 
The  Yankees  "to  hum"  were  all  hot  for 
the  fray; 

The  chivalrous  Grow,  i° 

Declared  they  were  slow, — 

And  therefore  the  order 

To  march  from  the  border 
And  make  an  excursion  to  Richmond. 

Major  General  Scott 
Most  likely  was  not 

Very  loth  to  obey  this  instruction,  I  wot; 
In  his  private  opinion 
The  Ancient  Dominion 
Deserved  to  be  pillaged,  her  sons  to  be 
shot,  20 

And  the  reason  is  easily  noted ; 
Though  this  part  of  the  earth 
Had  given  him  birth, 
And  medals  and  swords, 
Inscribed  in  fine  words, 
It  never  for  Winfield  had  voted. 
Besides,  you   must  know,  that  our   First 

of  Commanders 
Had  sworn  quite  as  hard  as  the  Army  in 

Flanders, 
With  his  finest  of  armies  and  proudest  of 

navies. 

To  wreak  his  old  grudge  against  Jefferson 

Davis.  3° 

Then,  "Forward  the  column,"  he  said  to 

McDowell ; 

And  the  Zouaves  with  a  shout, 
Most  fiercely  cried  out, 
"To  Richmond  or  h-11 !"  (I  omit  here  the 
vowel), 


326 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


And  Winfield  he  ordered  his  carriage  and 

four, 
A  dashing  turnout,  to  be  brought  to  the 

door, 
For  a  pleasant  excursion  to  Richmond. 

Major  General  Scott 
Had  there  on  the  spot 
A  splendid  array  4° 

To  plunder  and  slay; 
In  the  camp  he  might  boast 
Such  a  numerous  host, 
As  he  never  had  yet 
In  the  battle-field  set; 
Every   class   and   condition   of   Northern 

society, 

Were  in  for  the  trip,  a  most  varied  va 
riety  : 
In  the  camp  he  might  hear  every  lingo  in 

vogue, 
"The  sweet  German  accent,  the  rich  Irish 

brogue." 

The  buthiful  boy  so 

From  the  banks  of  the  Shannon 
Was  there  to  employ 
His  excellent  cannon ; 
And  besides  the   long  files   of   dragoons 

and  artillery, 

The  Zouaves  and  Hussars, 
All  the  children  of  Mars — 
There  were  barbers  and  cooks, 
And  writers  of  books, — 
The  chef  de  cuisine  with  his  French  bill 

of  fare, 

And  the  artists  to  dress  the  young  offi 
cers'  hair.  6° 
And  the  scribblers  were  ready  at  once  to 

prepare 

An  eloquent  story 
Of  conquest  and  glory; 
And  servants  with  numberless  baskets  of 

Sillery, 
Though  Wilson,  the  Senator,  followed  the 

train, 
At  a  distance  quite  safe,  to  "conduct  the 

champagne" : 
While  the  fields  were  so  green,  and  the 

sky  was  so  blue, 

There  was  certainly  nothing  more  pleas 
ant  to  do, 

On    this    pleasant    excursion    to    Rich 
mond. 

In  Congress  the  talk,  as  I  said,  was  of 
action,  7° 

To  crush  out  instanter  the  traitorous  fac 
tion. 

In  the  press,  and  the  mess, 
They  would  hear  nothing  less 


Than  to  make  the  advance,  spite  of  rhyme 

or  of  reason, 
And  at  once  put  an  end  to  the  insolent 

treason. 

There  was  Greeley, 
And   Ely, 

The  bloodthirsty  Grow, 
And  Hickman    (the  rowdy,  not  Hickman 

the  beau), 

And  that  terrible  Baker  80 

Who  would  seize  on  the  South  every  acre, 
And  Webb,  who  would  drive  us  all  into 

the  Gulf,  or 

Some  nameless   locality  smelling  of  sul 
phur; 

And  with  all  this  bold  crew, 
Nothing  would  do, 
While  the  fields  were  so  green,  and  the 

sky  was  so  blue, 
But  to  march  on  directly  to  Richmond. 

Then  the  gallant  McDowell, 
Drove  madly  the  rowel 
Of  spur  that  had  never  been  "won"  by 
him,  9° 

To  the  flank  of  his  steed, 
To  accomplish  a  deed, 
Such  as  never  before  had  been  done  by 

him; 
And  the  battery  called  'Sherman's 

Was  wheeled  into  line, 
While  the  beer-drinking  Germans 

From  Neckar  and  Rhine, 
With  minie  and  yager, 
Came  on  with  a  swagger, 
Full  of  fury  and  lager,  100 

(The  day  and  the  pageant  were -equally 

fine.) 
Oh !  the  fields  were  so  green,  and  the  sky 

was  so  blue, 

Indeed,  'twas  a  spectacle  pleasant  to  view, 
As  the  column  pushed  onward  to  Rich 
mond. 

Ere  the  march  was  begun, 

In  a  spirit  of  fun, 

General   Scott  in  a  speech 

Said  the  army  should  teach 
The  Southrons  the  lesson  the  law  to  obey, 
And   just   before    dusk   of   the   third    or 
fourth  day,  no 

Should  joyfully  march  into  Richmond. 

He  spoke  of  their  drill, 
And  their  courage  and  skill, 
And  declared  that  the  ladies  of  Richmond 

would   rave 

O'er  such  matchless  perfection,  and  grace 
fully  wave 


POEMS    OF   THE    CIVIL   WAR 


327 


In  rapture  their  delicate  kerchiefs  in  air 
At  their  morning  parades  on  the  Capitol 
Square. 

But  alack !  and  alas  ! 
Mark  what  soon  came  to  pass, 
When  this  army,  in  spite  of  his  flatteries, 
Amid  war's  loudest  thunder,  I21 

Must  stupidly  blunder 
Upon  those  accursed  "masked  batteries." 
Then  Beauregard  came, 
Like  a  tempest  of  flame, 
To  consume  them  in  wrath, 
In  their  perilous  path ; 
And  Johnson  bore  down  in  a  whirlwind, 

to  sweep 

Their  ranks  from  the  field, 
Where  their  doom  had  been  sealed,  '3° 
As  the  storm  rushes  over  the  face  of  the 

deep; 
While  swift  on  the  centre  our  President 

pressed. 

And  the  foe  might  descry, 
In  the  glance  of  his  eye, 
The  light  that  once  blazed  upon  Diomed's 

crest. 
McDowell !    McDowell !    weep,    weep    for 

the  day, 

When  the  Southrons  you  met  in  their  bat 
tle  array; 
To  your  confident  hosts  with  its  bullets 

and  steel, 
'Twas   worse   than    Culloden   to    luckless 

Lochiel. 

Oh !    the   generals   were    green,    and    old 
Scott  is  now  blue,  '4° 

And  a  terrible  business  McDowell  to  you, 
Was  that  pleasant  excursion  to   Rich 
mond. 

Richmond  Whig,  1861. 


A  FAREWELL  TO  POPE 
JOHN  R.  THOMPSON 

"Hats  off"  in  the  crowd,  "Present  arms" 
in  the  line ! 

Let  the  standards  all  bow  and  the  sabres 
incline — 

Roll,  drums,  the  Rogue's  March,  while 
the  conqueror  goes, 

Whose  eyes  have  seen  only  "the  backs 
of  his  foes" — 

Through  a  thicket  of  laurel,  a  whirlwind 
of  cheers, 

His  vanishing  form  from  our  gaze  dis 
appears  ; 


Henceforth  with  the  savage  Dacotahs  to 

cope, 
Abiit  evasit,  erupit — John  Pope. 

He  came  out  of  the  West,  like  the  young 

Lochinvar, 

Compeller  of  fate  and  controller  of  war, 
Videre  et  vine  ere,  simply  to  see,  » 

And  straightway  to  conquer  Hill,  Jackson 

and  Lee ; 
And  old  Abe  at  the  White  House,   like 

Kilmansegg  pere, 

With  a  monkeyish  grin  and  beatified  air, 
"Seemed   washing  his  hands   with   invis 
ible  soap," 

As  with  eager  attention  he  listened  to 
Pope. 

He  came — and  the  poultry  was  swept  by 
his  sword, 

Spoons,  liquors,  and  furniture  went  by 
the  board; 

He  saw,  at  a  distance,  the  rebels  appear, 

And  "rode  to  the  front,"  which  was 
strangely  to  rear:  *> 

He  conquered — truth,  decency,  honor,  full 
soon, 

Pest,  pilferer,  puppy,  pretender,  poltroon! 

And  was  fain  from  the  scene  of  his  tri 
umphs  to  slope, 

Sure  there  never  was  fortunate  hero  like 
Pope. 

He   has   left  us   his   shining  example   to 

note, 
And    Stuart    has    captured    his    uniform 

coat ; 
But  'tis  puzzling  enough,  as  his  deeds  we 

recall, 
To    tell   on   whose   shoulders   his    mantle 

should  fall; 
While  many  may  claim  to  deserve  it,  at 

least, 

From  Hunter,  the  Hound,  down  to  But 
ler  the  Beast,  3° 
None  else,  we  can   say,  without   risking 

the  trope, 
But    himself    can    be    paralleled    ever   to 

Pope. 

Like  his  namesake  the  poet,  of  genius  and 

fire, 
He  gives  new  expression  and  force  to  the 

lyre; 
But  in  one  little  matter  they  differ,  the 

two, 
And  differ,  indeed,  very  widely,  'tis  true — 


328 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


While   his  verses   gave   great   Alexander 

his  fame, 
'Tis  our  hero's  re-verses  accomplish  the 

same; 
And  fate  may  decree  that  the  end  of  a 

rope, 
Shall   award  yet   his   highest   position   to 

Pope.  4° 


STONEWALL  JACKSON'S   WAY 
JOHN   W.   PALMER 

Come,  stack  arms,  men  !    Pile  on  the  rails, 

Stir  up  the  camp-fire  bright; 
No  growling  if  the  canteen  fails, 

We'll  make  a  roaring  night. 
Here   Shenandoah  brawls  along, 
There  burly  Blue  Ridge  echoes  strong, 
To  swell  the  Brigade's  rousing  song 
Of  "Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

We  see  him  now — the  queer  slouched  hat 

Cocked  o'er  his  eye  askew ;  '9 

The  shrewd,  dry  smile;  the  speech  so  pat, 

So  calm,  so  blunt,  so  true. 
The  "Blue-Light  Elder"  knows  'em  well; 
Says    he,    "That's    Banks — he's    fond    of 

shell; 
Lord   save   his    soul !    we'll    give   him — " 

well! 

That's   "Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 
« 

Silence  !  ground  arms  !  kneel  all !  caps  off ! 

Old  Massa's  goin'  to  pray. 

Strangle  the  fool  that  dares  to  scoff! 

Attention!   it's  his  way.  2° 

Appealing  from  his  native  sod, 
In  forma  pauperis  to  God : 
"Lay  bare  Thine  arm;  stretch  forth  Thy 
rod! 

Amen!"     That's  "Stonewall's  way." 

He's  in  the  saddle  now.     Fall  in! 

Steady !   the  whole  brigade  ! 
Hill's  at  the  ford,  cut  off;  we'll  win 

His  way  out,  ball  and  blade ! 
What  matter  if  our  shoes  are  worn? 
What  matter  if  our  feet  are  torn?          3<> 
"Quick  step !   we're  with  him  before 
morn !" 

That's   "Stonewall   Jackson's   way." 

The  sun's  bright  lances  rout  the  mists 
Of  morning,  and,  by  George! 

Here's  Longstreet,  struggling  in  the  lists, 
Hemmed  in   an  ugly  gorge. 


Pope  and  his  Dutchmen,  whipped  before ; 
"Bay'nets    and    grape!"    hear    Stonewall 

roar; 

"Charge,  Stuart !    Pay  off  Ashby's  score !" 
In  "Stonewall  Jackson's  way."  4° 

Ah !     Maiden,  wait  and  watch  and  yearn 
For  news  of  Stonewall's  band ! 

Ah !     Widow,  read,  with  eyes  that  burn, 
That  ring  upon  thy  hand. 

Ah!     Wife,  sew  on,  pray  on,  hope  on; 

Thy  life  shall  not  be  all  forlorn; 

The   foe  had  better  ne'er  been  born 
That  gets  in  "Stonewall's  way." 

1863? 


ORIGINAL   VERSION   OF   THE 
JOHN  BROWN  SONG 

ATTRIBUTED  TO  H.   H.   BROWNELL,  OF 
HARTFORD 

Old  John  Brown  lies  a-mouldering  in  the 

grave, 
Old  John   Brown   lies  slumbering  in  the 

grave — 
But  John  Brown's  soul  is  marching  with 

the  brave, 

His  soul  is  marching  on. 
Glory,  Glory  hallelujah, 
Glory,  Glory  hallelujah, 
Glory,  Glory  hallelujah, 
His  soul  goes  marching  on. 

He  has  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  Army 

of  the  Lord, 
He  is  sworn  as  a  private  in  the  ranks  of 

the  Lord —      '  '° 

He  shall  stand  at  Armageddon  with  his 

brave  old  sword, 
When   Heaven  is  marching  on. 

He  shall  file  in  front  when  the  lines  of 

battle  form, 
He  shall  face  to  front  when  the  squares 

of  battle  form, 

With  the  column,  and  charge  in  the  storm, 
When  men  are  marching  on. 

Ah,  foul  tyrants !  do  you  hear  him  when 

he  comes? 
Ah,  black  traitors,  do  ye  know  him  as  he 

comes? 
In  thunder  of  the  cannon  and  roll  of  the 

drums, 
As  we  go  marching  on.  2° 


POEMS    OF   THE    CIVIL   WAR 


329 


Men  may  die  and  moulder  in  the  dust — 
Men  may  die  and  arise  again  from  dust, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder,  in  the  ranks  of  the 

Just, 
When  God  is  marching  on. 


THE   PRESIDENT'S   PROCLAMA 
TION 

John   Brown   Song 
EDNA    DEAN    PROCTOR 

John   Brown  died  on  a  scaffold   for  the 

slave ; 

Dark  was  the  hour  when  we  dug  his  hal 
lowed  grave ; 
Now  God  avenges  the  life  he  gladly  gave. 

Freedom  reigns  to-day ! 

Glory,  glory  hallelujah ! 

Glory,  glory  hallelujah! 

Glory,  glory  hallelujah! 

Freedom  reigns  to-day ! 

John  Brown  sowed  and  his  harvesters  are 
we; 

Honor  to  him  who  has  made  the  bond 
men  free !  I0 

Loved    evermore    shall    our   noble    Ruler 

be— 
Freedom  reigns  to-day ! 

John  Brown's  body  lies  mouldering  in  the 

grave ! 
Bright,  o'er  the  sod,  let  the  starry  banner 

wave; 
Lo !  for  the  millions  he  perilled  all  to 

save — 
Freedom  reigns  to-day ! 

John  Brown  lives — we  are  gaining  on  our 
foes — 

Right  shall  be  victor  whatever  may  op 
pose — 

Fresh,  through  the  darkness,  the  wind  of 

morning  blows — 
Freedom  reigns  to-day !  2° 

John  Brown's  soul  through  the  world  is 

marching  on ; 
Hail  to  the  hour  when  oppression   shall 

be  gone ! 

All  men  sing,  in  the  better  age's  dawn, 
Freedom  reigns  to-day ! 


John    Brown    dwells    where    the    battle- 
strife  is  o'er; 
Hate  cannot   harm   him   nor   sorrow   stir 

him   more ; 
Earth  will  remember  the  crown  of  thorns 

he  wore — 
Freedom  reigns  to-day ! 

John  Brown's  body  lies  mouldering  in  the 

grave ; 

John  Brown  lives  in  the  triumphs  of  the 

brave ;  3° 

John  Brown's  soul  not  a  "higher  joy  can 

crave — 

Freedom  reigns  to-day. 
Glory,  glory  hallelujah ! 
Glory,  glory  hallelujah! 
Glory,  glory  hallelujah! 
Freedom  reigns  to-day ! 

GLORY   HALLELUJAH!   OR   JOHN 
BROWN'S   BODY 

CHARLES  SPRAGUE  HALL 

John    Brown's   body   lies   a-mould'ring  in 

the  grave, 
John    Brown's  body   lies   a-mould'ring  in 

the  grave, 
John    Brown's   body  lies   a-mould'ring  in 

the  grave,   • 
His  soul  is  marching  on ! 

Chorus 

Glory !  Glory  Hallelujah  ! 
Glory !  Glory  Hallelujah  ! 
Glory!  Glory  Hallelujah! 
His  soul  is  marching  on. 

He's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of 

the  Lord! 
His  soul  is  marching  on.  *° 

John  Brown's  knapsack  is  strapped  upon 

his  back. 
His  soul  is  marching  on. 

His  pet  lambs  will  meet  him  on  the  way, 
And  they'll  go  marching  on. 

They'll  hang  Jeff  Davis  on  a  sour  apple 

tree, 
As  they  go  marching  on. 

Now  for  the  Union  let's  give  three  rous 
ing  cheers, 
As  we  go  marching  on. 

Hip,   hip,   hip,  hip,   Hurrah ! 


330 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


GLORY   HALLELUJAH,    OR    NEW 
JOHN  BROWN  SONG 

(ANON) 

John  Brown's  body  lies  a-moiildering  in 

the  grave, 
While  weep  the  sons  of  bondage,  whom 

he  ventured  all  to  save; 
But,  tho'  he  lost  his  life  in  struggling  for 

the  slave, 
His  soul  is  marching  on. 

CHO.  :  Glory,  Glory  Hallelujah,  etc. 

John  Brown  was  a  Hero,  undaunted,  true 

and  brave, 
And    Kansas    knew    his    valor    when    he 

fought  her  rights  to  save; 
And  now,  though  the  grass  grows  green 

above  his  grave, 
His  soul  is  marching  on. 

He    captured    Harper's    Ferry,    with    his 
nineteen  men  so  true,  I0 

And   he   frightened  old   Virginy,   till  she 
trembled  through  and  through, 

They  hung  him  for  a  traitor;  themselves 

a  traitor  crew : 
But  his  soul  is  marching  on. 

John    Brown    was   John    the    Baptist   of 
Christ  we  are  to  see, 

Christ  who  of  the  bondman  shall  the  Lib 
erator  be; 

And  soon,  throughout  the  Sunny  South, 

the  slaves'  shall  all  be  free: 
For  his  soul  is  marching  on. 

The  conflict  that  he  heralded,   he   looks 

from  Heaven  to  view, 
On  the  army  of  the  Union  with  his  Flag, 

red,  white,  and  blue, 
And  Heaven  shall  ring  with  anthems  o'er 

the  deed  they  mean  to  do;  x 

For  his  soul  is  marching  on. 

Ye    soldiers    of    Freedom,    then    strike, 

while  str'ke  you  may, 
The  death-blow  of  Oppression  in  a  better 

time  and  way; 
For,  the  dawn  of  Old  John  Brown  has 

brightened   into   day, 
And  his  soul  is  marching  on. 


THE  SWEET  SOUTH 
WM.  GILMORE  SIMMS 

0  the    sweet    South !    the    sunny,    sunny 

South ! 

Land    of    true    feeling,    land    forever 
mine ! 

1  drink  the  kisses  of  her  rosy  mouth, 
And  my  heart  swells  as  with  a  draught 

of  wine; 

She  brings  me  blessings  of  maternal  love; 
I  have  her  smile  which  hallows  all  my 

toil; 
Her  voice  persuades,  her  generous  smiles 

approve, 
She  sings  me  from  the  sky  and   from 

the  soil! 
O,   by   her   lonely   pines   that   wave   and 

sigh! 

O,   by  her  myriad  flowers,  that  bloom 

and  fade,  I0 

By  all  the  thousand  beauties  of  her  sky, 

And    the    sweet    solace    of    her    forest 

shade, 

She's  mine — she's  ever  mine — 
Nor  will  I  aught  resign 
Of  what  she  gives  me,  mortal  or  divine; 
Will  sooner  part 
With  life,  hope,  heart, — 
Will  die— before  I  fly! 

O,  love  is  hers, — such  as  ever  glows 
In   souls    where    leap   affection's    living 
tide ;  *> 

She   is   all   fondness   to   her   friends ;   to 

foes 
She  glows  a  thing  of  passion,  strength, 

and  pride; 
She  feels  no  tremors  when  the  danger's 

high, 

But  the  fight  over  and  the  victory  won, 
How    with    strange    fondness,    turns    her 

loving  eye 

In  tearful  welcome  on  each  gallant  son ! 
O !     by    her    virtues    of    the    cherished 

past, — 
By  all   her  hopes  of  what  the   future 

brings, — 

I  glory  that  my  lot  with  her  is  cast, 
And     my     soul     flushes     and     exulting 
sings ;  3° 

She's  mine — she's  ever  mine — 
For  her  will  I  resign 
All  precious  things — all  placed  upon  her 

shrine ; 

Will  freely  part 
With  life,  hope,  heart — 
Will  die— do  aught  but  fly! 


POEMS    OF   THE    CIVIL   WAR 


331 


GOD   SAVE  THE   NATION! 
(A  War  Hymn) 
THEODORE  TILTON 

Thou  who  ordainest,  for  the  land's  salva 
tion, 

Famine,  and  fire,  and  sword,  and  lamen 
tation, 

Now  unto  Thee  we  lift  our  supplication — 
God  save  the  Nation! 

By  the  great  sign,  foretold,  of  Thy  Ap 
pearing, 

Coming  in  clouds,  while  mortal  men  stand 
fearing, 

Show  us,  amid  this  smoke  of  battle,  clear 
ing, 

Thy  chariot  nearing! 

By  the  brave  blood  that  floweth  like  a 
river, 

Hurl  Thou  a  thunderbolt  from  out  Thy 
quiver !  I0 

Break  Thou  the  strong  gates !  Every  fet 
ter  shiver! 

Smite  and  deliver! 

Slay  Thou  our  foes,  or  turn  them  to  de 
rision  ! — 

Then,  in  the  blood-red  Valley  of  Decision, 
Make  the  land  green  with  Peace,  as  in  a 
vision 

Of  fields  Elysian! 

1862. 


A  BATTLE  HYMN 
GEORGE  H.  BOKER 

God,  to  Thee  we  humbly  bow, 

With  hand  unarmed  and  naked  brow; 

Musket,  lance,  and  sheathed  sword 

At  Thy  feet  we  lay,  O  Lord ! 

Gone  is  all  the  soldier's  boast 

In  the  valor  of  the  host : 

Kneeling  here,  we  do  our  most. 

Of  ourselves  we  nothing  know : 
Thou,  and  Thou  alone  canst  show, 
By  the  favor  of  Thy  hand, 
Who  has  drawn  the  guilty  brand. 
If  our  foemen  have  the  right, 
Show  Thy  judgment  in  our  sight 
Through  the  fortunes  of  the  fight! 


If  our  cause  be  pure  and  just, 
Nerve  our  courage  with  Thy  trust : 
Scatter,  in  Thy  bitter  wrath, 
All  who  cross  the  nation's  path : 
May  the  baffled  traitors  fly, 
As  the  vapors  from  the  sky 
When  Thy  raging  winds  are  high! 

God  of  mercy,  some  must  fall 
In  Thy  holy  cause.     Not  all 
Hope  to  sing  the  victor's  lay, 
When  the  sword  is  laid  away. 
Brief  will  be  the  prayers  then  said; 
Falling  at  Thy  altars  dead, 
Take  the  sacrifice,  instead. 

Now,  O  God !  once  more  we  rise, 
Marching  on  beneath  Thy  eyes ; 
And  we  draw  the  sacred  sword 
In  Thy  name  and  at  Thy  word. 
May  our  spirits  clearly  see 
Thee,  through  all  that  is  to  be, 
In  defeat  or  victory. 


1862. 


DIRGE  FOR  A  SOLDIER 

(September    1,    1862) 

GEORGE  H.  BOKER 

Close  his  eyes;  his  work  is  done! 

What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman, 
Rise  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun, 

Hand  of  man,  or  kiss  of  woman? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know : 
Lay  him  low ! 

As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight, 

Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor;       '<> 
Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night, 
Sleep   forever  and   forever. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What -cares  he?  he  cannot  know: 
Lay  him  low ! 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 

Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley ! 
What  to  him  are  all  our  wars, 

What  but  death-bemockingiifolly?        2° 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low. 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he?  he  cannot  know: 
Lav  him  low ! 


332 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye; 

Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made  him. 
Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by: 
God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow !  3<> 

What  cares  he?  he  cannot  know: 
Lay  him  low! 

1862. 


Or  from  foul  treason's  savage  grasp  to 
wrench  the  murderous  blade, 

And  in  the  face  of  foreign  foes  its  frag 
ments  to  parade. 

Six  hundred  thousand  loyal  men  and  true 
have  gone  before : 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three 
hundred  thousand  more! 

July  2,  1862. 


THREE  HUNDRED  THOUSAND 
MORE 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three 
hundred  thousand  more, 

From  Mississippi's  winding  stream  and 
from  New  England's  shore; 

We  leave  our  ploughs  and  workshops,  our 
wives  and  children  dear, 

With  hearts  too  full  for  utterance,  with 
but  a  silent  tear; 

We  dare  not  look  behind  us,  but  stead 
fastly  before : 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three 
hundred  thousand  more ! 

If  you  look  across  the  hill-tops  that  meet 

the  northern  sky, 
Long  moving   lines   of   rising   dust   your 

vision  may  descry ; 
And  now  the  wind,  an  instant,  tears  the 

cloudy  veil  aside, 
And  floats  aloft  our  spangled  flag  in  glory 

and  in  pride,  10 

And  bayonets  in  the  sunlight  gleam,  and 

bands  brave  music  pour : 
We  are  coming,  Father   Abraham,  three 

hundred  thousand  more! 

If  you  look  all  up  our  valleys  where  the 

growing  harvests  shine, 
You  may  see  our  sturdy  farmer  boys  fast 

forming  into  line ; 
And  children   from  their  mother's  knees 

are  pulling  at  the  weeds, 
And  learning  how  to  reap  and  sow  against 

their  country's  needs ; 
And  a  farewell  group  stands  weeping  at 

every  cottage  door : 
We  are  coming,   Father  Abraham,  three 

hundred  thousand  more! 

You  have  called  us,  and  we're  coming, 

by  Richmond's  bloody  tide 
To  lay  us  down,  for  Freedom's  sake,  our 

brothers'  bones  beside,  2° 


BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC 
JULIA  WARD  HOWE 

Mine   eyes   have   seen   the   glory  of   the 

coming  of  the  Lord: 
He  is   trampling   out  the   vintage   where 

the  grapes  of  wrath  are  stored; 
He  hath  loosed  the   fateful  lightning  of 

his  terrible  swift  sword: 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a 

hundred  circling  camps; 
They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the 

evening  dews  and  damps; 
I  can  read  his  righteous  sentence  by  the 

dim  and  flaring  lamps. 
His  day  is   marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  burn 
ished  rows  of  steel : 

"As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with 
you  my  grace  shall  deal;  I0 

Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the 

serpent  with  his  heel, 
Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded   fdrth  the  trumpet  that 

shall  never  call  retreat; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before 

His  judgment-seat : 
Oh !  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him ! 

be  jubilant,  my  feet! 
Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was 

born  across  the  sea, 

With  a  glory   in   His  bosom  that  trans 
figures  you  and  me : 
As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die 

to  make  them  free, 
While  God  is  marching  on.  2° 

1863? 


POEMS    OF   THE   CIVIL   WAR 


333 


ODE:  OUR  CITY  BY  THE  SEA 
WM.  GILMORE  SIMMS 


A  vast  and  dread  array 
Glooming  black  upon  the  day, 
Hell's  passions  all  in  play, 
With  Hell's  art! 


Our  city  by  the  sea, 
As  the  "rebel  city"  known, 

With  a  soul  and  spirit  free 
As  the  waves  that  make  her  zone, 

Stands  in  wait  for  the  fate 

From  the  angry  arm  of  hate ; 
But  she  nothing  fears  the  terror  of  his 
blow ; 

She  hath  garrisoned  her  walls, 

And  for  every  son  that  falls 

She  will  spread  a  thousand  palls          I0 
For  the  foe ! 


II 

Old  Moultrie  at  her  gate 

Clad  in  arms  and  ancient  fame, 
Grimly  watching  stands  elate 
To  deliver  bolt  and  flame ! 
Brave  the  band  at  command, 
'  To  illumine  sea  and  land 
With  a  glory  that  shall  honor   days   of 

yore; 

And,  as  racers  for  their  goals, 
A  thousand  fiery  souls  2° 

While  the  drum  of  battle  rolls, 
Line  the  shore ! 


in 

Lo !  rising  at  his  side, 

As  if  emulous  to  share 
His  old  historic  pride 

The  vast  form  of  Sumter  there! 
Girt  by  waves  which  he  braves 
Though   the  equinoctial   raves, 
As  the  mountain  braves  the  lightning  on 

his  steep; 

And  like  tigers   crouching  round,       3° 
Are  the  tribute  forts  that  bound 
All  the  consecrated  ground 
By  the  Deep ! 


IV 

It  was  calm,  the  April  noon, 

When,  in  iron-castled  towers, 
Our  haughty  foe  came  on, 

With  his  aggregated  powers ; 
All  his  might  against  the  right, 
Now  embattled  for  the  fight, 
With  Hell's  hate  and  venom  working  in 
his  heart;  4<> 


But  they  trouble  not  the  souls, 

Of  our  Carolina  host, 
And  the  drum  of  battle  rolls, 

While  each  hero  seeks  his  post; 
Firm,  though  few,  sworn  to  do, 
Their  old  city  full  in  view,  5° 

The   brave  city  of  their   sires   and   their 

dead ; 

There  each  freeman  had  his  brood, 
All  the  dear  ones  of  his  blood, 
And  he  knew  they  watching  stood, 

In  their  dread! 

VI 

To  the  bare  embattled  height, 
Then  our  gallant  colonel  sprung, 

"Bid  them  welcome  to  the  fight," 
Were  the  accents  of  his  tongue; 

"Music,  band !     Pour  out  grand —       6° 

The  free  song  of  Dixie  Land ! 
Let  it  tell  them  we  are  joyful  that  they 
come! 

Bid  them  welcome,  drum  and  flute, 

Nor  be  your  cannon  mute, 

Give  them  chivalrous  salute — 
To  their  doom!" 

VII 

Out  spoke  an  eager  gun, 

From  the  walls  of  Moultrie  then; 
And  through  clouds  of  sulphurous  dun. 

Rose  a  shout  of  thousand  men,        7» 
As  the  shot  hissing  hot, 
Goes  in  lightning  to  the  spot — 
Goes  crashing  wild   through   timber  and 

through  mail; 

Then  roared  the  storm  from  all 
Moultrie' s  ports  and  Sumter's  wall — 
Bursting  bomb  and  driving  ball — 

Hell  in  hail. 

VIII 

Full  a  hundred  cannon  roared 
The  dread  welcome  to  the  foe, 

And  his  felon  spirit  cowered  8° 

As  he  crouched  beneath  the  blow ! 

As  each  side  opened  wide 

To  the  iron  and  the  tide, 
He  lost  his  faith  in  armor  and  in  art; 

And  with  the  loss  of  faith 

Came  the  dread  of  wounds  and  scath — 

And  the  felon  fear  of  death 
Wrung  his  heart! 


334 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


IX 

Quenched  then  his  foul  desires; 

In  mortal  pain  and  fear,  9° 

How  feeble  grew  his  fires, 

How  stayed  his  fell  career ! 
How  each  keel,  made  to  reel 
'Neath  our  thunder,  seems  to  kneel 
Their   turrets    staggering    wildly   to    and 

fro,  blind  and  lame, 
Iron  sides  and  iron  roof, 
Held  no  longer  bullet  proof, 
Steal  away,  shrink  aloof, 

In  their  shame ! 


But  pur  lightnings  follow  fast,  I0° 

With  a  vengeance  sharp  and  hot; 
Our  bolts  are  on  the  blast, 

And  they  rive  with  shell  and  shot! 
Huge  the  form  which  they  warm 
With  the  hot  breath  of  the  storm; 
Dread  the  crash   which   follows   as   each 

Titan  mass  is  struck; 
They  shiver  as  they  fly, 
While  their  leader  drifting  nigh, 
Sinks,  choking  with  the  cry — 
"Keokuk !"  »o 

XI 

To  the  brave  old  city,  joy! 
For  that  the  hostile  race, 
Commissioned  to  destroy, 

Hath  fled  in  sore  disgrace ! 
That  our  sons,  at  their  guns 
Have  beat  back  the  modern  Huns — 
Have   maintained   their    household    fanes 

and  their  fires, 

And  free  from  taint  and  scath, 
Have  kept  the  fame  and  faith, 
(And    will    keep    through    blood    and 
death)  I2° 

Of  their  sires! 

XII 

To  the  Lord  of  Hosts  the  glory 

For  His  the  arm  and  might 
That  have  writ  for  us  the  story 

And  have  borne  us  through  the  fight! 
His  our  shield  in  that  field — 
Voice  that  bade  us  never  yield ; 
Oh !   had   He  not  been  with  us  through 

the  terrors  of  that  day ! 
His  strength  has  made  us  strong, 
Cheered    the    right    and    crushed    the 
wrong,  J3° 

To  His  temple  let  us  throng- 
Praise  and  pray. 

1863? 


WHO'S  READY? 
EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR 

God  help  us !  Who's  ready  ?  There's 
danger  before ! 

Who's  armed  and  who's  mounted?  The 
foe's  at  the  door ! 

The  smoke  of  his  cannon  hangs  black 
o'er  the  plain; 

His  shouts  ring  exultant  while  counting 
our  slain; 

And  Northward  and  Northward  he  press 
es  his  line, — 

Who's  ready?  O  forward! — for  yours 
and  for  mine ! 

No  halting,  no  discord,  the  moments  are 

Fates ; 
To    shame    or    to    glory    they    open    the 

gates ! 
There's  all  we  hold  dearest  to  lose  or  to 

win; 
The  web  of  the   future  to-day  we  must 

spin ;  :o 

And  bid  the  hours  follow  with  knell  or 

with   chime, — 
Who's    ready?      O    forward! — while    yet 

there  is  time! 

Lead    armies    or    councils  —  be    soldiers 

%  afield- 
Alike,  so  your  valor  is  Liberty's  shield ! 
Alike,  so  you  strike  when  the  bugle-notes 

call, 
For  Country,  for  Fireside,   for  Freedom 

to  All! 
The  blows  of  the  boldest  will  carry  the 

day, — 
Who's  ready?    O  forward! — there's  death 

in  delay ! 

Earth's  noblest  are  praying,  at  home  and 

o'er  sea, — 
"God  keep  the  great  nation  united   and 

free !"  *>. 

Her  tyrants  watch,  eager  to  leap  at  our 

life,  , 
If  once  we  should  falter  or  faint  in  the 

strife; 
Our    trust    is    unshaken,    though    legions 

assail, — 
Who's    ready?     O    forward! — and    Right 

shall  prevail ! 

Who's    ready?      "All  ready!"   undaunted 

we  cry; 
"For   Country,    for   Freedom,   we'll   fight 

till  we  die! 


POEMS   OF   THE   CIVIL   WAR 


335 


No  traitor,   at  midnight,   shall  pierce  us 

in  rest; 
No    alien,     at    noonday,     shall     stab    us 

abreast ; 
The   God   of  our   Fathers   is   guiding   us 

still,— 
All   forward !    we're   ready,   and   conquer 

we  will!"  30 


CLARIBEL'S    PRAYER 

The  day,  with  cold,  gray  feet,  clung  shiv 
ering  to  the  hills, 

While  o'er  the  valley,  still  night's  rain- 
fringed  curtains  fell ; 
But  waking  blue  eyes  smiled.    "  'Tis  ever 

as  God  wills; 
He   knoweth   best,   and   be   it   rain   or 

shine,  'tis  well, 

Praise  God !"  cried  always  little  Clari- 
bel. 


When  gray  and  dreary  day  shook  hands 

with  grayer  night, 
The  heavy  air  was  filled  with  clangor 

of  a  bell. 
"Oh,   shout !"  the  herald  cried,  his  worn 

eyes  brimmed  with  light : 
"  'Tis  victory !    Oh  !  what  glorious  news 

to  tell!" 
"Praise   God!     He  heard   my  prayer," 

cried  Claribel. 


"But,  pray  you,  soldier,  was  my  brother 

in  the  fight, 
And  in  the  fiery  rain?    Oh!  fought  he 

brave  and  well?" 
"Dear  child,"  the  herald  cried,  "there  was 

no  braver  sight 
Than  his  young   form,   so  grand  'mid 

shot  and  shell." 
"Praise    God !"    cried    trembling    little 

Claribel.  3<> 


Then  sank  she  on  her  knees.    With  eager, 
lifted  hands, 

Her   rosy    lips   made   haste    some    dear 

request  to  tell : 

"O  Father!  smile,  and  save  this  fairest  of 
all  lands, 

And   make   her    free,   whatever   hearts 
rebel. 

Amen!     Praise  God!"  cried  little  Clar 
ibel.  I0 


"And  rides  he  now  with  victor's  plumes 
of  red, 

While    trumpers*    golden    throats     his 

coming  steps   foretell?" 
The  herald  dropped  a  tear :  "Dear  child," 
he   softly   said, 

"Thy  brother   evermore   with   conquer 
ors  shall  dwell." 

"Praise   God !     He  heard   my  prayer," 
cried  Claribel. 


"And,  Father,"  still  arose  another  pleading 
prayer, 

"Oh !  save  my  brother,   in  the  rain  of 

shot  and  shell ; 

Let   not   the   death-bolt,   with    its   horrid 
streaming  hair, 

Dash  light  from  those  sweet  eyes  I  love 
so  well. 

Amen!     Praise  God!"  wept  little  Clari 
bel. 


"With  victors  wearing  crowns  and  bear 
ing  palms,"  he  said; 

And    snow   of    sudden    fear   upon   the 

rose-lips  fell, 

"Oh !    sweetest    herald,    say    my    brother 
lives !"  she  pled. 

"Dear  child,  he  walks  with  angels  who 
in  strength  excel. 

Praise  God,  Who  gave  this  glory,  Clar 
ibel."  40 


"But,  Father,  grant  that  when  the  glori 
ous  fight  is  done, 

And  up  the  crimson  sky  the  shouts  of 
Freedom   swell, 

Grant  that  there  be  no  nobler  victor  'neath 

the  sun 

Than  he  whose  golden  hair  I  love  so 
well. 

Amen !     Praise  God !"  cried  little  Clari 
bel.  20 


The  cold,  gray  day  died  sobbing,  on  the 

weary  hills, 

While   bitter    mourning   on    the    night- 
wind  rose  and  fell. 

"Oh,  child,"  the  herald  wept,  "  'tis  as  the 

dear  Lord  wills, 

He    knoweth    best ;    and    be    it    life    or 
death,   'tis   well." 

"Amen!       Praise    God,"    sobbed    little 
Claribel. 


336 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


LITTLE  GIFFEN 

F.    O.    TlCKNOR 

Out  of  the  focal  and  foremost  fire, 
Out  of  the  hospital  walls  as  dire; 
Smitten  of  grape-shot   and  gangrene, 
(Eighteenth  battle,  and  he  sixteen:) 
Spectre,  such  as  you  seldom  see — 
Little  Giffen  of  Tennessee! 


"Take  him — and  welcome !"  the  surgeons 

said; 

"Much  your  Doctor  can  help  the  dead !" 
And   so   we   took   him   and   brought   him 

where 

The  balm  was  sweet  on  the  summer  air ; 
And  we  laid  him  down  on  the  wholesome 

bed  " 

Utter  Lazarus,  heel  to  head ! 


Weary  War  vwith  the  bated  breath, 
Skeleton  boy  against  skeleton  Death. 
Months  of  torture,  how  many  such ! 
Weary  weeks  of  the  stick  and  crutch! 
Still  a  glint  in  the  steel  blue  eye 
Spoke  of  the  spirit  that  wouldn't  die, 


And  didn't !  nay,  more !  in  death's  despite 
The  crippled  skeleton  learned  to  write!  *> 
"Dear  mother"  at  first,  of  course;  and 

then, 
"Dear      Captain" — inquiring      about      the 

"men." 

Captain's  answer — "Of  eighty  and  five, 
Giffen  and  I   are  left  alive!" 


"Johnston's    pressed    at    the    front,    they 

say !" 

Little  Giffen  was  up  and  away. 
A  tear,  his  first,  as  he  bade  good-bye, 
Dimmed  the  glint  of  his  steel-blue  eye; 
"/'//  write,  if  spared;"  there  was  news  of 

a  fight, 
But  none  of  Giffen !  he  did  not  write !    3° 


I  sometimes  fancy  that  when  I'm  king, 
And  my  gallant  courtiers  form  a  ring, 
All  so  thoughtless  of  power  and  pelf, 
And  each  so  loyal  to  all  but  self, 
I'd  give  the  best  on  his  bended  knee, 
Yea,  barter  the  whole   for  the  Loyalty 
Of  little  Giffen  of  Tennessee! 

1863? 


SHERIDAN'S  RIDE 

October    19,    1864 

T.  B.  READ 

Up  from  the  South,  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste  to  the  chieftain's 

door, 
The    terrible    grumble,    and    rumble,    and 

roar, 

Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 
Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar; 
And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled    I0 
The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 
Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold, 
As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery 

fray, 
With  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 
A  good,  broad  highway  leading  down : 
And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morn 
ing  light, 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night 
Was  seen  to  pass,  as  with  eagle  flight ; 
As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need,  2° 

He  stretched  away  with  his  utmost  speed. 
Hills  rose  and  fell,  but  his  heart  was  gay, 
With  Sheridan  fifteen   miles  away. 

Still     sprang     from    those    swift    hoofs, 

thundering  south 
The   dust  like  smoke   from  the  cannon's 

mouth, 
Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster 

and  faster, 

Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  dis 
aster. 
The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of 

the  master 
Were    beating    like    prisoners    assaulting 

their  walls, 
Impatient    to    be    where    the    battle-field 

calls ;  3° 

Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained 

to  full  play, 
With   Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under   his    spurning    feet,   the   road 
Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 
And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 
Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind; 


POEMS    OF    THE    CIVIL    WAR 


337 


And  the  steed  like  a  bark  fed  with  fur 
nace  ire, 

Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eye  full  of  fire; 

But,  lo !  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire; 

He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring 
fray,  4° 

With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

The  first  that  the  general  saw  were  the 
groups 

Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating 
troops ; 

What  was  done?  what  to  do?  a  glance 
told  him  both. 

Then  striking  his  spurs  with  a  terrible 
oath, 

He  dashed  down  the  line,  'mid  a  storm 
of  huzzas, 

And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its 
course  there,  because 

The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to 
pause. 

With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  char 
ger  was  gray ; 

By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  the  red  nos 
tril's  play,  so 

He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to 
say : 

"I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 
From  Winchester  down  to  save  the 
day." 

Hurrah!  hurrah  for  Sheridan! 
Hurrah !  hurrah  for  horse  and  man 
And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high 
Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, 
The  American  soldier's  Temple  of  Fame, 
There,  with  the  glorious  general's  name, 
Be  it  said,  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright : 
"Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day    6l 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 
From  Winchester — twenty  miles  away !" 

1864 ?65? 


MARCHING  THROUGH  GEORGIA 
HENRY  CLAY  WORK 

Bring  the  good  old  bugle,  boys,  we'll  sing 
another  song — 

Sing  it  with  the  spirit  that  will  start  the 
world  along — 

Sing  it  as  we  used  to  sing  it  fifty  thou 
sand  strong, 

While  we  are  marching  through  Geor 
gia. 


"Hurrah !      Hurrah !     we    bring    the 

jubilee! 
Hurrah!       Hurrah!     the     flag     that 

makes  you   free !" 
So  we  sang  the  chorus  from  Atlanta 

to  the  sea, 
While    we    were    marching    through 

Georgia. 

How  the  darkies  shouted  when  they  heard 
the  joyful  sound ! 

How  the  turkeys  gobbled  which  our  com 
missary  found !  T° 

How  the  sweet  potatoes  even  started  from 

the  ground, 

While  we  were  marching  through  Geor 
gia. 

Yes,  and  there  was  Union  men  who  wept 
with  joyful  tears, 

When  they  saw  the  honored  flag  they  had 
not  seen  for  years ; 

Hardly    could    they    be    restrained    from 

breaking  forth  in  cheers, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Geor 
gia. 

"Sherman's    dashing    Yankee    boys    will 
never  reach  the  coast !" 

So   the    saucy    rebels    said — and    'twas    a 
handsome  boast, 

Had  they  not  forgot,  alas!  to  reckon  on 

a  host, 

While  we  were  marching  through  Geor 
gia.  20 

So  we  made  a  thoroughfare  for  Freedom 

and  her  train, 
Sixty  miles  in  latitude — three  hundred  to 

the  main ; 
Treason  fled  before  us,  for  resistance  was 

in  vain, 

While  we  were  marching  through  Geor 
gia. 

1864? 

WHEN    JOHNNY    COMES    MARCH 
ING  HOME 

PATRICK  S.  GILMORE 

When    Johnny    comes     marching    home 
again, 

Hurrah !    hurrah ! 
We'll  give  him  a  hearty  welcome  then, 

Hurrah !    hurrah ! 

The  men  will  cheer,  the  boys  will  shout, 
The  ladies,  they  will  all  turn  out, 

And  we'll  all  feel  gay, 
When  Johnny  comes  marching  home. 


338 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


The  old  church  bell  will  peal  with  joy, 
Hurrah  !    hurrah  !  10 

To  welcome  home  our  darling  boy, 
Hurrah !    hurrah ! 

The  village  lads  and  lasses  say, 

With  roses  they  will  strew  the  way; 
And  we'll  all  feel  gay, 

When  Johnny  conies  marching  home. 

Get  ready  for  the  jubilee, 

Hurrah !    hurrah ! 
We'll  give  the  hero  three  times  three, 

Hurrah  !    hurrah  !  2° 

The  laurel-wreath  is  ready  now 
To  place  upon  his  loyal  brow, 

And  we'll  all  feel  gay, 
When  Johnny  comes  marching  home. 

Let  lovd  and  friendship  on  that  day, 

Hurrah !    hurrah ! 
Their  choicest  treasures  then  display, 

Hurrah !    hurrah ! 

And  let  each  one  perform  some  part, 
To  fill  with  joy  the  warrior's  heart;       3° 

And  we'll  all  feel  gay, 
When  Johnny  comes  marching  home. 

1865. 

THE  SWORD  OF  ROBERT  LEE 
REV.  ABRAM  J.  RYAN 

Forth  from  its  scabbard,  pure  and  bright, 

Flashed  the  sword  of  Lee! 
Far  in  the  front  of  the  deadly  fight, 
High  o'er  the  brave  in  the  cause  of  right, 
Its  stainless  sheen  like  a  beacon  light, 

Led  us  to  victory. 

Out  of  its  scabbard,  where  full  long 

It  slumbered  peacefully — 
Roused  from  its  rest  by  the  battle  song, 
Shielding  the  feeble,  smiting  the  strong,  I0 
Guarding  the   right,   and   avenging  the 
wrong, 

Gleamed  the  sword  of  Lee. 

Forth  from  its  scabbard,  high  in  air, 

Beneath  Virginia's  sky — 
And  they  who  saw  it  gleaming  there, 
And  knew  who  bore  it,  knelt  to  swear 
That  where  that  sword  led,  they  would 
dare 

To  follow  or  to  die. 

Out  of  its  scabbard !   Never  hand 

Waved  sword  from  stain  as  free,         » 
Nor  purer  sword  led  braver  band, 
Nor  braver  bled  for  a  brighter  land, 
Nor  brighter  land  had  a  cause  as  grand, 
Nor  cause,  a  chief  like  Lee! 


Forth  from  its  scabbard !  how  we  prayed 

That  sword  might  victor  be ! 
And  when  our  triumph  was  delayed, 
And  many  a  heart  grew  sore  afraid, 
We  still  hoped  on  while  gleamed  the  blade 

Of  noble  Robert  Lee!  3° 

Forth  from  its  scabbard !  all  in  vain ! 

Forth  flashed  the  sword  of  Lee! 
'Tis  shrouded  now  in  its  sheath  again, 
It  sleeps  the  sleep  of  our  noble  slain, 
Defeated,  yet  without  a  stain, 

Proudly  and  peacefully. 

Richmond  Enquirer,  1865? 

IN  THE  LAND  WHERE  WE  WERE 
DREAMING 

"Much  Yet  Remains  Unsung." 
DAN  R.  LUCAS. 

Fair  were  our  visions !    Oh,  they  were  as 

grand 

As  ever  floated  out  of  Faerie  land; — 
Children  were  we  in  single  faith, 
But  God,  like  children,  whom  nor  death, 
Nor    threat,    nor    danger    drove    from 

Honor's  path, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Proud   were  our   men  as  pride  of  birth 

could  render, 

As  violets,  our  women  pure  and  tender; 
And   when  they   spoke  their   voice   did 

thrill, 

Until  at  eve,  the  whip-poor-will,          I0 
At  morn  the  mocking-birds  were  mute  and 

still, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

And  we  had  graves  that  covered  more  of 

glory, 

Than  ever  taxed  tradition's  ancient  story; 
And  in  our  dream  we  wove  the  thread 
Of  principles,  for  which  had  bled 
And    suffered    long,    our    own    immortal 

dead, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Though   in  our  land  we  had  both  bond 

and  free, 

Both  were  content;  and  so  God  let  them 
be;—  2° 

'Till  envy  coveted  our  land, 
And  those  fair  fields  our  valor  won : 
But  little  recked  we,  for  we  still  slept  on, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


POEMS   OF  THE   CIVIL   WAR 


339 


Our  sleep  grew  troubled,  and  our  dream 

grew  wild, 
Red  meteors  flashed  across  our  Heaven's 

field; 

Crimson  the  moon;  between  the  Twins, 
Barbed  arrows  fly,  and  then  begins 
Such    strife    as    when    disorder's    Chaos 

reigns, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

30 

Down    from    her    sun-lit    heights    smiled 

Liberty, 

And  waved  her  cap  in  sign  of  Victory — 
The  world  approved,  and  everywhere, 
Except  where  growled  the  Russian  bear, 
The   good,   the   brave,   the   just  gave  us 

their  prayer, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

We  fancied  that  a  Government  was  ours — 
We  challenged  place  among  the  world's 

great  powers; 

We  talked  in.  sleep  of  Rank,  Commis 
sion, 

Until  so  life-like  grew  our  vision,        4° 
That   we  who   dared  to   doubt,   but   met 

derision, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

We  looked  on  high :  a  banner  there  was 

seen, 
Whose   field   was   blanched   and    spotless 

in  its  sheen —  .    .- 

Chivalry's  cross  its  Union  bears, 
And  vet'rans  swearing  by  the  stars 
Vowed    they    would    bear    it    through    a 

hundred  wars, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

A  hero  came  amongst  us  while  we  slept, 
At   first   he   lowly  knelt — then    rose   and 
wept ;  so 

Then  gathering  up  a  thousand  spears, 
He  swept  across  the  field  of  Mars; 
Then  bowed  farewell,  and  walked  beyond 

the  stars — 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

We  looked  again;  another  figure  still, 
Gave   hope,    and    nerved    each    individual 

will- 
Full  of  grandeur,  clothed  with  power, 
Self-poised,  erect,  he  ruled  the  hour 
With  stern,  majestic  sway,  of  strength,  a 

tower, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

As,  while  great  Jove,  in  bronze,  a  warder 

God,  61 


Gazed  eastward  from  the  Forum  where 

he  stood, 

Rome  felt  herself  secure  and  free, 
So  "Richmond's  safe,"  we  said,  while 

we 

Beheld  a  bronzed  Hero — God-like  LEE, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

As   wakes   the  soldier  when  the  alarum 

calls — 
As   wakes   the   mother   when   her   infant 

falls— 

As  starts  the  traveller  when  around   69 

His  sleeping  couch  the  fire-bells  sound — 

So  woke  our  nation  with  a  single  bound, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Woe !    woe   is    me !    the   startled   mother 

cried — 
While  we  have  slept,  our  noble  sons  have 

died, 

Woe !  woe  is  me !  how  strange  and  sad, 
That  all  our  glorious  vision's  fled, 
And  left  us  nothing  real  but  the  dead, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

And  are  they  really  dead,  our  martyred 

slain? 

No !  dreamers !  morn  shall  bid  them  rise 

again,  8° 

From  every  vale — from  every  height, 

On  which  they  seemed  to  die  for  right — 

Their  gallant  spirits  shall  renew  the  fight, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Wake !    dreamers,    wake !    none    but    the 

sleeping  fail; 
Our  cause  being  just,   must   in   the   end 

prevail ; 

Once,  this  Thyestean  banquet  o'er 
Frown   strong,   the   few   who   bide  the 

hour, 

Shall   rise   and  hurl  the   drunken  guests 

from  power,  89 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

New  York  News  (?), ,  1865? 


THE   CLOSING   SCENE 
THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ 

Within  the  sober  realms  of  leafless  trees, 

The  russet  year  inhaled  the  dreamy  air; 

Like  some  tanned  reaper  in  his  hour  of 

ease 

When  all  the  fields  are  lying  brown  and 
bare. 


340 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


The  gray  barns  looking  from  their  hazy 

hills, 
O'er  the   dun   waters   widening   in   the 

vales, 

Sent  down  the  air  a  greeting  to  the  mills, 
Of  the  dull  thunder  of  alternate  flails. 

All  sights  were  mellowed,  and  all  sounds 

subdued, 

The  hills  seemed  further  and  the  stream 

sang  low  I0 

As  in  a  dream  the  distant  woodman  hewed 

His   winter  log,   with   many  a   muffled 

blow. 

The    embattled    forests,    erewhile    armed 

with  gold, 
Their  banners  bright  with  every  martial 

hue, 
Now  stood,  like  some  sad,  beaten  host  of 

old, 

Withdrawn  afar  in  Time's  remotest 
blue. 

On   sombre  wings  the   vulture  tried   his 

flight; 
The    dove    scarce    heard    his    sighing 

mate's  complaint ; 
And,  like  a  star  slowly  drowning  in  the 

light, 

The  village  church  vane  seemed  to  pale 
and  faint.  M 

The  sentinel  cock  upon  the  hill-side  crew — 
Crew   thrice — and    all   was    stiller   than 

before ; 

Silent,  till  some  replying  warbler  blew 
His   altern   horn,   and   then   was   heard 
no  more. 

Where  erst  the  jay  within  the  tall  elm's 
crest, 

Made  garrulous  trouble  round  her  un 
fledged  young, 

And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  swaying 
nest, 

By  every  light  wind  like  a  censer  swung. 

Where  sang  the  noisy  martins  of  the 
eaves,  ^ 

The  busy  swallows  circling  ever  near — 
Foreboding,  as  the  rustic  mind  believes, 

An  early  harvest,  and  a  plenteous  year. 

Where  every  bird  that  watched  the  vernal 

feast, 
Shook    the    sweet    slumber    from    his 

wings  at  morn; 

To  warn  the  reaper  of  the  rosy  east: 
All  now  was  sunless,  empty  and  forlorn. 


Alone,    from   out   the    stubble   piped   the 

quail ; 
And  croaked  the  crow  through  all  the 

dreary  gloom 

Alone,  the  pheasant  drumming  in  the  vale, 
Made  echo  in  the  distant  cottage  loom. 

40 

There  was   no  bud,  no   bloom  upon  the 

bowers ; 
The  spiders  moved  their  thin   shrouds 

night  by  night, 
The    thistle  -  down,    the    only   ghost   of 

flowers, 

Sailed  slowly  by — passed  noiseless  out 
of  sight. 

Amid  all  this,  in  this  most  dreary  aid, 
And  where  the  woodbine  shed  upon  the 

porch 
Its  crimson  leaves,  as  if  the  year  stood 

there, 
Firing  the  floor  with  its  inverted  torch — 

Amid  all  this — the  centre  of  the  scene, 
The  white  haired  matron,  with  monot 
onous  tread,  5° 
Plied  the  swift  wheel,  and  with  her  joy 
less  mien 

Sat  like  a  fate,  and  watched  the  flying 
thread. 

She  had  known  Sorrow — He  had  walked 

with  her. 

Oft  supped,  and  broke  the  ashen  crust, 
And  in  the  dead  leaves  still  she  heard  the 

stir 
Of  his  thick  mantle  trailing  in  the  dust. 

While    yet    her    cheek    was    bright    with 

summer  bloom, 
Her  country  summoned,  and  she  gave 

her  all; 
And  twice,  war  bowed  to  her  his  sable 

plume — 

Regave    the    sword    to    rust    upon    the 
wall.  6° 

Regave  the  sword,  but  not  the  hand  that 
drew 

And  struck  for  liberty  the  dying  blow ; 
Nor  him,  who  to  his  sire  and  country  true, 

Fell  'mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading  foe. 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  drooping  wheel 

went  on, 

Like  a  low  murmur  of  a  hive  at  noon ; 
Long,  but  not  loud — the  memory  of  the 

gone 

Breathed   through   her   lips   a  sad   and 
tremulous  tone. 


POEMS    OF   THE    CIVIL   WAR 


341 


At  last  the  thread  was  snapped,  her  head 

was  bowed ; 

Life    dropped    the    distaff    through    her 
hands  serene,  70 

And  loving  neighbors  smoothed  her  care 
ful  shroud; 

While    death    and    winter    closed    the 
autumn  scene. 

1865. 


The  apples  are  ripe  in  the  orchard, 
The  work  of  the  reaper  is  done, 

And  the  golden  woodlands  redden 
In  the  blood  of  the  dying  sun. 

At  the  cottage-door  the  grandsire 
Sits  pale  in  his  easy-chair, 

While  the  gentle  wind  of  twilight 
Plays  with  his  silver  hair. 

A  woman  is  kneeling  beside  him; 

A  fair  young  head  is  pressed, 
In  the  first  wild  passion  of  sorrow, 

Against  his  aged  breast. 


And  far  from  over  the  distance 

The  faltering  echoes  come 
Of  the  flying  blast  of  trumpet,' 

And  the  rattling  roll  of  drum. 

And  the  grandsire  speaks  in  a  whisper: 

"The  end  no  man  can  see; 
But  we  give  him  to  his  country, 

And  we  give  our  prayers  to  Thee."      x 

The  violets  star  the  meadows, 
The  rose-buds  fringe  the  door, 

And  over  the  grassy  orchard 
The  pink-white  blossoms  pour. 

But  the  grandsire's  chair  is  empty, 
The  cottage  is  dark  and  still ; 

There's  a  nameless  grave   in  the  battle 
field, 
And  a  new  one  under  the  hill. 

And  a  pallid,  tearless  woman 

By  the  cold  hearth  sits  alone,  30 

And  the  old  clock  in  the  corner 

Ticks  on  with  a  steady  drone. 

1865. 


HENRY    TIMROD 

(1828-1867) 


(The  text  is  taken  from  the  edition  of  1873,  ed 
ited  by  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne.) 

SONNET 

At  last,  beloved  Nature!    I  have  met 
Thee  face  to  face  upon  thy  breezy  hills, 
And  boldly,  where  thy  inmost  bowers  are 

set, 

Gazed  on  thee  naked  in  thy  mountain  rills. 
When   first   I    felt   thy   breath   upon   my 

brow, 
Tears  of  strange  ecstasy  gushed  out  like 

rain, 

And  with  a  longing,  passionate  as  vain, 
I  strove  to  clasp  thee.     But,  I  know  not 

how, 
Always   before    me    didst   thou    seem   to 

glide ; 

And    often    from    one    sunny    mountain 
side,  I0 
Upon   the  next   bright   peak  I   saw  thee 

kneel, 
And    heard   thy   voice    upon    the    billowy 

blast; 
But,    climbing,    only  reached   that   shrine 

to  feel 
The   shadow   of   a   Presence   which   had 

passed. 

Russell's  Magazine,  Feb.,  1859. 

FROM   A    VISION    OF   POESY  1 

XXXII 

"Sometimes— could  it  be   fancy? — I  have 

felt 
The    presence   of   a   spirit    who   might 

speak ; 

As  down  in  lowly  reverence  I  knelt, 
Its  very  breath  hath  kissed   my  burn 
ing  cheek; 

But  I  in  vain-  have  hushed  my  own  to  hear 
A  wing  or  whisper  stir  the  silent  air !" 

1  The  most  elaborate  performance  in  the  edi 
tion  of  1860,  indeed  the  longest  poem  Timrod 
ever  wrote,  is  called  "A  Vision  of  Poesy."  Its 
purpose  is  to  show,  in  the  subtle  development  of 
a  highly  gifted  imaginative  nature,  the  true  laws 
which  underlie  and  determine  the  noblest  uses 
of  the  poetical  faculty.  (P.  H.  Hayne's  Intro 
duction  to  the  edition  of  1873.) 


XXXIII 

Is  not  the  breeze  articulate?    Hark!    Oh, 

hark! 

A  distant  murmur,  like  a  voice  of  floods ; 
And  onward  sweeping  slowly  through  the 

dark, 
Bursts  like  a  call  the  night-wind  from 

the  woods !  I0 

Low  bow  the  flowers,  the  trees  fling  loose 

their  dreams, 
And  through  the  waving  roof  a  fresher 

moonlight  streams. 

xxxiv 
"Mortal !" — the  word  crept  slowly  round 

the  place 
As  if  that  wind  had  breathed  it !    From 

no  star 
Streams  that  soft  lustre  on  the  dreamer's 

face. 
Again  a  hushing  calm !  while  faint  and 

far 
The  breeze  goes  calling  onward  through 

the  night. 

Dear  God !  what  vision  chains  that  wide- 
strained  sight? 

XXXV 

Over  the  grass  and  flowers,  and  up  the 

slope 

Glides  a  white  cloud  of  mist,  self-moved 
and  slow,  20 

That,  pausing  at  the  hillock's  moonlit  cope, 

Swayed  like  a  flame  of  silver ;  from  be 
low 

The  breathless  youth  with  beating  heart 
beholds 

A  mystic  motion  in  its  argent  folds. 

xxxvi 
Yet   his   young   soul    is    bold,    and   hope 

grows  warm, 
As    flashing    through     that     cloud    of 

shadowy  crape, 

With  sweep  of  robes,  and  then  a  gleam 
ing  arm, 

Slowly  developing,  at  last  took  shape 
A  face  and  form  unutterably  bright,      29 
That  cast  a  golden  glamour  on  the  night. 


342 


HENRY    TIMROD 


343 


XXXVII 

But  for  the  glory  round  it  it  would  seem 
Almost  a  mortal  maiden ;  and  the  boy, 

Unto    whom    love    was    yet    an    innocent 

dream, 

Shivered   and   crimsoned   with   an   un 
known  joy; 

As  to  the  young  Spring  bounds  the  pas 
sionate  South, 

He   could   have   clasped    and   kissed    her 
mouth  to  mouth. 


XLII 
"Where  Passion  stoops,  or  strays,  is  cold, 

or  dead, 

I  lift  from  error,  or  to  action  thrill! 
Or  if  it  rage  too  madly  in  its  bed, 
The  tempest  hushes  at  my  'Peace !  be 

still !' 
I  know  how  far  its  tides  should  sing  or 

swell, 
And  they  obey  my  sceptre  and  my  spell. 


XXXVIII 

Yet  something  checked,  that  was  and  was 

not  dread, 
Till   in   a  low   sweet  voice  the   maiden 

spake ; 

She  was  the  Fairy  of  his  dreams,  she  said, 
And  loved  him  simply   for  his  human 

sake ;  40 

And  that  in  heaven,  wherefrom  she  took 

her  birth, 
They  called  her  Poesy,  the  angel  of  the 

earth. 

XXXIX 

"And  ever  since  that  immemorial  hour, 
When  the  glad  morning-stars  together 

sung, 
My    task    has    been,    beneath    a    mightier 

Power, 
To  keep  the  world   forever   fresh  and 

young ; 

I  give  it  not  its  fruitage  and  its  green, 
But  clothe  it  with  a  glory  all  unseen. 


"All  lovely  things,  and  gentle — the  sweet 

laugh 
Of     children,     Girlhood's      kiss,      and 

Friendship's  clasp 
The  boy  that  sporteth  with  the  old  man's 

staff, 
The   baby,   and   the   breast    its    fingers 

grasp —  70 

All  that  exalts  the  grounds  of  happiness, 
All  griefs  that  hallow,  and  all  joys  that 

bless, 

XLIV 

"To  me  are  sacred;  at  my  holy  shrine 
Love    breathes    its    latest    dreams,    its 

earliest  hints ; 

I  turn  life's  tasteless  waters  into  wine, 
And   flush   them   through   and  through 

with  purple  tints. 
Wherever  Earth  is  fair,  and  Heaven  looks 

down, 
I  rear  my  altars,  and  I  wear  my  crown. 


XL 

"I  sow  the  germ  which  buds  in  human  art, 
And,    with    my    sister,    Science,    I    ex 
plore  so 
With  light  the  dark  recesses  of  the  heart, 
And  nerve  the  will,  and  teach  the  wish 

to  soar ; 
I   touch   with  grace   the   body's    meanest 

clay, 

While  noble  souls  are  nobler  for  my  sway. 

* 

XLI 

"Before  my  power  the  kings  of  earth  have 

bowed ; 
I   am  the  voice  of   Freedom,   and   the 

sword 
Leaps    from    its    scabbard    when    I    call 

aloud ; 

Wherever  life  in  sacrifice  is  poured,    s8 
Wherever  martyrs  die  or  patriots  bleed, 
I  weave  the  chaplet  and  award  the  meed. 


"I  am  the  unseen  spirit  thou  hast  sought, 
I  woke  those  shadowy  questionings  that 

vex  8° 

Thy  young  mind,  lost  in   its   own   cloud 

of  thought, 
And   rouse  the   soul   they   trouble  and 

perplex ; 
I    filled    thy    days   with   visions,    and   thy 

nights 
Blessed  with  all  sweetest  sounds  and  fairy 

sights. 


"Not  here,  not  in  this  world,  may  I  dis 
close 
The    mysteries    in    which    this    life    is 

hearsed ; 
Some   doubts   there   be   that,   with    some 

earthly  woes, 

By   Death    alone   shall   wholly   be   dis 
persed; 


344 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Yet  on  those  very  doubts  from  this  low 

sod 
Thy  soul  shall  pass  beyond  the  stars  to 

God.  90 


"And  so  to  knowledge,  climbing  grade  by 

grade, 

Thou  shalt  attain  whatever  mortals  can, 

And  what  thou  mayst  discover  by  my  aid 

Thou   shalt  translate   unto  thy  brother 

man; 
And  men  shall  bless  the  power  that  flings 

a  ray 
Into  their  night  from  thy  diviner  day. 


XLVIII 
"For,   from  thy  lofty   height,  thy  words 

shall  fall 

Upon  their  spirits  like  bright  cataracts 
That    front    a    sunrise;    thou    shalt    hear 
them  call  99 

Amid  their  endless  waste  of  arid  facts 
As  wearily  they  plod  their  way  along, 
Upon  the  rhythmic  zephyrs  of  thy  song. 


XLIX 
"All  this  is  in  thy  reach,  but  much  depends 

Upon  thyself — thy  future  I  await; 
I  give  the  genius,  point  the  proper  ends, 

But  the  true  bard  is  his  own  only  Fate; 
Into  thy  soul  my  soul  have  I  infused; 
Take  care  thy  lofty  powers  be  wisely  used. 


LIT 

"Yet  over  his  deep  soul,  with  all  its  crowd 
Of   varying   hopes   and    fears,   he   still 

must  brood ; 

As  from  its  azure  height  a  tranquil  cloud 
Watches  its  own  bright  changes  in  the 

flood; 
Self  -  reading,  not  self -loving  —  they  are 

twain — 
And    sounding,    while    he    mourns,    the 

depths  of  pain. 


"Thus  shall  his  songs  attain  the  common 

brea'st, 
Dyed  in  his  own  life's  blood,  the  sign 

and  seal, 
Even  as  the  thorns  which  are  the  martyr's 

crest, 

That  do  attest  his  office,  and  appeal    '3° 
Unto  the  universal  human  heart 
In  sanction  of  his  mission  and  his  art. 

LIV 
"Much  yet  remains  unsaid — pure  must  he 

be; 
Oh,  blessed  are  the  pure !  for  they  shall 

hear 
Where  others  hear  not,  see  where  others 

see 
With  a  dazed  vision :  who  have  drawn 

most  near 
My    shrine,    have    ever    brought    a    spirit 

cased 
And  mailed  in  a  body  clean  and  chaste. 


"The  Poet  owes  a  High  and  holy  debt, 
Which,  if  he  feel,  he  craves  not  to  be 
heard  JI° 

For  the  poor  boon  of  praise,  or  place,  nor 

yet 
Does  the  mere  joy  of  song,  as  with  the 

bird 

Of  many  voices,  prompt  the  choral  lay 
That  cheers  that  gentle  pilgrim  on  his  way. 


LI 

"Nor  may  he  always  sweep  the  passion 
ate  lyre, 

Which  is  his  heart,  only  for  such  relief 
As  an  impatient  spirit  may  desire, 
Lest,    from    the    grave   which    hides    a 

private  grief, 
The  spells  of   song   call  up   some  pallid 

wraith 
To  blast  or  ban  a  mortal  hope  or  faith.  I2° 


"The  Poet  to  the  whole  wide  world  be 
longs, 

Even   as   the   teacher   is   the   child's — I 

said  J4° 

No  selfish  aim  should  ever  mar  his  songs, 

But  self  wears  many  guises ;  men  may 

wed 

Self  in  another,  and  the  soul  may  be 
Self  to  its  centre,  all  unconsciously. 


"And  therefore  must  the  Poet  watch,  lest 

he, 

In  the  dark  struggle  of  this  life,  should 
take 

Stains    which    he    might    not    notice;    he 

must  flee 

Falsehood,  however  winsome,  and   for 
sake 

All   for   the   Truth,    assured    that   Truth 
alone  '49 

Is  Beauty,  and  can  make  him  all  my  own. 


HENRY   TIMROD 


LVII 

"And  he  must  be  as  armed  warrior  strong, 

And  he  must  be  as  gentle  as  a  girl, 
And  he  must  front,  and  sometimes  suffer 

wrong, 
With  brow  unbent,  and  lip  untaught  to 

curl; 
For  wrath,  and  scorn,  and  pride,  however 

just, 

Fill   the   clear   spirit's   eyes   with   earthly 
dust." 

Before  1860. 


SONNET 

Life  ever  seems  as  from  its  present  site 
It  aimed  to  lure  us.     Mountains  of  the 

past 
It  melts,  with  all  their  crags  and  cavern 

vast, 

Into  a  purple  cloud !     Across  the  night 
Which  hides  what  is  to  be,  it  shoots   a 

light 

All  rosy  with  the  yet  unriven  dawn. 
Not    the    near    daisies,    but    yon    distant 

height 

Attracts  us,  lying  on  this  emerald  lawn. 
And    always,    be   the    landscape   what    it 

may — 
Blue,  misty  hill  or  sweep  of  glimmering 

plain —  10 

It  is  the  eye's  endeavor  still  to  gain 
The  fine,  faint  limit  of  the  bounding  day. 
God,   haply,   in  this   mystic   mode,   would 

fain 
Hint  of  a  happier  home,  far,  far  away ! 

Before  1860? 


SONNET 

I  scarcely  grieve,  O  Nature !  at  the  lot 
That  pent  my  life  within  a  city's  bounds, 
And   shut   me    from   thy   sweetest    sights 

and  sounds. 
Perhaps  I  had  not  learned,  if  some  lone 

cot 
Had  nursed  a  dreamy  childhood,  what  the 

mart 

Taught  me  amid  its  turmoil ;  so  my  youth 
Had  missed  full  many  a  stern  but  whole 
some  truth. 

Here,  too,  O  Nature!  in  this  haunt  of  Art, 
Thy  power  is  on  me.  and  I  own  thy  thrall. 
There  is  no  unimpressive  spot  on  earth !  «> 
The  beauty  of  the  stars  is  over  all, 


And  Day  and  Darkness  visit  every  hearth. 
Clouds  do  not  scorn  us :  yonder  factory's 

smoke 
Looked  like  a  golden  mist  when  morning 

broke. 

Before  1860? 

SONNET 

I  know  not  why,  but  all  this  weary  day, 
Suggested  by  no  definite  grief  or  pain, 
Sad  fancies  have  been  flitting  through  my 

brain ; 

Now  it  has  been  a  vessel  losing  way, 
Rounding  a  stormy  headland ;  now  a  gray 
Dull  waste  of  clouds  above  a  wintry  main; 
And  then,  a  banner,  drooping  in  the  rain, 
And  meadows  beaten  into  bloody  clay. 
Strolling  at   random    with    this    shadowy 

woe 
At  heart,    I   chanced   to   wander   hither ! 

Lo!  io 

A  league  of  desolate  marsh-land,  with  its 

lush, 

Hot  grasses  in  a  noisome,  tide-left  bed, 
And  faint,  warm  airs,  that  rustle  in  the 

hush, 
Like  whispers  round  the  body  of  the  dead ! 

Before  1860? 

KATIE 

It  may  be  through  some  foreign  grace, 
And  unfamiliar  charm  of  face; 
It  may  be  that  across  the  foam 
Which    bore    her    from    her    childhood's 

home, 

By  some  strange  spell,  my  Katie  brought, 
Along  with  English  creeds  and  thought — 
Entangled  in  her  golden  hair — 
Some  English  sunshine,  warmth,  and  air ! 
I  cannot  tell — but  here  to-day, 
A  thousand  billowy  leagues  away  I0 

From  that  green  isle  whose  twilight  skies 
No  darker  are  than  Katie's  eyes, 
She  seems  to  me,  go  where  she  will, 
An  English  girl  in  England  still ! 

I  meet  her  on  the  dusty  street, 
And  daisies  spring  about  her  feet; 
Or,  touched  to  life  beneath  her  tread, 
An  English  cowslip  lifts  its  head; 
And,  as  to  do  her  grace,  rise  up 
The  primrose  and  the  buttercup !  *> 

I  roam  with  her  through  fields  of  cane, 
And  seem  to  stroll  an  English  lane, 
Which,  white  with  blossoms  of  the  May, 
Spreads  its  green  carpet  in  her  way! 


346 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


As  fancy  wills,  the  path  beneath 

Is  golden  gorse,  or  purple  heath : 

And  now  we  hear  in  woodlands  dim 

Their  unarticulated  hymn, 

Now    walk    through    rippling    waves    of 

wheat, 

Now  sink  in  mats  of  clover  sweet,          3° 
Or  see  before  us  from  the  lawn 
The  lark  go  up  to  greet  the  dawn ! 
All  birds  that  love  the  English  sky 
Throng  round  my  path  when  she  is  by: 
The  blackbird  from  a  neighboring  thorn 
With  music  brims  the  cup  of  morn, 
And  in  a  thick,  melodious  rain, 
The  mavis  pours  her  mellow  strain ! 
But  only  when  my  Katie's  voice 
Makes  all  the  listening  woods  rejoice    40 
I  hear — with  cheeks  that  flush  and  pale — 
The  passion  of  the  nightingale! 

1861? 


ETHNOGENESIS 

Written  during  the  meeting  of  the  First 

Southern  Congress,  at  Montgomery, 

February,  1861. 


Hath  not  the  morning  dawned  with  added 

light? 

And  shall  not  evening  call  another  star 
Out  of  the  infinite  regions  of  the  night, 
To  mark  this  day  in  Heaven?  At  last, 

we  are 

A  nation  among  nations ;  and  the  world 
Shall  soon  behold  in  many  a  distant  port 

Another  flag  unfurled! 
Now,  come  what  may,  whose  favor  need 

we  court? 
And,  under  God,  whose  thunder  need  we 

fear? 

Thank  him  who  placed  us  here        I0 
Beneath  so  kind  a  sky — the  very  sun 
Takes  part  with  us;  and  on  our  errands 

run 

All  breezes  of  the  ocean;  dew  and  rain 
Do  noiseless  battle  for  us;  and  the  Year, 
And  all  the  gentle  daughters  in  her  train, 
March  in  our  ranks,  and  in  our  service 

wield 

Long  spears  of  golden  grain! 
A  yellow  blossom  as  her  fairy  shield. 
June  flings  her  azure  banner  to  the  wind, 
While  in  the  order  of  their  birth          2° 
Her  sisters  pass,  and  many  an  ample  field 
Grows  white  beneath  their  steps,  till  now, 

behold, 
Its  endless  sheets  unfold 


The   Snow  of  Southern  Summers!    Let 

the  earth 
Rejoice!    beneath   those   fleeces    soft    and 

warm 

Our  happy  land  shall  sleep 
In  a  repose  as  deep 
As  if  we  lay  intrenched  behind 
Whole  leagues  of  Russian  ice  and  Arctic 
storm ! 

II 

And  what  if,  mad  with  wrongs  themselves 
have  wrought,  3° 

In  their  own  treachery  caught, 
By  their  own  fears  made  bold, 
And  leagued  with  him  of  old, 
Wrho  long  since  in  the  limits  of  the  North 
Set  up  his  evil  throne,  and  warred  with 

God— 
What  if,  both  mad  and  blinded  in  their 

rage, 
Our    foes    should    fling    us    down    their 

mortal  gage, 

And  with  a  hostile  step  profane  our  sod! 
We  shall  not  shrink,  my  brothers,  but  go 

forth 

To  meet  them,  marshaled  by  the  Lord  of 
Hosts,  40 

And  overshadowed  by  the  mighty  ghosts 
Of  Mpultrie  and  of  Eutaw — who  shall  foil 
Auxiliars  such  as  these?    Nor  these  alone, 
But  every  stock  and  stone 
Shall  help  us ;  but  the  very  soil, 
And  all  the  generous  wealth   it  gives  to 

toil, 

And  all  for  which  we  love  our  noble  land, 
Shall   fight  beside,   and   through   us;    sea 

and  strand, 

The  heart  of  woman,  and  her  hand, 
Tree,  fruit,  and  flower,  and  every  influ 
ence,  5° 
Gentle,  or  grave,  or  grand; 
The  winds  in  our  defence 
Shall  seem  to  blow;  to  us  the  hills  shall 

lend 

Their  firmness  and  their  calm; 
And  in  our  stiffened  sinews  we  shall  blend 
The  strength  of  pine  and  palm! 


in 

Nor  would  we  shun  the  battle-ground, 

Though  weak  as  we  are  strong; 
Call  up  the  clashing  elements  around, 

And  test  the  right  and  wrong!          6° 
On  one  side,  creeds  that  dare  to  teach 
What  Christ  and  Paul  refrained  to  preach ; 
Codes  built  upon  a  broken  pledge, 
And  Charity  that  whets  a  poniard's  edge; 


HENRY   TIMROD 


347 


Fair  schemes  that  leave  the  neighboring 

poor 
To   starve  and  shiver  at  the   schemer's 

door, 
While  in  the  world's  most  liberal  ranks 

enrolled, 

He  turns  some  vast  philanthropy  to  gold; 
Religion,  taking  every  mortal  form 
But  that  a  pure  and  Christian  faith  makes 

warm,  7° 

Where  not  to  vile  fanatic  passion  urged, 
Or  not  in  vague  philosophies  submerged, 
Repulsive  with  all  Pharisaic  leaven, 
And   making   laws   to   stay   the   laws   of 

Heaven ! 

And  on  the  other,  scorn  of  sordid  gain, 
Unblemished  honor,  truth  without  a  stain, 
Faith,  justice,  reverence,  charitable  wealth, 
And,  for  the  poor  and  humble,  laws  which 

give, 
Not  the  mean  right  to  buy  the. right  to 

live, 

But  life,  and  home,  and  health!        8° 
To  doubt  the  end  were  want  of  trust  in 

God, 

Who,  if  he  has  decreed 
That  we  must  pass  a  redder  sea 
Than  that  which  rang  to   Miriam's  holy 

glee, 

Will  surely  raise  at  need 
A  Moses  with  his  rod! 


IV 

But  let  our  fears — if  fears  we  have — be 
still, 

And   turn   us  to  the   future!    Could  we 
climb 

Some  mighty  Alp,  and  view  the  coming 
time, 

The  rapturous  sight  would  fill  9° 

Our  eyes  with  happy  tears! 

Not  only  for  the  glories  which  the  years 

Shall  bring  us;  not  for  lands   from  sea 
to  sea, 

And  wealth,  and  power,  and  peace,  though 
these  shall  be; 

But  for  the  distant  peoples  we  shall  bless, 

And  the  hushed  murmurs  of  a  world's 
distress : 

For,  to  give  labor  to  the  poor, 
The  whole  sad  planet  o'er, 

And  save  from  want  and  crime  the  hum 
blest  door, 

Is  one  among  the  many  ends  for  which  I0° 
God  makes  us  great  and  rich ! 

The  hour  perchance  is  not  yet  wholly  ripe 

When  all  shall  own  it,  but  the  type 


Whereby  we  shall  be  known  in  every  land 

Is  that  vast  gulf  which  lips  our  Southern 
strand, 

And  through  the  cold,  untempered  ocean 
pours 

Its   genial   streams,   that   far  off  Arctic 
shores 

May  sometimes  catch  upon  the  softened 
breeze 

Strange  tropic  warmth  and  hints  of  sum 
mer  seas. 

February,  1861. 


SPRING 

Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the 

air 

Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair, 
Spring,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver 

rain, 
Is  with  us  once  again. 

Out  in  the  lonely  woods  the  jasmine  burns 
Its  fragrant  lamps,  and  turns 
Into  a  royal  court  with  green  festoons 
The  banks  of  dark  lagoons. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest  tree 
The  blood  is  all  aglee,  10 

And    there's    a    look    about    the    leafless 

bowers 
As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 

Yet  still  on  every  side  we  trace  the  hand 

Of  winter  in  the  land, 

Save   where   the   maple   reddens   on  the 

lawn, 
Flushed  by  the  season's  dawn; 

Or  where,  like  those  strange  semblances 

we  find 

That  age  to  childhood  bind, 
The  elm  puts  on,  as  if  in  Nature's  scorn, 
The  brown  of  Autumn  corn.  2° 

As   yet   the   turf   is   dark,   although   you 

know 

That,  not  a  span  below, 
A  thousand  germs  are  groping  through 

the  gloom, 
And  soon  will  burst  their  tomb. 

Already,  here  and  there,  on  frailest  stems 
Appear  some  azure  gems, 
Small  as  might  deck,  upon  a  gala  day, 
The  forehead  of  a  fay. 


348 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


In  gardens  you  may  note  amid  the  dearth 
The  crocus  breaking  earth;  3° 

And   near   the   snowdrops'    tender   white 

and  green, 
The  violet  in  its  screen. 

But  many  gleams  and  shadows  need  must 

pass 

Along  the  budding  grass, 
And  weeks  go  by,  before  the  enamored 

South 
Shall  kiss  the  rose's  mouth. 

Still  there's  a  sense  of  blossoms  yet  un 
born 

In  the  sweet  airs  of  morn ; 
One  almost  looks  to  see  the  very  street 
Grow  purple  at  his  feet.  4° 

At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating 

by, 

And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 
A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await 
Before  a  palace  gate 

Some  wondrous  pageant;  and  you  scarce 

would  start, 

If  from  a  beech's  heart, 
A  blue-eyed  Dryad,  stepping  forth,  should 

say, 
"Behold  me!     I  am  May!" 

Ah!  who  would  couple  thoughts  of  war 

and  crime 

With  such  a  blessed  time !  5° 

Who  in  the  west  wind's  aromatic  breath 
Could  hear  the  call  of  Death! 

Yet    not    more    surely    shall    the    Spring 

awake 

The  voice  of  wood  and  brake, 
Than  she  shall  rouse,  for  all  her  tranquil 

charms, 
A  million  men  to  arms. 

There  shall  be  deeper  hues  upon  her  plains 
Than  all  her  sunlit  rains, 
And  every  gladdening  influence  around, 
Can  summon  from  the  ground.  6° 

Oh!  standing  on  this  desecrated  mould, 
Methinks  that  I  behold, 
Lifting  her  bloody  daisies  up  to  God, 
Spring  kneeling  on  the  sod, 

And   calling,   with   the  voice   of   all   her 

rills, 

Upon  the  ancient  hills 
To    fall   and  crush   the  tyrants   and  the 

slaves 
Who  turn  her  meads  to  graves. 


CAROLINA 


The  despot  treads  thy  sacred  sands, 
Thy  pines  give  shelter  to  his  bands, 
Thy  sons  stand  by  with  idle  hands, 

Carolina ! 

He  breathes  at  ease  thy  airs  of  balm, 
He  scorns  the  lances  of  thy  palm ; 
Oh !  who  shall  break  thy  craven  calm, 

Carolina ! 

Thy  ancient  fame  is  growing  dim, 
A  spot  is  on  thy  garment's  rim; 
Give  to  the  winds  thy  battle  hymn, 

Carolina ! 


Call  on  thy  children  of  the  hill, 
Wake  swamp  and  river,  coast  and  rill, 
Rouse  all  thy  strength  and  all  thy  skill, 

Carolina ! 

Cite  wealth  and  science,  trade  and  art, 
Touch  with  thy  fire  the  cautious  mart, 
And  pour  thee  through  the  people's  heart. 

Carolina !  x 

Till  even  the  coward  spurns  his  fears, 
And  all  thy  fields  and  fens  and  meres 
Shall  bristle  like  thy  palm  with  spears, 

Carolina ! 

in 

Hold  up  the  glories  of  thy  dead; 
Say  how  thy  elder  children  bled, 
And  point  to  Eutaw's  battle-bed, 

Carolina ! 

Tell  how  the  patriot's  soul  was  tried, 
And  what  his  dauntless  breast  defied ;    3° 
How  Rutledge  ruled  and  Laurens  died, 

Carolina ! 

Cry !  till  thy  summons,  heard  at  last, 
Shall  fall  like  Marion's  bugle-blast 
Re-echoed  from  the  haunted  past, 

Carolina ! 

IV 

I  hear  a  murmur  as  of  waves 

That    grope    their    way   through    sunless 

caves, 
Like  bodies  struggling  in  their  graves, 

Carolina !  4° 

And  now  it  deepens;  slow  and  grand 
It  swells,  as,  rolling  to  the  land, 
An  ocean  broke  upon  thy  strand, 

Carolina ! 

Shout !  let  it  reach  the  startled  Huns ! 
And  roar  with  all  thy  festal  guns ! 
It  is  the  answer  of  thy  sons, 

Carolina ! 


HENRY   TIMROD 


349 


They  will  not  wait  to  hear  thee  call; 
From  Sachem's  Head  to  Sumter's  wall  5° 
Resounds  the  voice  of  hut  and  hall, 

Carolina ! 

No!  thou  hast  not  a  stain,  they  say, 
Or  none  save  what  the  battle-day 
Shall  wash  in  seas  of  blood  away, 

Carolina ! 

Thy  skirts  indeed  the  foe  may  part, 
Thy  robe  be  pierced  with  sword  and  dart, 
They  shall  not  touch  thy  noble  heart, 

Carolina !  6° 

VI 

Ere  thou  shalt  own  the  tyrant's  thrall 
Ten  times  ten  thousand  men  must  fall ; 
Thy  corpse  .may  hearken  to  his  call, 

Carolina ! 

When,  by  thy  bier,  in  mournful  throngs 
The  women  chant  thy  mortal  wrongs, 
'T  will  be  their. own  funereal  songs, 

Carolina ! 

From  thy  dead  breast  by  ruffians  trod 
No  helpless  child  shall  look  to  God;       7° 
All  shall  be  safe  beneath  thy  sod, 

Carolina ! 

VII 

Girt  with  such  wills  to  do  and  bear, 
Assured  in  right,  and  mailed  in  prayer, 
Thou  wilt  not  bow  thee  to  despair, 

Carolina ! 

Throw  thy  bold  banner  to  the  breeze ! 
Front  with  thy  ranks  the  threatening  seas 
Like  thine  own  proud  armorial  trees, 

Carolina !  8° 

Fling  down  thy  gauntlet  to  the  Huns, 
And  roar  the  challenge  from  thy  guns; 
Then  leave  the  future  to  thy  sons, 

Carolina ! 

1861. 


CHARLESTON 

Calm  as  that  second  summer  which  pre 
cedes 

The  first  fall  of  the  snow, 
In  the  broad  sunlight  of  heroic  deeds 

The  city  bides  the  foe. 

As  yet,  behind  their  ramparts  stern  and 
proud, 

Her  bolted  thunders  sleep — 
Dark  Sumter,  like  a  battlemented  cloud, 

Looms  o'er  the  solemn  deep. 


No  Calpe  frowns  from  lofty  cliff  or  scar 
To  guard  the  holy  strand ;  I0 

But  Moultrie  holds  in  leash  her  dogs  of 

war 
Above  the  level  sand. 

And  down  the  dunes  a  thousand  guns  lie 
couched, 

Unseen,  beside  the  flood — 
Like  tigers  in  some  Orient  jungle  crouched 

That  wait  and  watch  for  blood. 

Meanwhile,   through  streets  still  echoing 

with  trade, 

Walk  grave  and  thoughtful  men, 
Whose    hands    may    one    day    wield    the 

patriot's  blade 
As  lightly  as  the  pen.  2° 

And  'maidens,  with  such   eyes   as   would 

grow  dim 

Over  a  bleeding  hound, 
Seem  each  one  to  have  caught  the  strength 

of  him 
Whose  sword  she  sadly  bound. 

'Thus  girt  without  and  garrisoned  at  home, 

Day  patient  following  day, 
Old    Charleston    looks    from    roof,    and 

spire,  and  dome, 
Across  her  tranquil  bay. 

Ships,  through  a  hundred  foes,  from 
Saxon  lands 

And  spicy  Indian  ports,  3° 

Bring  Saxon  steel  and  iron  to  her  hands, 

And  Summer  to  her  courts. 

But  still,  along  yon  dim  Atlantic  line, 

The  only  hostile  smoke 
Creeps   like   a   harmless   mist   above   the 
brine, 

From  some  frail,  floating  oak. 

Shall  the  Spring  dawn,  and  she  still  clad 

in  smiles, 

And  with  an  unscathed  brow, 
Rest    in   the   strong   arms   of    her   palm- 
crowned  isles, 
As  fair  and  free  as  now?  4° 

We  know  not ;  in  the  temple  of  the  Fates 
God  has  inscribed  her  doom; 

And,  all  untroubled  in  her  faith,  she  waits 
The  triumph  or  the  tomb. 

1861? 


350 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


CHRISTMAS 

How  grace  this  hallowed  day? 
Shall    happy   bells,    from  yonder   ancient 

spire, 

Send  their  glad  greetings  to  each  Christ 
mas  fire 
Round  which  the  children  play? 

Alas !  for  many  a  moon, 
That  tongueless   tower  hath  cleaved  the 

Sabbath  air, 
Mute  as  an  obelisk  of  ice,  aglare 

Beneath  an  Arctic  noon. 

Shame  to  the  foes  that  drown 
Our  psalms  of  worship  with  their  impious 
drum,  I0 

The  sweetest  chimes  in  all  the  land  lie 

dumb 
In  some  far  rustic  town. 

There,  let  us  think,  they  keep, 
Of  the  dead  Yules  which  here  beside  the 

sea 

They've  ushered   in  with  old-world,  En 
glish  glee, 
Some  echoes  in  their  sleep. 

How  shall  we  grace  the  day? 
With  feast,  and  song,  and  dance,  and  an 
tique  sports, 
And  shout  of  happy  children  in  the  courts, 

And  tales  of  ghost  and  fay?  2° 

Is  there  indeed  a  door, 
Where  the  old  pastimes,  with  their  law 
ful  noise, 
And   all  the  merry  round   of   Christmas 

joys, 
Could  enter  as  of  yore? 

Would  not  some  pallid  face 
Look  in  upon  the  banquet,  calling  up 
Dread   shapes   of   battles   in   the   wassail 
cup, 

And  trouble  all  the  place? 

How  could  we  bear  the  mirth,  29 

While  some  loved  reveller  of  a  year  ago 
Keeps  his  mute  Christmas  now  beneath 
the  snow, 

In  cold  Virginian  earth? 

How  shall  we  grace  the  day? 
Ah!    let    the   thought   that   on    this   holy 

morn 
The    Prince    of    Peace — the    Prince    of 

Peace  was  born, 
Employ  us,  while  we  pray ! 


Pray  for  the  peace  which  long 
Hath  left  this   tortured  land,   and  haply 

now 

Holds  its  white  court  on  some  far  moun 
tain's  brow, 
There  hardly  safe  from  wrong !  4° 

Let  every  sacred  fane 
Call  its  sad  votaries  to  the  shrine  of  God, 
And,  with  the  cloister  and  the  tented  sod, 

Join  in  one  solemn  strain! 

With  pomp  of  Roman  form, 
With  the  grave  ritual  brought  from  Eng 
land's  shore, 
And    with   the    simple    faith    which    asks 

no  more 
Than  that  the  heart  be  warm! 

He,  who,  till  time  shall  cease, 
Will  watch  that   earth,   where  once,   not 
all  in  vain,  5° 

He  died  to  give  us  peace,  may  not  disdain 

A  prayer  whose  theme  is — peace. 

Perhaps  ere  yet  the  Spring 
Hath  died  into  the  Summer,  over  all 
The    land,    the    peace    of    His    vast    love 
shall  fall, 

Like  some  protecting  wing. 

Oh,  ponder  what  it  means ! 
Oh,  turn  the  rapturous  thought  in  every 

way. 
Oh,  give  the  vision  and  the  fancy  play, 

And  shape  the  coming  scenes !  6° 

Peace  in  the  quiet  dales, 
Made  rankly  fertile  by  the  blood  of  men, 
Peace   in   the   woodland,    and    the   lonely 
glen, 

Peace  in  the  peopled  vales ! 

Peace  in  the  crowded  town, 
Peace    in    a    thousand    fields    of    waving 

grain, 
Peace  in  the  highway  and  the  flowery  lane, 

Peace  on  the  wind-swept  down ! 

Peace  on  the  farthest  seas, 
Peace   in   our   sheltered   bays   and   ample 
streams,  ?° 

Peace    wheresoe'er    our    starry    garland 

streams, 
And  peace  in  every  breeze ! 


HENRY   TIMROD 


351 


Peace  on  the  whirring  marts, 
Peace  where  the  scholar  thinks,  and  the 

hunter  roams, 
Peace,  God  of  Peace !  peace,  peace,  in  all 

our  homes, 
And  peace  in  all  our  hearts ! 

1861? 

THE  COTTON  BOLL 

While  I  recline 

At  ease  beneath 

This  immemorial  pine, 

Small  sphere ! 

(By  dusky  fingers  brought  this  morning 
here 

And  shown  with  boastful  smiles), 

I  turn  thy  cloven  sheath, 

Through  which  the  soft  white  fibres  peer, 

That,  with  their  gossamer  bands, 

Unite,  like  love,  the  sea-divided  lands,    I0 

And  slowly,  thread  by  thread, 

Draw  forth  the  folded  strands, 

Than  which  the  trembling  line, 

By  whose  frail  help  yon  startled  spider 
fled 

Down  the  tall  spear-grass  from  his  swing 
ing  bed, 

Is  scarce  more  fine ; 

And  as  the  tangled  skein 

Unravels  in  my  hands, 

Betwixt  me  and  the  noonday  light, 

A  veil  seems  lifted,  and  for  miles  and 
miles  2° 

The  landscape  broadens  on  my  sight, 

As,  in  the  little  boll,  there  lurked  a  spell 

Like  that  which,  in  the  ocean  shell, 

With  mystic  sound, 

Breaks  down  the  narrow  walls  that  hem 
us  round, 

And  turns  some  city  lane 

Into  the  restless  main, 

With  all  his  capes  and  isles ! 

Yonder  bird, 

Which  floats,  as  if  at  rest,  3° 

In  those  blue  tracts  above  the   thunder, 

where 

No  vapors  cloud  the  stainless  air, 
And  never  sound  is  heard, 
Unless  at  such  rare  time 
When,  from  the  City  of  the  Blest, 
Rings  down  some  golden  chime, 
Sees  not  from  his  high  place 
So  vast  a  cirque  of  summer  space 
As  widens  round  me  in  one  mighty  field. 
Which,  rimmed  by  seas  and  sands,          4° 
Doth    hail    its    earliest    daylight    in    the 

beams 


Of  gray  Atlantic  dawns; 

And,  broad  as  realms  made  up  of  many 

lands, 

Is  lost  afar 

Behind  the  crimson  hills  and  purple  lawns 
Of  sunset,  among  plains  which  roll  their 

.streams 

Against  the  Evening  Star! 
And  lo! 

To  the  remotest  point  of  sight,  49 

Although  I  gaze  upon  no  waste  of  snow, 
The  endless  field  is  white; 
And  the  whole  landscape  glows, 
For  many  a  shining  league  away, 
With  such  accumulated  light 
As    Polar    lands    would   flash   beneath    a 

tropic  day ! 

Nor  lack  there  (for  the  vision  grows, 
And  the  small  charm  within  my  hands — 
More  potent  even  than  the  fabled  one, 
Which  oped  whatever  golden  mystery 
Lay  hid  in  fairy  wood  or  magic  vale,      60* 
The    curious    ointment    of    the    Arabian 

tale— 

Beyond  all  mortal  sense 
Doth   stretch   my   sight's   horizon,   and   I 

see, 

Beneath  its  simple  influence, 
As  if  with  Uriel's  crown, 
I  stood  in  some  great  temple  of  the  Sun, 
And  looked,  as  Uriel,  down!) 
Nor  lack  there  pastures   rich  and   fields 

all  green 

With  all  the'  common  gifts  of  God, 
For  temperate  airs  and  torrid  sheen       7° 
Weave  Edens  of  the  sod ; 
Through  lands  which  look  one  sea  of  bil 
lowy  gold 

Broad  rivers  wind  their  devious  ways ; 
A  hundred  isles  in  their  embraces  fold 
A  hundred  luminous  bays; 
Vast   mountains   lift   their   plumed   peaks 

cloud-crowned ; 

And,  save  where  up  their  sides  the  plough 
man  creeps, 
An   unhewn    forest   girds    them    grandly 

round, 
In    whose    dark    shades    a    future    navy 

sleeps !  8° 

Ye  Stars,  which,  though  unseen,  yet  with 

me  gaze 

Upon  this  loveliest  fragment  of  the  earth  ! 
Thou   Sun,  that  kindlest  all  thy  gentlest 

rays 

Above  it,  as  to  light  a  favorite  hearth ! 
Ye  Clouds,  that  in  your  temples   in  the 

West 
See   nothing   brighter   than   its   humblest 

flowers ! 


352 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


And  you,  ye  Winds,  that  on  the  ocean's 

breast 
Are  kissed  to  coolness   ere  ye  reach   its 

bowers ! 
Bear   witness    with    me   in   my    song   of 

praise, 
And  tell  the  world  that,  since  the  world 

began,  9° 

No  fairer  land  hath  fired  a  poet's  lays 
Or  given  a  home  to  man ! 

But  these  are  charms  already  widely 
blown ! 

His  be  the  meed  whose  pencil's  trace 

Hath  touched  our  very  swamps  with 
grace,  - 

And  round  whose  tuneful  way 

All  Southern  laurels  bloom; 

The  Poet  of  "The  Woodlands,"1  unto 
whom 

Alike  are  known 

The  flute's  low  breathing  and  the  trum 
pet's  tone,  10° 

And  the  soft  west  wind's  sighs; 

But  who  shall  utter  all  the  debt, 

O  Land  wherein  all  powers  are  met 

That  bind  a  people's  heart, 

The  world  doth  owe  thee  at  this  day, 

And  which  it  never  can  repay, 

Yet  scarcely  deigns  to  own ! 

Where  sleeps  the  poet  who  shall  fitly  sing 

The  source  wherefrom  doth  spring 

That  mighty  commerce  which,  confined  II0 

To  the  mean  channels  of  the  unselfish 
mart, 

Goes  out  to  every  shore 

Of  this  broad  earth,  and  throngs  the  sea 
with  ships 

That  bear  no  thunders;  hushes  hungry 
lips 

In  alien  lands; 

Joins  with  a  delicate  web  remotest  strands ; 

And  gladdening  rich  and  poor, 

Doth  gild  Parisian  domes, 

Or  feed  the  cottage-smoke  of  English 
homes, 

And  only  bounds  its  blessings  by  man 
kind  !  I2° 

In  offices  like  these,  thy  mission  lies, 

My  country!  and  it  shall  not  .end 

As  long  as  rain  shall  fall  and  heaven 
bend 

In  blue  above  thee;  though  thy  foes  be 
hard 

And  cruel  as  their  weapons,  it  shall  guard 

1  William  Gilmore  Simms  (1806-1870),  the 
leader  of  the  Charleston  literary  group,  who 
lived  at  the  estate  of  his  father-in-law,  "Wood 
lands,"  Barnwell  District,  S.  C. 


Thy  hearth-stones  as  a   bulwark;   make 

thee  great 

In  white  and  bloodless  state; 
And  haply,  as  the  years  increase — 
Still  working  through  its  humbler  reach 
With  that  large  wisdom  which  the  ages 

teach—  130 

Revive  the  half-dead  dream  of  universal 

peace ! 

As  men  who  labor  in  that  mine 
Of   Cornwall,   hollowed   out  beneath   the 

bed 

Of  ocean,  when  a  storm  rolls  overhead, 
Hear  the  dull  booming  of  the  world  of 

brine 

Above  them,  and  a  mighty  muffled  roar 
Of  winds  and  waters,  yet  toil  calmly  on, 
And  split  the  rock,  and  pile  the  massive 

ore, 
Or   carve  a  niche,   or   shape  the  arched 

roof; 

So  I,  as  calmly,  weave  my  woof  J4° 

Of  song,  chanting  the  days  to  come, 
Unsilenced,  though  the  quiet  summer  air 
Stirs  with  the  bruit  of  battles,  and  each 

dawn 

Wakes  from  its  starry  silence  to  the  hum 
Of  many  gathering  armies.     Still, 
In  that  we  sometimes  hear, 
Upon  the  Northern  winds,  the  voice  of  woe 
Not  wholly  drowned  in  triumph,  though 

I  know 
The  end  must  crown  us,  and  a  few  brief 

years 

Dry  all  our  tears,  JS° 

I  may  not  sing  too  gladly.     To  Thy  will 
Resigned,  O  Lord !  we  cannot  all  forget 
That   there    is   much    even   Victory   must 

regret. 

And,  therefore,  not  too  long 
From  the  great  burthen  of  our  country's 

wrong 

Delay  our  just  release! 
And,  if  it  may  be,  save 
These  sacred  fields  of  peace 
From  stain  of  patriot  or  of  hostile  blood! 
Oh,   help  us,  Lord !   to   roll  the  crimson 

flood  I6° 

Back  on  its  course,  and,  while  our  ban 
ners  wing 
Northward,  strike  with  us !  till  the  Goth 

shall  cling 

To  his  own  blasted  altar-stones,  and  crave 
Mercy;  and  we  shall  grant  it,  and  dictate 
The  lenient  future  of  his  fate 
There,    where    some    rotting    ships    and 

crumbling  quays 
Shall  one  day  mark  the  Port  which  ruled 

the  Western  seas. 


HENRY   TIMROD 


353 


ADDRESS     DELIVERED     AT     THE 
OPENING  OF  THE  NEW  THE 
ATRE    AT    RICHMOND 

A  prize  poem. 

A  fairy  ring 

Drawn  in  the  crimson  of  a  battle-plain — 
From  whose  weird  circle  every  loathsome 

thing 

And  sight  and  sound  of  pain 
Are  banished,  while  about  it  in  the  air, 
And  from  the  ground,  and  from  the  low- 
hung  skies, 

Throng,  in  a  vision  fair 
As  ever  lit  a  prophet's  dying  eyes, 

Gleams  of  that  unseen  world  9 

That  lies  about  us,  rainbow-tinted  shapes 

With  starry  wings  unfurled, 
Poised  for  a  moment  on  such  airy  capes 
As  pierce  the  golden  foam 
Of  sunset's  silent  main — 
Would    image    what    in    this    enchanted 

dome, 

Amid  the  night  of  war  and  death 
In  which  the  armed  city  draws  its  breath, 

We  have  built  up ! 

For  though  no  wizard  wand  or  magic  cup 

The  spell  hath  wrought,  2° 

Within   this    charmed    fane,    we   ope   the 

gates 

Of  that  divinest  Fairy-land, 
Where  under  loftier  fates 
Than  rule  the  vulgar  earth  on  which  we 

stand, 
Move  the  bright  creatures  of  the  realm 

of  thought. 

Shut  for  one  happy  evening  from  the  flood 
That  roars  around  us,  here  you  may  be 
hold- 
As  if  a  desert  way 
Could  blossom  and  unfold 
A  garden  fresh  with  May —  3° 

Substantialized     in    breathing    flesh    and 

blood, 

Souls  that  upon  the  poet's  page 
Have  lived  from  age  to  age, 
And  yet  have  never  donned  this  mortal 

clay. 

A  golden  strand 
Shall   sometimes   spread  before  you   like 

the  isle 

Where  fair  Miranda's  smile 
Met  the  sweet  stranger  whom  the  father's 

art 

Had  led  unto  her  heart, 
Which,   like   a   bud   that    waited    for   the 
light,  40 

Burst  into  bloom  at  sight ! 


Love  shall  grow  softer  in  each  maiden's 

eyes 

As  Juliet  leans  her  cheek  upon  her  hand, 
And  prattles  to  the  night. 
Anon,  a  reverend  form, 
With    tattered     robe    and     forehead 

bare, 

That   challenge   all   the   torments   of   the 
air, 

Goes  by! 
And  the  pent  feelings  choke  in  one  long 

sigh, 

W'hile,  as  the  mimic  thunder  rolls,  you 
hear  5° 

The  noble  wreck  of  Lear 
Reproach  like  things  of  life  the  ancient 

skies, 

And  commune  with  the  storm ! 
Lo !  next  a  dim  and  silent  chamber  where, 
Wrapt    in    glad    dreams    in    which,    per 
chance,  the  Moor 
Tells  his  strange  story  o'er, 
The  gentle  Desdemona  chastely  lies, 
Unconscious  of  the  loving  murderer  nigh. 
Then  through  a  hush  like  death 
Stalks  Denmark's  mailed  ghost !       6° 
And  Hamlet  enters  with  that  thoughtful 

breath 

Which  is  the  trumpet  to  a  countless  host 
Of   reasons,   but    which    wakes    no    deed 

from  sleep; 

For  while  it  calls  to  strife, 
He  pauses  on  the  very  brink  of  fact 
To  toy  as  with  the  shadow  of  an  act, 
And  utter  those  wise  saws  that  cut  so  deep 
Into  the  core  of  life! 

Nor  shall  be  wanting  many  a  scene 
Where  forms  of  more  familiar  mien, 
Moving  through   lowlier    pathways,   shall 
present  71 

The  world  of  every  day, 
Such  as  it  whirls  along  the  busy  quay, 
Or  sits  beneath  a  rustic  orchard  wall, 
Or  floats  about  a  fashion- freighted  hall, 
Or  toils  in  attics  dark  the  night  away. 
Love,  hate,  grief,  joy,  gain,  glory,  shame, 

shall  meet, 
As   in  the  round  wherein   our  lives  are 

pent; 
Chance    for   a   while    shall   seem    to 

reign, 

While    Goodness   roves   like   Guilt   about 
the  street,  8° 

And  Guilt  looks  innocent. 
But  all  at  last  shall  vindicate  the  right, 
Crime  shall  be  meted  with  its  proper  pain, 
Motes  shall  be  taken  from  the  doubter's 
sight, 


354 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


And   Fortune's   general   justice   rendered 

plain. 
Of    honest    laughter    there    shall    be    no 

dearth, 
Wit  shall  shake  hands  with  humor  grave 

and  sweet, 
Our    wisdom   shall   not   be   too   wise    for 

mirth, 

Nor  kindred  follies  want  a  fool  to  greet. 
As  sometimes  from  the  meanest  spot  of 

earth  9° 

A  sudden  beauty  unexpected  starts, 
So  you  shall  find  some  germs  of  hidden 

worth 

Within  the  vilest  hearts; 
And  now  and  then,  when  in  those  moods 

that  turn 
To  the  cold  Muse  that  whips  a  fault  with 

sneers, 
You  shall,  perchance,  be  strangely  touched 

to  learn 
You've  struck  a  spring  of  tears ! 


But  while  we  lead  you  thus  from  change 

to  change, 

Shall  we  not  find  within  our  ample  range 
Some  type  to  elevate  a  people's  heart—  I0° 
Some  hero  who  shall  teach  a  hero's  part 

In  this  distracted  time? 
Rise  from  thy  sleep  of  ages,  noble  Tell ! 
And,    with    the    Alpine    thunders    of    thy 

voice, 

As  if  across  the  billows  unenthralled 
Thy  Alps  unto  the  Alleghanies  called, 

Bid  Liberty  rejoice ! 

Proclaim  upon  this  trans-Atlantic  strand 
The  deeds  which,  more  than  their  own 

awful  mien, 

Make    every    crag    of    Switzerland    sub 
lime!  II0 
And    say    to"  those    whose    feeble    souls 

would  lean, 

Not    on    themselves,    but    on    some    out 
stretched  hand, 

That  once  a  single  mind  sufficed  to  quell 
The  malice  of  a  tyrant ;  let  them  know 
That  each  may  crowd  in  every  well-aimed 

blow, 
Not  the  poor  strength  alone  of  arm  and 

brand, 
But  the  whole  spirit  of  a  mighty  land ! 


Meanwhile,  with  that  calm  courage  which 

can  smile 

Amid  the  terrors  of  the  wildest  fray, 
Let  us  among  the  charms  of  Art  awhile 

Fleet  the  deep  gloom  away ; 
Nor  yet    forget   that   on   each   hand   and 

head 
Rest  the  dear  rights  for  which  we  fight 

and  pray. 


STORM  AND  CALM. 

Sweet  are  these  kisses  of  the  South, 
As  dropped  from  woman's  rosiest  mouth, 
And  tenderer  are  those  azure  skies 
Than  this  world's  tenderest  pair  of  eyes ! 


But  ah !  beneath  such  influence 
Thought  is  too  often  lost  in  Sense; 
And  Action,  faltering  as  we  thrill, 
Sinks  in  the  unnerved  arms  of  Will. 


Awake,  thou  stormy  North,  and  blast 
The  subtle  spells  around  us  cast ;  I0 

Beat  from  our  limbs  these  flowery  chains 
With  the  sharp  scourges  of  thy  rains ! 


Bring  with  thee  from  thy  Polar  cave 
All  the  wild  songs  of  wind  and  wave, 
Of  toppling  berg  and  grinding  floe, 
And  the  dread  avalanche  of  snow ! 


Wrap  us  in  Arctic  night  and  clouds ! 
Yell  like  a  fiend  amid  the  shrouds 
Of  some  slow-sinking  vessel,  when 
He  hears  the  shrieks  of  drowning  men !  - 

Blend  in  thy  mighty  voice  whate'er 
Of  danger,  terror,  and  despair 
Thou  hast  encountered  in  thy  sweep 
Across  the  land  and  o'er  the  deep. 

Pour  in  our  ears  all  notes  of  woe, 
That,  as  these  very  moments  flow, 
Rise  like  a  harsh  discordant  psalm, 
While  we  lie  here  in  tropic  calm. 


Bid  Liberty  rejoice!     Aye,  though  its  day 
Be  far  or  near,  these  clouds  shall  yet  be 

red 
With    the   large   promise   of   the    coming 

ray.  I2° 


Sting  our  weak  hearts  with  bitter  shame, 
Bear  us  along  with  thee  like  flame;    "     3ft 
And  prove  that  even  to  destroy 
More  God-like  may  be  than  to  toy 
And  rust  or  rot  in  idle  joy! 


HENRY   TIMROD 


355 


1866 
ADDRESS   TO   THE   OLD  YEAR 

Art  thou  not  glad  to  close 
Thy  wearied  eyes,  O   saddest  child  of 

Time, 

Eyes  which  have  looked  on  every  mor 
tal  crime, 
And  swept  the  piteous  round  of  mortal 


In  dark  Plutonian  caves, 

Beneath  the  lowest  deep,  go,  hide  thy 

head; 
Or  earth  thee  where  the  blood  that  thou 

hast  shed 

May  trickle  on  thee   from  thy  countless 
graves ! 


Take  with  thee  all  thy  gloom 
Ard  guilt,  and  all  our  griefs,  save  what 
the  breast,  I0 

Without  a  wrong  to  some  dear  shadowy 

guest, 
May  not  surrender  even  to  the  tomb. 


No  tear  shall  weep  thy  fall. 

When,  as  the  midnight  bell  doth  toll  thy 
fate, 

Another  lifts  the  sceptre  of  thy  state, 
And  sits  a  monarch  in  thine  ancient  hall. 


Him  all  the  hours  attend, 

With  a  new  hope  like  morning  in  their 

eyes; 

Him  the  fair  earth  and  him  these  radi 
ant  skies 

Hail  as  their  sovereign,  welcome  as  their 
friend.  *> 

Him,  too,  the  nations  wait; 

"O  lead  us  from  the  shadow  of  the 
Past," 

In  a  long  wail  like  this  December  blast, 
They  cry,  and,  crying,  grow  less  desolate. 

How  he  will  shape  his  sway 
They  ask  not — for  old  doubts  and  fears 

will  cling — 
And  yet  they  trust  that,  somehow,  he 

will  bring 
A  sweeter  sunshine  than  thy  mildest  day. 

Beneath  his  gentle  hand 
They  hope  to  see  no  meadow,  vale,  or 
hill  30 

Stained  with  a  deeper  red  than  roses 

spill, 

When  some  too  boisterous  zephyr  sweeps 
the  land. 

A  time  of  peaceful  prayer, 
Of   law,    love,   labor,   honest   loss   and 

gain— 
These   are    the   visions   of   the   coming 

reign 

Now  floating  to  them  on  this  wintry  air. 

165-6. 


PAUL   HAMILTON    HAYNE 

(1830-1886) 


THE   WILL   AND   THE   WING 

To   have  the   will   to   soar,   but   not  the 

wings, 

Eyes  fixed  forever  on  a  starry  height, 
Whence   stately   shapes   of  grand    imagi 
nings 

Flash   down  the  splendors   of   imperial 
light; 

And  yet  to  lack  the  charm  that   makes 

them  ours, 
The  obedient  vassals  of  that  conquering 

spell, 

Whose  omnipresent  and  ethereal  powers 
Encircle  Heaven,  nor  fear  to  enter  Hell ; 

This  is  the  doom  of  Tantalus — the  thirst 
For  beauty's  balmy  fount  to  quench  the 
fires  10 

Of  the  wild  passion  that  our  souls  have 

nurst 

In  hopeless  promptings — unfulfilled  de 
sires. 

Yet  would  I  rather  in  the  outward  state 
Of  Song's  immortal  temple  lay  me  down, 

A  beggar  basking  by  that  radiant  gate, 
Than  bend  beneath  the  haughtiest  em 


pire  s  crown 


For    sometimes,    through    the    bars,    my 

ravished  eyes 
Have  caught   brief    glimpses   of   a   life 

divine, 

And  seen  afar,  mysterious  rapture  rise 
Beyond  the  veil  that  guards  the  inmost 
shrine.  20 

1855? 
MY    STUDY 

This   is  my  world !   within  these  narrow 

walls, 

I  own  a  princely  service ;  the  hot  care 
And  tumult  of  our  frenzied  life  are  here 
But  as  a  ghost,  and  echo ;  what  befalls 
In  the  far  mart  to  me  is  less  than  naught ; 
I  walk  the  fields  of  quiet  Arcadies, 
And  wander  by  the  brink  of  hoary  seas, 
Calmed    to    the    tendance    of    untroubled 

thought : 
Or  if  a  livelier  humor  should  enhance 


The  slow-timed  pulse,  'tis  not  for  pres 
ent  strife,  10 
The  sordid  zeal  with  which  our  age  is  rife, 
Its  mammon  conflicts  crowned  by   fraud 

or  chance, 

But  gleanings  of  the  lost,  heroic  life, 
Flashed  through   the   gorgeous  vistas   of 
romance. 

1855? 

BEYOND   THE   POTOMAC1 

They  slept  on  the  fields  which  their  valor 

had   won ! 
But  arose   with  the   first   early  blush   of 

the  sun, 
For  they  knew  that  a  great  deed  remained 

to  be  done, 
When  they  passed  o'er  the  River. 

They  rose  with  the  sun,  and  caught  life 

from  his  light — 
Those  giants  of  courage,  those  Anaks  in 

fight— 
And  they  laughed  out  aloud  in   the  joy 

of  their  might, 
Marching  swift   for  the  River. 

On !    on !     like    the    rushing    of    storms 

through  the  hills — 
On !  on !  with  a  tramp  that  is  firm  as  their 

wills —  10 

And   the   one   heart  of  thousands  grows 

buoyant  and  thrills, 
At  the  thought  of  the   River. 

On !  the  sheen  of  their  swords !  the  fierce 

gleam  of  their  eyes 
It    seemed    as   on    earth    a   new    sunlight 

would  rise, 
And  king-like,  flash  up  to  the  sun  in  the 

skies, 
O'er  the  path  to  the  River. 

But   their   banners,   shot-scarred,   and   all 

darkened  with   gore, 
On    a    strong    wind    of    morning    stream 

wildly  before, 
Like    the    wings    of    Death-angels    swept 

fast  to  the  shore, 
The  green  shore  of  the  River.  2° 

1  Published  in   the  Richmond   Whig  at  the  time 
of  Stonewall  Jackson's  last  raid  into  Maryland. 


356 


PAUL   HAMILTON    HAYNE 


357 


As   they   march — from   the   hill-side,   the 

hamlet,  the  stream — 
Gaunt   throngs    whom    the    Foeman    had 

manacled,  teem, 
Like  men  just  aroused  from  some  terrible 

dream, 
To  pass  o'er  the  River. 

They   behold   the   broad   banners,   blood- 
darkened,  yet  fair, 

And  a  moment  dissolves  the  last  spell  of 
despair, 

While  a  peal  as  of  victory  swells  on  the 

air, 
Rolling  out  to  the  River. 

And   that   cry,   with   a  thousand   strange 

echoings  spread, 
Till  the  ashes  of  heroes  seemed  stirred  in 

their  bed,  3° 

And  the  deep  voice  of  passion  surged  up 

from  the  dead — 
Aye !  press  on  to  the  River. 

On !    on !     like     the    rushing    of    storms 

through  the  hills, 
On !   on !    with   a   tramp   that   is   firm   as 

their  wills, 
And   the  one   heart  of   thousands   grows 

buoyant,  and  thrills, 
As  they  pause  by  the  River. 

Then  the  wan  face  of  Maryland,  haggard, 

and  worn, 
At  that  sight,  lost  the  touch  of  its  aspect 

forlorn, 
And  she  turned  on  the  Foeman  full  stat- 

ured  in  scorn, 
Pointing  stern  to  the  River.  4° 

And  Potomac  flowed  calm,  scarcely  heav 
ing  her  breast, 

With  her  low-lying  billows  all  bright  in 
the  west, 

For  the  hand  of  the  Lord  lulled  the  waters 

to  rest 
Of  the  fair  rolling  River. 

Passed !  passed  !  the  glad  thousands  march 

safe  through  the  tide. 
(Hark,  Despot!  and  hear  the  wild  knell 

of   your   pride, 
Ringing  weird-like  and  wild,   pealing  up 

from    the    side 
Of  the  calm  flowing  River.) 


'Neath  a  blow  swift  and  mighty  the  Ty 
rant  shall  fall, 

Vain !  vain !  to  his  God  swells  a  desolate 
call,  so 

For   his    grave   has   been    hollowed,    and 

woven   his   pall, 
Since  they  passed  o'er  the  River. 

Richmond  Whig,  1862. 


VICKSBURG— A  BALLAD 

For  sixty  days  and  upwards, 

A  storm  of  shell  and  shot 
Rained  round  us  in  a  flaming  shower, 

But  still  we  faltered  not. 
"If  the  noble  city  perish," 

Our  grand  young  leader  said, 
"Let  the  only  walls  our  foe  shall  scale 

Be  ramparts  of  the  dead !" 

For  sixty  days  and  upwards, 

The  eye  of  heaven  waxed  dim;  I0 

And  e'en  throughout  God's  holy  morn, 

O'er  Christian  prayer  and  hymn, 
Arose  a  hissing  tumult, 

As  if  the  fiends  in  air 
Strove  to  engulf  the  voice  of  faith 

In  the  shrieks  of  their  despair. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  houses, 

There  was  trembling  in  the  marts, 
While  the  tempest  raged  and  thundered. 

'Mid  the  silent  thrill  of  hearts;  ^ 

But  the  Lord,  our  Shield,  was  with  us, 

And  ere  a  month  had  sped, 
Our  very  women  walked  the  streets 

With  scarce  one  throb  of  dread. 

And  the  little  children  gamboled, 

Their  faces  purely  raised, 
Just  for  a  wondering  moment, 

As  the  huge  bombs  whirled  and  blazed, 
Then  turned  with  silvery  laughter 

To  the  sports  which  children  love,      3° 
Thrice-mailed    in    the    sweet,    instinctive 
thought 

That  the  good  God  watched  above. 

Yet  the  hailing  bolts  fell  faster, 

From  scores  of   flame-clad   ships, 
And  about  us,  denser,  darker, 

Grew  the  conflict's  wild  eclipse, 
Till  a  solid  cloud  closed  o'er  us, 

Like  a  type  of  doom  and  ire. 
Whence  shot  a  thousand  quivering  tongues 

Of  forked  and  vengeful  fire.  4° 


358 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


But  the  unseen  hands  of  angels 

Those  death-shafts  warned  aside, 
And  the  dove  of  heavenly  mercy 

Ruled  o'er  the  battle  tide; 
In  the  houses  ceased  the  wailing, 

And  through  the  war-scarred  marts 
The  people  strode,  with  step  of  hope, 

To  the  music  in  their  hearts. 

1863. 


Alas !  dim,  dim,  and  dimmer 
Grows  the  preternatural  glimmer 
Of  that  trance  the  South  Wind  brought 

me  on  her  subtle  wings  of  balm, 
For  behold !  its  spirit  flieth 
And  its  fairy  murmur  dieth, 
And  the  silence  closing  round  me  is  a  dull 
and  soulless  calm ! 


A  DREAM  OF  THE  SOUTH  WINDS 

O  fresh,  how  fresh  and  fair 
Through  the  crystal  gulfs  of  air, 
The    fairy    South    Wind   floateth    on   her 

subtle  wings  of  balm ! 
And  the  green  eartn  lapped  in  bliss, 
To  the  magic  of  her  kiss 
Seems   yearning   upward    fondly   through 
the  golden-crested  calm! 

From  the  distant  Tropic  strand, 
Wrhere  the  billows,  bright  and  bland, 
Go  creeping,  curling  round  the  palms  with 

sweet,  faint  undertune, 
From  its  fields  of  purpling  flowers      I0 
Still  wet  with  fragrant  showers, 
The  happy  South  Wind  lingering  sweeps 
the  royal  blooms  of  June. 

All  heavenly  fancies  rise 
On  the  perfume  of  her  sighs, 
Which  steep  the  inmost  spirit  in  a  languor 

rare  and  fine, 

And  a  peace  more  pure  than  sleep's 
Unto  dim,  half-conscious  deeps, 
Transports  me,  lulled   and   dreaming,  on 
its  twilight  tides  divine. 

Those  dreams!  ah  me!  the  splendor, 
So  mystical  and  tender,  20 

Wherewith  like  soft  heat-lightnings  they 

gird  their  meaning  round, 

And  those  waters,  calling,  calling, 

With  a  nameless  charm  enthralling, 

Like   the   ghost    of    music    melting   on   a 

rainbow  spray  of  sound ! 

Touch,  touch  me  not,  nor  wake  me, 

Lest  grosser  thoughts  o'ertake  me, 
From    earth    receding    faintly    with    her 

dreary  din  and  jars — 
What  viewless  arms  caress  me? 
What  whispered  voices  bless  me, 
With  welcome  dropping  dewlike  from  the 
weird  and  wondrous  stars?        3° 


SONNET— POETS 

Some    thunder    on   the    heights  of    song, 

.their  race 
Godlike  in   power,   while  others   at  their 

feet 
Are  breathing  measures  scarce  less  strong 

and  sweet 
Than  those  that  peal  from  out  that  loftiest 

place ; 
Meantime,  just  midway  on  the  mount,  his 

face 
Fairer  than  April  heavens,  when  storms 

retreat, 
And    on    their    edges    rain    and    sunshine 

meet, 

Pipes  the  soft  lyrist  lays  of  tender  grace ; 
But  where  the  slopes  of  bright  Parnassus 

sweep 
Near  to  the  common  ground,   a  various 

throng  I0 

Chant  lowlier  measures — yet  each  tuneful 

strain 
(The    silvery    minor    of    earth's    perfect 

song) 
Blends   with   that   music   of   the   topmost 

steep 

O'er  whose  vast  realm  the  master  min 
strels  reign ! 


ASPECTS  OF  THE  PINES 

Tall,  sombre,  grim,  against  the  morning 

sky 
They  rise,  scarce  touched  by  melancholy 

airs, 

Which    stir   the    fadeless    foliage    dream 
fully, 
As  if  from  realms  of  mystical  despairs. 

Tall,  sombre;  grim,  they  stand  with  dusky 

gleams 

Brightening  to  gold  within  the   wood 
land's  core, 
Beneath  the  gracious  noontide's  tranquil 

beams — 

But  the  weird  winds  of  morning  sign 
no  more. 


PAUL   HAMILTON    HAYNE 


359 


A  stillness,   strange,   divine,   ineffable, 
Broods    round    and    o'er    them    in    the 
wind's  surcease,  I0 

And  on  each  tinted  copse  and  shimmering 

dell 

Rests  the  mute  rapture  of  deep-hearted 
peace. 

Last,  sunset  comes — the  solemn  joy  and 

might 
Borne   from  the   West   when   cloudless 

day   declines — 
Low,    flutelike    breezes    sweep   the   waves 

of  light, 

And  lifting  dark  green  tresses   of  the 
pines, 

Till  every  lock  is  luminous — gently  float, 
Fraught  with  hale  odors  up  the  heavens 

afar 
To    faint   when   twilight   on   her  virginal 

throat 

Wears  for  a  gem  the  tremulous  vesper 
star.  2° 

The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Sept.,  1872. 


UNVEILED 

I  cannot  tell  when  first  I  saw  her  face; 
Was  it  athwart  a  sunset  on  the  sea, 
When  the  huge  billows  heaved  tumultu- 

ously, 
Or  in  the  quiet  of  some  woodland  place, 

Wrapped  by  the  shadowy  boon . 
Of  breezeless  verdures  from  the  summer 

noon? 

Or  likelier  still,  in  a  rock-girdled  dell 
Between  vast  mountains,  while  the  mid 
night  hour 
Blossomed    above    me    like    a    shining 

flower, 

Whose    star-wrought    petals    turned    the 

fields  of  space  10 

To  one  great  garden  of  mysterious  light? 

Vain !  vain  !  I  cannot  tell 
When  first  the  beauty  and  majestic  might 
Of  her  calm  presence,  bore  my  soul  apart 
From   all   low    issues   of   the  groveling 

world — 

About  me  their  own  peace  and  grandeur 
furled — 

Filling  the  conscious  heart 
With  vague,   sweet  wisdom   drawn   from 
earth  or  sky — 

Secrets  that  glance  towards  eternity, 
Visions  divine,  and  thoughts  ineffable !  2° 
But  ever  since  that  immemorial  day, 


A  steadfast   flame  hath  burned  in  brain 

and  blood, 

Urging  me  onward  in  the  perilous  search 
For  sacred  haunts  our  queenly  mother 
loves ; 

By  field  and  flood, 
Thro'    neighboring    realms,    and    regions 

far  away, 
Have  I   not   followed,   followed  where 

she  led, 
Tracking  wild  rivers  to  their   fountain 

head, 

And  wilder  desert  spaces,  mournful  vast, 

Where    Nature,    fronting   her   inscrutable 

past,  30 

Holds  bleak  communion  only  with  the 

dead; 

Yearning  meanwhile,  for  pinions  like  a 
dove's, 

To  waft  me  farther  still, 
Beyond  the  compass  of  the  unwinged  will ; 
Yea,  waft  me  northward,  southward,  east, 

west, 

By  fabled  isles,  and  undiscovered  lands, 
To  where  enthroned  upon  his  mountain- 
perch, 

The  sovereign  eagle  stands, 
Guarding  the   unfledged   eaglets    in   their 

nest, 

Above    the    thunders    of    the    sea    and 
storm  ?  40 

Oh !  sometimes  by  the  fire 
Of  holy  passion,  in  me,  all  subdued, 
And  melted  to  a  mortal  woman's  mood, 

Tender  and   warm — 
She,  from  her  goddess  height, 
In  gracious  answer  to  my  soul's   desire, 
Descending  softly,  lifts  her  Isis  veil, 
To  bend  on  me  the  untranslated  light 
Of  fathomless  eyes,  and  brow  divinely  pale ; 
She    lays    on    mine    her    firm,    immortal 
hand ;  5" 

And  I,  encompassed  by  a  magical  mist, 
Feel  that  her  lips  have  kissed 
Mine  eyes  and   forehead — how  the  influ 
ence  fine 

Of  her  deep  life  runs  like  Arcadian  wine 
Through  all  my  being !     How  a  moment 

pressed 
To    the    large    fountains    of    her    opulent 

breast, 

A  rapture  smites  me,  half  akin  to  pain; 
A     sun-flash     quivering     through     white 
chords  of  rain ! 

Thenceforth,  I  walked 
The    earth    all-seeing — not    her    stateliest 
forms  6° 


360 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Alone  engrossed  me,  nor  her  sounds  of 

power ; 
Mountains  and  oceans,  and  the  rage  of 

storms ; 
Fierce  cataracts  hurled  from  awful  steep 

to  steep, 
Or  the  gray  water-spouts,  that  whirling 

tower 

Along  the  darkened  bosom  of  the  deep; 
But  all  fair,  fairy  forms ;  all  vital  things, 
That  breathe  or  blossom  'midst  our  boun 
teous  springs ; 

In  sylvan  nooks  rejoicingly  I  met 
The  wild  rose  and  the  violet; 
On    dewy    hill  -  slopes    pausing,    fondly 

talked  7° 

With  the  coy  wild-flower,  and  the  grasses 

brown, 

That  in  a  subtle  language  of  their  own 
(Caught  from  the  spirits  of  the  wandering 

breeze), 
Quaintly    responded;    while    the    heavens 

looked  down 

As  graciously  on  these 
Titania  growths,  as  on  sublimer  shapes 
Of    century-molded    continents,    that    be- 

mock 
Alike    the    earthquake's   and   the    billow's 

shock 
By  Orient  inlands  and  cold  ocean  capes ! 


The  giant  constellations  rose  and  set :  8° 
I    knew   them   all    and    worshipped   all    I 

knew; 
Yet,    from  their  empire   in  the  pregnant 

blue, 
Sweeping    from    planet-orbits    to    faint 

bars 
Of   nebulous   cloud,   beyond   the   range 

of  stars, 

I  turned  to  worship  with  a  heart  as  true, 
Long  mosses   drooping  from  the  cypress 

tree; 

The    virginal    vines    that    stretched    re 
motely  dim, 

From  forest  limb  to  limb; 
Network  of  golden  ferns,  whose  tracery 

weaves 

In  lingering  twilights  of  warm  August 
eves,  90 

Ethereal   frescoes,   pictures   fugitive, 
Drawn  on  the  flickering  and  fair-foli- 

aged  wall 
Of    the    dense    forest,    ere    the    night 

shades   fall : 

Rushes  rock-tangled,  whose  mixed  colors 
live 


In    the    pure    moisture    by    a    fountain's 

brim: 
The  sylph-like  reeds,  wave-born,  that  to 

and  fro 
Move    ever    to    the    waters'     rhythmic 

flow, 

Blent    with    the    humming    of    the    wild- 
wood  bee, 

And    the    winds'    under    thrills    of    mys 
tery; 

The    twinkling    "ground-stars,"     full    of 

modest  cheer,  10° 

Each  her  cerulean  cup 

In   humble   supplication    lifting  up, 

To  catch  whate'er  the  kindly  heavens  may 

give 

Of  flooded  sunshine,  or  celestial  dew; 
And  even  when,  self-poised  in  airy  grace,  . 

Their  phantom   lightness   stirs 
Through  glistening  shadows  of   a  secret 

place 

The   silvery-tinted   gossamers ; 
For  thus   hath    Nature   taught  amid   her 
All—  '°9 

The  complex  miracles  of  land  and  sea, 
And  infinite  marvels  of  the  infinite  air 
No  life  is  trivial,  no  creation  small ! 
Ever   I   walk  the   earth, 
As  one  whose  spiritual  ear 
Is  strangely  purged  and  purified  to  hear 
Its  multitudinous  voices ;  from  the  shore 
Whereon  the  savage  Arctic  surges   roar, 
And  the  stupendous  base  of  choral  waves 
Thunders  o'er  "wandering  graves," 
From  warrior-winds   whose  viewless   co 
horts  charge  I2° 
The  banded  mists  through  Cloudland's 

vaporous  dearth 
Pealing    their    battle    bugles    round    the 

marge 

Of  dreary  fen  and  desolated  moor; 
Down  to  the  ripple  of  shy  woodland  rills 
Chanting    their    delicate    treble    'mid    the 

hills, 
And    ancient    hollows    of    the   enchanted 

ground, 

I  pass  with  reverent  thought, 
Attuned  to  every  tiniest  trill  of  sound. 
Whether  by  brook  or  bird 
The  perfumed  air  be  stirred.        J3<> 
But   most,   because   the   unwaried   strains 

are  fraught 
With    Nature's    freedom   in   her   happiest 

moods, 

I  love  the  mock-bird's,  and  brown  thrush's 
lay, 

The  melted  soul  of  May, 
Beneath  those  matchless  notes, 


PAUL    HAMILTON    HAYNE 


361 


From  jocund   hearts   upwelled   to   fervid 
throats, 

In  gushes  of  clear  harmony, 
I  seem,  ofttimes  I  seem 
To  find  remoter  meanings ;  the  far  tone 
Of  ante-natal  music  faintly  blown          '4° 
From  out  the  misted  realms  of  memory; 
The  pathos  and  the  passion  of  a  dream; 
Or  broken  fugues  of  a  diviner  tongue 
That  e'er  hath  chanted,   since  our   earth 

was  young, 

And  o'er  her  peace-enamored  solitudes 
The  stars  of  morning  sung ! 


THE    MOCKING-BIRD 

A  golden  pallor  of  voluptuous  light 

Filled  the  warm  Southern  night; 

The  moon,  clear  orbed,  above  the  sylvan 

scene 

Moved  like  a  stately  queen, 
So    rife    with    conscious    beauty    all    the 

while, 

What  could  she  do  but  smile 
At  her  own  perfect  loveliness  below, 
Glassed  in  the  tranquil  flow 
Of   crystal    fountains 

And  unruffled  streams?  10 

Half   lost   in   waking   dreams, 
As  down  the  loneliest  forest  dell  I  strayed, 
Lo !  from  a  neighboring  glade, 
Flashed  through  the  drifts  of  moonshine, 

swiftly   came 
A  fiery  shape  of  flame. 
It  rose  in  dazzling  spirals  overhead, 
Whence,  to  wild  sweetness  wed, 
Poured  marvellous  melodies,  silvery  trill 

on  trill ; 

The  very  leaves  grew  still 
On  the  charmed  trees  to  harken;  while, 

for  me,  2° 

Heart-thrilled  ecstasy, 
I  followed — followed  the  bright  shape  that 

flew, 

Still  circling  up  the  blue, 
Till   as   a   fountain   that   has   reached   its 

height 

Falls  back  in  sprays  of  light 
Slowly  dissolved,  so  that  enrapturing  lay, 
Divinely  melts  away 

Through    tremulous    spaces    to    a    music- 
mist 

Soon  by  the  fitful  breeze 
How  gently  kissed  3° 

Into    remote   and   tender   silences. 


TO    HENRY   W.   LONGFELLOW 

I  think  earth's  noblest,  most  pathetic  sight 

Is  some  old  poet,  round  whose  laurel- 
crown 

The  long  gray  locks  are  streaming  softly 
down; 

Whose  evening,  touched  by  prescient 
shades  of  night, 

Grows  tranquillized,  in  calm,  ethereal 
light : 

Such,  such  art  thou,  O  master!  worthier 
grown 

In  the  fair  sunset  of  thy  full  renown, 

Poising,  perchance,  thy  spiritual  wings 
for  flight! 

Ah,  heaven !  why  shouldst  thou  from  thy 
place  depart? 

God's  court  is  thronged  with  minstrels, 
rich  with  song;  10 

Even  now,  a  new  note *  swells  the  im 
maculate  choir ; 

But  thou,  whose  strains  have  filled  our 
lives  so  long, 

Still  from  the  altar  of  thy  reverent  heart 

Let  golden  dreams  ascend,  and  thoughts 
of  fire. 


UNDER   THE   PINE 
To  the  Memory  of  Henry  Timrod 

The  same  majestic  pine  is  lifted  high 

Against  the  twilight  sky, 

The  same  low,  melancholy  music  grieves 

Amid  the  topmost  leaves, 

As    when    I    watched,    and    mused,    and 

dreamed   with  -him 
Beneath  these  shadows  dim. 

O  Tree !  hast  thou  no  memory  at  thy  core 

Of  one  who  comes  no  more? 

No  yearning  memory  of  those  scenes  tliat 

were 

So  richly  calm  and  fair,  10 

When  the  last  rays  of  sunset,  shimmering 

down, 
Flashed  like  a  royal  crown? 

And  he,  with  hand  outstretched  and  eyes 

ablaze, 

Looked  forth  with  burning  gaze, 
And    seemed    to    drink    the    sunset    like 

strong  wine, 
Or,  hushed  in  trance  divine, 

1  Very  possibly  Lanier,  whose  chief  develop 
ment  came  after  1875,  and  whose  early  death 
•  came  in  1881,  a  year  before  Longfellow's. 


362 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Hailed  the  first  shy  and  timorous  glance 

from  far 
Of  evening's  virgin  star? 

O  Tree !  against  thy  mighty  trunk  he  laid 
His  weary  head;  thy  shade  2° 

Stole  o'er  him  like  the  first  cool  spell  of 

sleep : 

It  brought  a  peace  so  deep 
The   unquiet   passion   died    from   out   his 

eyes, 
As  lightning   from   stilled   skies. 

And  in  that  calm  he  loved  to  rest,  and 

hear 

The  soft  wind-angels,  clear 
And  sweet,  among  the  uppermost  branches 

sighing: 

Voices  he  heard-  replying 
(Or  so  he  dreamed)    far  up  the  mystic 

height, 
And  pinions  rustling  light.  3<> 

O  Tree !  have  not  his  poet-touch,  his 
dreams 

So  full  of  heavenly  gleams, 

Wrought  through  the  folded  dullness  of 
thy  bark, 

And  all  thy  nature  dark 

Stirred  to  slow  throbbings,  and  the  flut 
tering  fire 

Of   faint,  unknown  desire? 

At  least  to  me  there  sweeps  no  rugged 

ring 

That  girds  the  forest-king 
Nc  immemorial  stain,  or  awful  rent 
(The  mark  of  tempest  spent),  4° 

No    delicate   leaf,   no   lithe   bough,   vine- 

o'ergrown, 
No  distant,  flickering  cone, 

BUJ:  speaks  of  him,  and  seems  to  bring 

once  more 

The  joy,  the  love  of  yore; 
But   most   when   breathed    from    out    the 

sunset-land 

The  sunset  airs  are  bland, 
That  blow  between  the  twilight  and  the 

night, 
Ere  yet  the  stars  are  bright; 

For  then  that  quiet  eve  comes  back  to  me, 
When,   deeply,  thrillingly,  5° 

He  spake  of  lofty  hopes  which  vanquish 

Death ; 

And  on  his  mortal  brealh 
A  language  of  immortal  meanings  hung, 
That  fired  his  heart  and  tongue. 


For  then  unearthly  breezes  stir  and  sigh, 

Murmuring,  "Look  up !  'tis  I : 

Thy  friend  is  near  thee !     Ah,  thou  canst 

not  see !" 

And  through  the  sacred  tree 
Passes   what   seems   a   wild   and  sentient 

thrill- 
Passes,  and  all  is  still !—  6° 

Still  as  the  grave  which  holds  his  tranquil 

form, 

Hushed  after  many  a  storm, — 
Still  as  the  calm  that  crowns  his  marble 

brow, 

No  pain  can  wrinkle  now, — 
Still  as  the  peace — pathetic  peace  of  God — 
That  wraps  the  holy  sod, 

Where  every  flower  from  our  dead  min 
strel's   dust 

Should  bloom,  a  type  of  trust, — 
That  faith  which  waxed  to  wings  of  heav 
enward  might 

To  bear  his  soul  from  night, —  7° 

That  faith,  dear  Christ !  whereby  we  pray 

to  meet 
His  spirit  at  God's  feet ! 


THE  SNOW-MESSENGERS 

Dedicated  to  John  Greenleaf  Whittier  anc 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  with  pen  por 
traits  of  both. 

The  pine-trees  lift  their  dark,  bewilderec 

eyes — 

Or  so  I  deem — up  to  the  clouded  skies ; 
No   breeze,   no    faintest   breeze,   is   heard 

to  blow : 
In  wizard  silence  falls  the  windless  snow. 

It  falls  in  breezeless  quiet,  strangely  still ; 
'Scapes    the    dulled    pane,    but    loads    the 

sheltering  sill. 
With    curious    hand    the    fleecy    flakes    I 

mould 
And  draw   them  inward,  rounded,   from 

the  cold. 


The  glittering  ball  that  chills  my  finger 
tips 

I  hold  a  moment's  space  to  loving  lips ; 

For  from  the  northward  these  pure  snow- 
flakes  came, 

And  to  my  touch  their  coldness  thrills  like 
flame. 


PAUL   HAMILTON    HAYNE 


363 


Outbreathed     from     luminous     memories 

nursed  apart. 

Deep  in  the  veiled  adytum  of  the  heart, 
The  type  of  Norland  dearth  such  snows 

may  be : 
They  bring  the  soul  of  summer's  warmth 

to  me. 

Beholding  them,  in  magical  light  expands 
The    changeful    charm    that    crowns    the 

northern  lands, 

And  a  fair  past  I  deemed  a  glory  fled 
Comes  back,  with  happy  sunshine  round 

its  head.  2° 

For  Ariel  fancy  takes  her  airiest  flights 
To    pass    once    more    o'er    Hampshire's 

mountain  heights, 
To  view  the  flower-bright  pastures  bloom 

in  grace 
By    many    a    lowering    hillside's    swarthy 

base; 

The  fruitful  farms,  the  enchanted  vales, 

to  view, 
And  the  coy  mountain  lakes'  transcendent 

blue, 
Or  flash  of  sea-waves  up  the  thunderous 

dune, 
With  wan  sails  whitening  in  the  midnight 

moon; 

The  cataract  front  of  storm,  malignly  rife 
With    deathless    instincts    of    demoniac 

strife,  30 

Or,  in  shy  contrast,  down  a  shaded  dell, 
The  rivulet  tinkling  like  an  Alpine  bell; 

But,    tireless  fancy,   stay    the    wing    that 

roams, 
And  fold  it  last  near  northern  hearts  and 

homes. 

These  tropic  veins  still  own  their  kindred 

heat, 
And    thoughts     of    thee,     my    cherished 

South,  are  sweet — 
Mournfully  sweet — and  wed  to  memories 

vast, 
High-hovering  still  o'er  thy  majestic  past. 

But  a  new  epoch  greets  us ;  with  it  blends 
The  voice  of  ancient   foes  now  changed 

to  friends,  4» 

Ah !  who  would  friendship's  outstretched 

hand   despise, 
Or  mock  the  kindling  light  in  generous 

eyes  ? 


And  many  a  cool,  calm  stretch  of  cul 
tured  lawn, 

Touched  by  the  freshness  of  the  crystal 
dawn, 

Sloped  to  the  sea,  whose  laughing  waters 
meet 

About  the  unrobed  virgin's  rosy  feet. 

So,  'neath  the  Quaker-poet's  tranquil  roof, 
From  all  dull  discords  of  the  world  aloof, 
I  sit  once  more,  and  measured  converse 

hold 
With    him    whose    nobler    thoughts    are 

rhythmic  gold;  5° 

See  his  deep  brows  half  puckered  in  a 
knot 

O'er  some  hard  problem  of  our  mortal 
lot, 

Or  a  dream  soft  as  May  winds  of  the 
south 

Waft  a  girl's  sweetness  round  his  firm- 
set  mouth. 

Or  should  he  deem  wrong  threats  the 
public  weal, 

Lo!  the  whole  man  seems  girt  with  flash 
ing  steel; 

His  glance  a  sword  thrust,  and  his  words 
of  ire 

Like  thunder-tones  from  some  old  proph 
et's  lyre. 

Or  by  the  hearth-stone  when  the  day  is 
done, 

Mark,  swiftly  launched,  a  sudden  shaft 
of  fun ;  60 

The  short  quick  laugh,  the  smartly  smit 
ten  knees, 

And  all  sure  tokens  of  a  mind  at  ease. 

Discerning    .which,    by    some    mysterious 

law, 
Near  to  his  seat  two  household  favorites 

draw, 
Till   on   her   master's    shoulders,    sly   and 

sleek, 
Grimalkin,   mounting,   rubs  his    furrowed 

cheek ; 

While  terrier  Dick,   denied  all  words  to 

rail, 
Snarls    as    he   shakes    a   short   protesting 

tail, 
But  with  shrewd  eyes  says,  plain  as  plain 

can  be, 
"Drop  that  sly  cat.    I'm  worthier  far  than 

she."  70 


364 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


And  he  who  loves  all  lowliest  lives   to 

please, 

Conciliates  soon  his  dumb  Diogenes, 
Who  in  return  his  garment  nips  with  care, 
And  drags  the  poet  out,  to  take  the  air. 

God's  innocent  pensioners  in  the  wood 
lands  dim, 

The  fields  and  pastures,  know  and  trust 
in  him; 

And  in  their  love  his  lonely  heart  is 
blessed, 

Our  pure,  hale-minded  Cowper  of  the 
West! 

The  scene  is  changed;  and  now  I  stand 
again  79 

By  one,  the  cordial  prince  of  kindly  men, 

Courtly  yet  natural,  comrade  meet  for 
kings, 

But   fond  of  homeliest  things. 

A   poet,   too,  in  whose  warm  brain  and 

breast 
What  birds  of  song  have  filled  a  golden 

nest, 
Till  in  song's  summer  prime  their  wings 

unfurled, 
Have   made  Arcadian   half   the  listening 

world, 

Around  whose  eve  some  radiant  grace  of 

morn 
Smiles  like  the  dew-light  on  a  mountain 

thorn. 
Blithely    he    bears    Time's    envious    load 

to-day : 
Ah !    the   green   heart   o'ertops   the  head 

of  gray.  90 

Alert  as  youth,  with  vivid,  various  talk 
He    wiles    the    way    through    grove    and 

garden  walk, 
Fair  flowers  untrained,  trees  fraught  with 

wedded  doves, 
Past  the  cool  copse  and  willowy  glade  he 

loves. 

Here  gleams  innocuous  of  a  mirthful 
mood 

Pulse  like  mild  fireflies  down  a  dusky 
wood, 

Or  keener  speech  (his  leonine  head  un 
bowed) 

Speeds   lightning  -  clear  from  thought's 
o'ershadowing  cloud. 


O  deep  blue  eyes!  O  voice  as  woman's 
low ! 

O  firm  white  hand,  with  kindliest  warmth 
aglow !  I0° 

O  manly  form,  and  frank,  sweet,  courte 
ous  mien, 

Reflex  of  museful  days  and  nights  serene ! 

Still  are  ye  near  me,  vivid,  actual  still, 
Here  in  my  lonely  fastness  on  the  hill; 
Nor  can  ye  wane  till  cold  my  life-blood 

flows, 
And  fancy  fades  in  feeling's  last  repose. 

What !     snowing    yet  ?      The    landscape 

waxes  pale ; 
Round   the    mute   heaven    there   hangs    a 

quivering  veil, 
Through    whose    frail    woof    like    silent 

shuttles  go 
The  glancing  glamours  of  the  glittering 

snow.  no 

Yes,  falling  still,  while  fond  remem 
brance  stirs 

In  these  wan-faced,  unwonted  messengers. 

Dumb  storm !  outpour  your  arctic  heart's 
desire ! 

Your  flakes  to  me  seem  flushed  with  fairy 
fire! 


A  LITTLE  WHILE  I  FAIN  WOULD 
LINGER  YET 

A  little  while  (my  life  is  almost  set!) 
I  fain  would  pause  along  the  downward 

way. 

Musing  an  hour  in  this   sad  sunset-ray, 
While,  Sweet !  our  eyes  with  tender  tears 

are  wet; 
A  little  hour  I  fain  would  linger  yet. 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  yet, 
All  for  love's  sake,  for  love  that  can 
not  tire; 
Though    fervid    youth    be    dead,    with 

youth's    desire, 

And  hope  has  faded  to  a  vague  regret, 
A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  yet.     I0 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  here : 
Behold !  who  knows  what  strange,  mys 
terious  bars 
'Twixt  souls  that  love,  may  rise  in  other 

stars  ? 
Nor  can  love  deem  the  face  of  death  is 

fair; 
A  little  while  I  still  would  linger  here. 


PAUL   HAMILTON    HAYNE 


365 


A  little  while  I  yearn  to  hold  thee  fast, 
Hand   locked   in   hand,  the  loyal   heart 

to  heart; 
(O  pitying  Christ!  those  woeful  words, 

"We  part!") 
So    ere   the    darkness    fall,    the   light   be 

past, 

A   little   while   I    fain    would   hold   thee 
fast.  *> 

A   little  while,   when   night  and  twilight 

meet; 
Behind    our   broken   years,   before   the 

deep 
Weird  wonder  of  the  last  unfathomed 

sleep. 
A   little   while   I   still   would   clasp   thee, 

Sweet; 
A   little   while,   when  night   and   twilight 

meet. 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  here ; 
Behold !  who  knows  what  soul-dividing 

bars 
Earth's  faithful  loves  may  part  in  other 

stars? 
Nor  can  love  deem  the  face  of  death  is 

fair; 
A  little  while  I  still  would  linger  here.    3° 


IN    HARBOR 

I  think  it  is  over,  over, 

I  think  it  is  over  at  last, 
Voices  of  foeman  and  lover, 

The  sweet  and  the  bitter  have  passed : 


Life,  like  a  tempest  of  ocean 

Hath  outblown  its  ultimate  blast ; 
There's  but  a  faint  sobbing  sea-ward 
While  the  calm  of  the  tide  deepens  lee 
ward, 

And  behold !   like  the  welcoming  quiver 
Of  heart-pulses  throbbed  thro'  the  river, 
Those  lights  in  the  harbor  at  last,       « 
The  heavenly  harbor  at  last ! 

I  feel  it  is  over,  over! 

For  the  winds  and  the  waters  surcease ; 
Ah ! — few  were  the  days  of  the  rover 

That  smiled  in  the  beauty  of  peace! 
And  distant  and  dim  was  the  omen 

That   hinted   redress    or    release : 
From  the  ravage  of  life,  and  its  riot 
What  marvel  I  yearn  for  the  quiet          2° 

Which  bides  in  the  harbor  at  last? 
For  the   lights    with    their   welcoming 

quiver 
That  throbbed  through  the  sanctified  river 

Which  girdles  the  harbor  at  last, 

This  heavenly  harbor  at  last? 

I  know  it  is  over,  over, 

I  know  it  is  over  at  last! 
Down  sail !  the  sheathed  anchor  uncover, 

For  the  stress  of  the  voyage  has  passed  : 
Life,  like  a  tempest  of  ocean,  3° 

Hath  outbreathed  its  ultimate  blast; 
There's  but  a  faint  sobbing  sea- ward; 
While  the  calm  of  the  tide  deepens  lee 
ward; 

And  behold !  like  the  welcoming  quiver 
Of  heart-pulses  throbbed  thro'  the  river, 

Those  lights  in  the  harbor  at  last, 

The  heavenly  harbor  at  last! 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 

(1807-1882) 


WOODS   IN   WINTER 

When  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill, 
And  through  the  hawthorn   blows  the 
gale, 

With  solemn  feet  I  tread  the  hill, 
That  overbrows  the  lonely  vale. 

O'er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 

Through    the    long    reach    of    desert 
woods, 

The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play, 
And  gladden  these  deep  solitudes. 

Where,  twisted  round  the  barren  oak, 
The  summer  vine  in  beauty  clung,        '° 

And  summer  winds  the  stillness  broke, 
The  crystal  icicle  is  hung. 

Where,    from  their   frozen   urns,   mute 
springs 

Pour  out  the  river's  gradual  tide, 
Shrilly  the  skater's  iron  rings, 

And  voices  fill  the  woodland  side. 

Alas !  how  changed  from  the  fair  scene, 
When  birds  sang  out  their  mellow  lay, 

And   winds  were  soft,   and  woods   were 

green,  '9 

And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day! 

But  still  wild  music  is  abroad, 

Pale,  desert  woods!  within  your  crowd; 
And  gathering  winds,  in  hoarse  accord, 

Amid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud. 

Chill  airs  and  wintry  winds !  my  ear 
Has  grown  familiar  with  your  song; 

I  hear  it  in  the  opening  year, 
I  listen,  and  it  cheers  me  long. 

United  States  Literary  Gazette.  Feb.  1, 
1825. 


BURIAL  OF  THE  MINNISINK 

On  sunny  slope  and  beechen  swell, 
The  shadowed  light  of  evening  fell ; 
And,  where  the  maple's  leaf  was  brown, 
With  soft  and  silent  lapse  came  down 
The  glory  that  the  wood  receives, 
At  sunset,  in  its  golden  leaves. 


Far  upward  in  the  mellow  light 

Rose  the  blue  hills.    One  cloud  of  white, 

Around  a  far  uplifted  cone, 

In  the  warm  blush  of  evening  shone;     I0 

An  image  of  the  silver  lakes, 

By  which  the  Indian's  soul  awakes. 

But  soon  a  funeral  hymn  was  heard 
Where  the  soft  breath  of  evening  stirred 
The  tall,  gray  forest;  and  a  band 
Of  stern  in  heart,  and  strong  in  hand, 
Came  winding  down  beside  the  wave, 
To  lay  the  red  chief  in  hir,  grt.ve. 

They  sang,  that  by  his  native  bowers 
He  stood,  in  the  last  moon  of  flowers,    *° 
And  thirty  snows  had  not  yet  shed 
Their  glory  on  the  warrior's  head: 
But,  as  the  summer  fruit  decays, 
So  died  he  in  those  naked  days. 

A  dark  cloak  of  the  roebuck's  skin 
Covered  the  warrior,  and  within 
Its  heavy  folds  the  weapons,  made 
For  the  hard  toils  of  war,  were  laid; 
The  cuirass,  woven  of  plaited  reeds, 
And  the  broad  belt  of  shells  and  beads.  3<> 

Before,  a  dark-haired  virgin  train 
Chanted  the  death  dirge  of  the  slain; 
Behind,  the  long  procession  came 
Of  hoary  men  and  chiefs  of  fame, 
With  heavy  hearts,  and  eyes  of  grief, 
Leading  the  war-horse  of  their  chief. 

Stripped  of  his  proud  and  martial  dress, 
Uncurbed,  unreined,  and  riderless, 
With  darting  eye,  and  nostril  spread, 
And  heavy  and  impatient  tread,  4° 

He  came;  and  oft  that  eye  so  proud 
Asked  for  his  rider  in  the  crowd. 

They  buried  the  dark  chief;  they  freed 
Beside  the  grave  his  battle  steed ; 
And  swift  an  arrow  cleaved  its  way 
To  his  stern  heart !     One  piercing  neigh 
Arose,  and,  on  the  dead  man's  plain, 
The  rider  grasps  his  steed  again. 

1825. 

Atlantic  Souvenir  for  1827. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


367 


A  PSALM  OF  LIFE 

What  the  Heart  of  the  Young  Man  Said 
to  the  Psalmist. 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 
Life  is  but  an  empty  dream ! — 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real!     Life  is  earnest! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal; 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 
Is  our  destined  end  or  way;  *° 

But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 
Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 
And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife!  2° 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 
Act, — act  in  the  living  Present ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 

Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main,  3° 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 
1838. 

Knickerbocker  Magazine,  Oct.,  1838. 

PRELUDE i 

Pleasant  it  was,  when  woods  were  green 

And  winds  were  soft  and  low, 
To  lie  amid  some  sylvan  scene, 
Where,  the  long   drooping  boughs  be 
tween, 

1  Written    as    introduction    to    the    "Voices    of 
the   Night"   collected   and   published   in   1839. 


Shadows  dark  and  sunlight  sheen 
Alternate  come  and  go; 

Or  where  the  denser  grove  receives 

No  sunlight  from  above, 
But  the  dark  foliage  interweaves 
In  an  unbroken  roof  of  leaves,  I0 

Underneath  whose  sloping  eaves 

The  shadows  hardly  move. 

Beneath  some  patriarchal  tree 

I  lay  upon  the  ground; 
His  hoary  arms  uplifted  he, 
And  all  the  broad  leaves  over  me 
Clapped  their  little  hands  in  glee, 

With  one  continuous  sound; 

A  slumberous  sound,  a  sound  that  brings 
The  feelings  of  a  dream,  » 

As  of  innumerable  wings 
As,  when  a  bell  no  longer  swings, 
Faint  the  hollow  murmur  rings 
O'er  meadow,  lake,  and  stream. 

And  dreams  of  that  which  cannot  die, 

Bright  visions,  came  to  me, 
As  lapped  in  thought  I  used  to  lie, 
And  gaze  into  the  summer  sky, 
Where  the  sailing  clouds  went  by, 

Like  ships  upon  the  sea;  3° 

Dreams  that  the  soul  of  youth  engage 

Ere  Fancy  has  been  quelled; 
Old  legends  of  the  monkish  page, 
Traditions  of  the  saint  and  sage, 
Tales  that  have  the  rime  of  age, 

And  chronicles  of  eld. 

And,  loving  still  these  quaint  old  themes, 

Even  in  the  city's  throng 
I  feel  the  freshness  of  the  streams,        39 
That,  crossed  by  shades  and  sunny  gleams, 
Water  the  green  land  of  dreams, 

The  holy  land  of  song. 

Therefore,  at  Pentecost,  which  brings 
The  Spring,  clothed  like  a  bride, 

When  nestling  buds  unfold  their  wings, 

And  bishop's-caps  have  golden  rings, 

Musing  upon  many  things, 
I  sought  the  woodlands  wide, 

The  green  trees  whispered  low  and  mild ; 

It  was  a  sound  of  joy!  5° 

They  were  my  playmates  when  a  child, 
And  rocked  me  in  their  arms  so  wild ! 
Still  they  looked  at  me  and  smiled, 

As  if  I  were  a  boy; 


368 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


And  ever  whispered,  mild  and  low, 
"Come,  be  a  child  once  more !" 

And  waved  their  long  arms  to  and  fro, 

And  beckoned  solemnly  and  slow; 

Oh,  I  could  not  choose  but  go 
Into  the  woodlands  hoar, —  6° 

Into  the  blithe  and  breathing  air, 

Into  the  solemn  wood, 
Solemn  and  silent  everywhere ! 
Nature  with  folded  hands  seemed  there, 
Kneeling  at  her  evening  prayer! 

Like  one  in  prayer  I  stood. 

Before  me  rose  an  avenue, 

Of  tall  and  sombrous  pines; 
Abroad  their  fan-like  branches  grew,      ^ 
And,  where  the  sunshine  darted  through, 
Spread  a  vapor  soft  and  blue, 

In  long  and  sloping  lines. 

And,  falling  on  my  weary  brain, 

Like  a  fast-falling  shower, 
The  dreams  of  youth  came  back  again, — 
Low  lispings  of  the  summer  rain, 
Dropping  on  the  ripened  grain, 

As  once  upon  the  flower. 

Visions  of  childhood!    Stay,  oh  stay! 

Ye  were  so  sweet  and  wild !  8° 

And  distant  voices  seemed  to  say, 
"It  cannot  be !    They  pass  away ! 
Other  themes  demand  thy  lay; 

Thou  art  no  more  a  child ! 

"The  land  of  Song  within  thee  lies, 

Watered  by  living  springs ; 
The  lids  of  Fancy's  sleepless  eyes 
Are  gates  unto  that  Paradise; 
Holy  thoughts,  like  stars,  arise; 

Its  clouds  are  angels'  wings.  9° 

"Learn,  that  henceforth  thy  song  shall  be, 
Not  mountains  capped  with  snow, 

Nor  forests  sounding  like  the  sea, 

Nor  rivers  flowing  ceaselessly, 

Where  the  woodlands  bend  to  see 
The  bending  heavens  below. 

"There  is  a  forest  where  the  din 

Of  iron  branches  sounds! 
A  mighty  river  roars  between, 
And  whosoever  looks  therein  I0° 

Sees  the  heavens  all  black  with  sin, 

Sees  not  its  depths,  nor  bounds. 

"Athwart  the  swinging  branches  cast, 

Soft  rays  of  sunshine  pour; 
Then  comes  the  fearful  wintry  blast; 
Our  hopes,  like  withered  leaves,  fall  fast; 
Pallid  lips  say,  'It  is  past! 

We  can  return  no  more !' 


"Look,  then,  into  thine  heart,  and  write ! 

Yes,  into  Life's  deep  stream !  1I0 

All  forms  of  sorrow  and  delight, 
All  solemn  Voices  of  the  Night, 
That  can  soothe  thee,  or  affright, — 

Be  these  henceforth  thy  theme." 

Knickerbocker  Magazine,  May,  1839. 

THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH 

Under  a  spreading  chestnut-tree 

The  village  smithy  stands; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands ; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 

His  face  is  like  the  tan; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can,  I0 

And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night. 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 
Look  in  at  the  open  door;  2° 

They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 
And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 

And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 
Like  chaff  from  a  threshing-floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys ; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice.  3° 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies ; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling, — rej  oicing, — sorrowing, 
Onward  through  life  he  goes; 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 
Each  evening  sees  it  close ;  4" 

Something  attempted,  something  done, 
Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


369 


Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought. 

1839. 

Knickerbocker  Magazine,  Nov.,  1840. 

/     ± 
THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea; 
And    the    skipper    had    taken    his    little 
daughter, 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax, 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 

And   her   bosom   white   as   the   hawthorn 

buds, 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 
His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth,  l° 

And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did 

blow 
The  smoke  now  West,  now  South. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  Sailor, 
Had  sailed  to  the  Spanish  Main, 

"I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 
For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

"Last  night,  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 
And  to-night  no  moon  we  see !" 

The   skipper,   he   blew   a  whiff    from  his 

pipe, 
And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he.        » 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  Northeast, 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength ; 
She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a  frighted 
steed, 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

"Come  hither !  come  hither !  my  little 
daughter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so;  3° 

For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 

That  ever  wind  did  blow." 


He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's 
coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

"O  father !    I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be?" 
"  'T  is  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast !" 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea.         40 

"O  father !    I  hear  the  sound  of  guns, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be?" 
"Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea !" 

"O  father !    I  see  a  gleaming  light, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be?" 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word, 

A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 
With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies,      5° 

The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming 

snow 
On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and 

prayed 

That  saved  she  might  be; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the 

wave, 
On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and 
drear, 

Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 
Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 

Tow'rds  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe.   6° 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 
A  sound  came  from  the  land; 

It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 
On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy 
waves 

Looked  soft  as  carded  wool,  7° 

But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 
With  the  masts  went  by  the  board; 

Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank, 
Ho!  ho!  the  breakers  roared! 


370 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair, 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast.          8° 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea 
weed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 
In  the  midnight  and  the  snow ! 

Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 
On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe! 

1839. 

The  Boston  Book  for  1841. 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR1 

Speak !  speak !  thou  fearful  guest ! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me ! 
Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me? 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 

Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise,  I0 

As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

"I  was  a  Viking  old! 

My  deeds,  though  manifold, 

No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee !  m 

Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse; 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

"Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  gerfalcon; 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound,       '„<   3° 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 

1  A  full  account  of  the  finding  of  the  skeleton 
is  given  in  the  American  Monthly  Magazine  of 
January,  1836. 


"Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow ; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were- wolf's  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 

"But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
W7ild  was  the  life  we  led; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 

"Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  Winter  out; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 

Filled  to  o'erflowing. 

"Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning  yet  tender; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

"I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 

"Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daughter's  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 

To  hear  my  story. 

"While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 
The  sea-foam  brightly, 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


371 


So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 
Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

"She  was  a  Prince's  child, 

I  but  a  Viking  wild,  9° 

And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded? 

"Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen !  I0° 

When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

"Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  us; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw,  "° 

So  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

"And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
'Death!'  was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

'Death  without  quarter !' 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water!  12° 

"As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden, — 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 

And  when  the  storm  was  o'er,  '3° 

Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  leeward ; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower,1 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 

Stands  looking  seaward. 

1  The   "Round   Tower"   at    Newport,   popularly 
supposed  to  have  been  built  by  the  Northmen. 


"There  lived  we  many  years ; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother;  l& 

Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another! 

"Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sunlight  hateful ! 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear,  15° 

Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

Oh,  death  was  grateful! 

"Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
Skoal!  to  the  Northland!  skoal!"2 

Thus  the  tale  ended.  *&> 

1840. 

Knickerbocker  Magazine,  Jan.,  1841. 


EXCELSIOR 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed, 
A  youth,  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 

His  brow  was  sad;  his  eye  beneath, 
Flashed  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  run 
The  accents   of  that  unknown  tongue, 

Excelsior !  '° 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright; 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan, 
Excelsior ! 

"Try  not  the  Pass !"  the  old  man  said ; 
"Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 

J  In  Scandinavia  this  is  the  customary  saluta 
tion  when  drinking  a  health.  I  have  slightly 
changed  the  orthography  of  the  word  [skaal]  in 
in  order  to  preserve  the  correct  pronunciation. 
(Author's  Note.) 


372 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide !" 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 

Excelsior !  2° 

"Oh  stay,"  the  maiden  said,  "and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast !" 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye,   ' 
But  still  he  answered,  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

"Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch  f"~" 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche!" 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  Good-night, 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 

Excelsior !  so 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
•A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior ! 

A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
.Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 

Excelsior !  4° 

There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star, 
Excelsior ! 

1841.      "Ballads  and  Other  Poems,"  1841. 


SERENADE 
From  "The  Spanish  Student." 

Stars  of  the  summer  night! 

Far  in  yon  azure  deeps, 
Hide,  hide  your  golden  light! 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps! 

Sleeps ! 

Moon  of  the  summer  night! 

Far  down  yon  western  steeps, 
Sink,  sink  in  silver  light! 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Wind  of  the  summer  night! 

Where  yonder  woodbine  creeps, 
Fold,  fold  thy  pinions  light! 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps! 


Dreams  of  the  summer  night ! 

Tell  her,  her  lover  keeps  2° 

Watch !  while  in  slumbers  light 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

1840.        Graham's  Magazine,  Sept.,  1842. 

THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD 

This  is  the  Arsenal.   From  floor  to  ceiling, 
Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished 

arms  ; 
But    from    their    silent    pipes   no    anthem 

pealing 
Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah !  what  a  sound  will  rise,  how  wild  and 

dreary, 
When    the    death-angel    touches    those 

swift  keys! 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  sympho 
nies  ! 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus, 
The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, I0 

Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone 

before  us, 
In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On   helm   and    harness  rings   the    Saxon 

hammer, 
Through     Cimbric     forest     roars     the 

Norseman's  song, 

And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor, 
O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar 
gong. 

I  hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheels  out  his  battle-bell  with  dread 
ful  din, 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 
Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  ser 
pent's  skin;  2° 

The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning 

village ; 
The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy 

drowns ; 

The  soldiers'  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage; 
The    wail    of    famine    in    beleaguered 
towns ; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched 

asunder, 
The    rattling    musketry,    the    clashing 

blade; 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder 
The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


373 


Is  it,  O  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 

With     such     accursed     instruments     as 

these,  30 

Thou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly 

voices, 
And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies? 

Were  half  the  power  that  fills  the  world 

with  terror, 
Were    half    the    wealth    bestowed    on 

camps  and  courts, 
Given  to   redeem  the  human  mind  from 

error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  or  forts  : 

The  warrior's  name  would  be  a  name  ab 
horred  ! 

And  every  nation,  that  should  lift  again 
Its   hand  against  a  brother,  on  its   fore 
head 

Would  wear  forevermore  the  curse  of 
Cain !  4° 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  gen 
erations, 
The  echoing  sounds  grow   fainter  and 

then  cease; 

And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibra 
tions, 

I  hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ 
say,  "Peace !" 

Peace!    and   no   longer    from   its   brazen 

portals 
The  blast  of  War's  great  organ  shakes 

the  skies ! 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 

1844.         Graham's  Magazine,  April,  1844. 


THE  DAY  IS  DONE* 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist : 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain,  I0 

And  resembles  sorrow  only 
As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

1  Longfellow  wrote  this  poem  as  a  proem  to  a 
volume  of  selections  from  minor  poets,  called 
The  Waif,  which  he  edited. 


Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 

Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 
Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 

Through  the  corridors  of  Time.          2° 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 
Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 
And  nights  devoid  of  ease,  3" 

Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice.  40 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day, 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 

1844.  Proem  to  "The  Waif,"  1844. 


THE   BRIDGE 

I  stood  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 
As  the  clocks  were  striking  the  hour, 

And  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  city, 
Behind  the  dark  church-tower. 

I  saw  her  bright  reflection 

In  the  waters  under  me, 
Like  a  golden  goblet  falling 

And  sinking  into  the  sea. 

And  far  in  the  hazy  distance 

Of  that  lovely  night  in  June,  l 

The  blaze  of  the  flaming  furnace 

Gleamed  redder  than  the  moon. 


374 


AMERICAN   POETRY 


Among  the  long,  black  rafters 

The  wavering  shadows  lay, 
And  the  current  that  came  from  the  ocean 

Seemed  to  lift  and  bear  them  away; 

As,  sweeping  and  eddying  through  them, 

Rose  the  belated  tide, 
And,  streaming  into  the  moonlight, 

The  seaweed  floated  wide.  2° 

And  like  those  waters  rushing 

Among  the  wooden  piers, 
A  flood  of  thoughts  came  o'er  me 

That  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 

How  often,  oh  how  often, 
In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 

I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight 
And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky! 

How  often,  oh  how  often, 

I  had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide        3<> 
Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 

O'er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide ! 


For  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless, 
And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 

And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 

Seemed  greater  than  I  could  bear. 

But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me, 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea; 
And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 

Throws  its  shadow  over  me. 

Yet  whenever  I  cross  the  river  ^ 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers, 

Like  the  odor  of  brine  from  the  ocean 
Conies  the  thought  of  other  years. 

And  I  think  how  many  thousands 

Of  care-encumbered  men, 
Each  bearing  his  burden  of  sorrow, 

Have  crossed  the  bridge  since  then. 

I  see  the  long  procession 

Still  passing  to  and  fro, 
The  young  heart  hot  and  restless, 

And  the  old  subdued  and  slow! 

And  forever  and  forever, 

As  long  as  the  river  flows, 
As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions, 

As  long  as  life  has  woes; 

The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection 
And  its  shadows  shall  appear, 

As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven, 
And  its  wavering  image  here. 


60 


1845. 


In  "Poems,"  1845. 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS 

Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street 

Stands  the  old-fashioned  country-seat. 

Across  its  antique  portico 

Tall  poplar-trees  their  shadows  throw ; 

And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 

An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all, — 

"Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !" 

Half-way  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 

And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands   '• 

From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 

Like  a  monk,  who,  under  his  cloak, 

Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas ! 

With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass, — 

"Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !" 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light; 

But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 

Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep's  fall, 

It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall,  2° 

Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 

And  seems  to  say,  at  each  chamber-door, — 

"Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !" 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth, 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth, 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  has  stood, 
And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw, 
It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe, —  30 

"Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !" 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality ; 
His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared; 
The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board; 
But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 
That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased, — 

"Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !"  4° 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played, 
There    youths    and    maidens    dreaming 

strayed ; 

O  precious  hours !     O  golden  prime. 
And  affluence  of  love  and  time! 
Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold, 
Those  hours  the  ancient  timepiece  told, — 

"Forever — never ! 

Never — -forever !" 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 
The   bride    came    forth    on    her    wedding 
night ;  5<> 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


375 


There,  in  that  silent  room  below, 
The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow ; 
And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer, 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair, — 

"Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !" 

All  are  scattered  now  and  fled, 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead ; 
And  when  I  ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 
"Ah!  when  shall  they  all  meet  again?" 
As  in  the  days  long  since  gone  by,          6l 
The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply, — 

"Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !" 

Never  here,  forever  there, 

Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care, 

And  death,  and  time  shall  disappear, — 

Forever  there,  but  never  here ! 

The  horologe  of  Eternity 

Sayeth  this  incessantly, —  7° 

"Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !" 

1845.'     In  "The  Belfry  of  Bruges,"  1845. 


THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG 

I  shot  an  arrow  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where; 
For,  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  it  in  its  flight. 

I  breathed  a  song  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where; 
For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  strong, 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song? 

Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak, 
I  found  the  arrow,  still  unbroke;  10 

And  the  song,   from  beginning  to  end, 
I  found  again  in  the  heart  of  a  friend. 

1845.      In  "The  Belfry  of  Bruges,"  1845. 


DANTE 

Tuscan,  that  wanderest  through  the  realms 

of  gloom, 
With  thoughtful  pace,  and  sad,  majestic 

eyes, 
Stern  thoughts  and  awful  from  thy  soul 

arise, 

Like  Farinata  from  his  fiery  tomb. 
Thy    sacred    song    is    like    the    trump    of 

doom; 


Yet  in  thy  heart  what  human  sympathies, 
What  soft  compassion  glows ;  as  in  the 

skies 

The  tender  stars  their  clouded  lamps  re 
lume! 
Methinks    I    see    thee    stand    with    pallid 

cheeks 

By  Fra  Hilario  in  his  diocese,  10 

As  up  the  convent-walls,  in  golden  streaks, 
The  ascending  sunbeams  mark  the  day's 

decrease ; 
And,  as  he  asks  what  there  the  stranger 

seeks, 

Thy    voice    along    the    cloister    whispers 
"Peace !" 

1843?     In  "The  Belfry  of  Bruges,"  1845. 

SEAWEED 

When  descends  on  the  Atlantic 

The  gigantic 

Storm-wind  of  the  equinox, 
Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 

The  toiling  surges, 
Laden  with  seaweed  from  the  rocks: 

From  Bermuda's  reefs;  from  edges 

Of  sunken  ledges, 
In  some  far-off,  bright  Azore; 
From  Bahama,  and  the  dashing,  »° 

Silver-flashing 
Surges  of  San  Salvador; 

From  the  tumbling  surf,  that  buries 

The  Orkneyan  skerries, 
Answering  the  hoarse  Hebrides ; 
And  from  wrecks  of  ships,  and  drifting 

Spars,  uplifting 
On  the  desolate,  rainy  seas; — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting  *> 

Currents  of  the  restless  main; 

Till  in  sheltered  coves,  and  reaches 
Of  sandy  beaches, 

All  have  found  repose  again. 

So  when  storms  of  wild  emotion 

Strike  the  ocean 
Of  the  poet's  soul,  erelong 
From  each  cave  and  rocky  fastness, 

In  its  vastness, 
Floats  some  fragment  of  a  song:  3° 

From  the  far-off  isles  enchanted, 

Heaven  has  planted 
With  the  golden   fruit  of  Truth ;  ^ 
From  the  flashing  surf,  whose  vision 

Gleams  Elysian 
In  the  tropic  clime  of  Youth; 


376 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


From  the  strong  Will,  and  the  Endeavor 

That  forever 

Wrestle  with  the  tides  of  Fate;  \» 

From  the  wreck  of  Hopes  far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating  waste  and  desolate; — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  heart; 
Till  at  length  in  books  recorded, 

They,  like  hoarded 
Household  words,  no  more  depart. 
1844.  1845. 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE 

Black  shadows   fall 
From  the  lindens  tall, 
That  lift  aloft  their  massive  wall 
Against  the  southern  sky; 

And  from  the  realms 
Of  the  shadowy  elms 
A  tide-like  darkness  overwhelms 
The  fields  that  round  us  lie. 

But  the  night  is  fair, 

And  everywhere  I0 

A  warm,  soft  vapor  fills  the  air, 
And  distant  sounds  seem  near; 

And  above,  in  the  light 
Of  the  star-lit  night, 
Swift  birds  of  passage  wing  their  flight 
Through  the  dewy  atmosphere. 

I  hear  the  beat 
Of  their  pinions  fleet, 
As  from  the  land  of  snow  and  sleet 
They  seek  a  southern  lea.  *> 

I  hear  the  cry 
Of  their  voices  high 
Falling  dreamily  through  the  sky, 
But  their  forms  I  cannot  see. 

Oh,  say  not  so ! 
Those  sounds  that  flow 
In  murmurs  of  delight  and  woe 
Come  not  from  wings  of  birds. 

They  are  the  throngs 

Of  the  poet's  songs,  3° 

Murmurs  of  pleasures,  and  pains,  and 

wrongs, 
The  sound  of  winged  words. 


This  is  the  cry 
Of  souls,  that  high 
On  toiling,  beating  pinions,  fly, 
Seeking  a  warmer  clime. 

From  their  distant  flight 
Through  realms  of  light 
It  falls  into  our  world  of  night, 
With  the  murmuring  sound  of  rhyme. 


1846. 


The  Opal  for  1847. 


FROM   EVANGELINE 
A  Tale  of  Acadie 

This  is  the  forest  primeval.  The  mur 
muring  pines  and  the  hemlocks, 

Bearded  with  moss,  and  in  garments 
green,  indistinct  in  the  twilight, 

Stand  like  Druids  of  eld,  with  voices  sad 
and  prophetic, 

Stand  like  harpers  hoar,  with  beards  that 
rest  on  their  bosoms. 

Loud  from  its  rocky  caverns,  the  deep- 
voiced  neighboring  ocean 

Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  an 
swers  the  wail  of  the  forest. 

This  is  the  forest  primeval;  but  where 
are  the  hearts  that  beneath  it 

Leaped  like  the  roe,  when  he  hears  in  the 
woodland  the  voice  of  the  huntsman? 

Where  is  the  thatch-roofed  village,  the 
home  of  Acadian  farmers, — 

Men  whose  lives  glided  on  like  rivers  that 
water  the  woodlands,  10 

Darkened  by  shadows  of  earth,  but  re 
flecting  an  image  of  heaven? 

Waste  are  those  pleasant  farms,  and  the 
farmers  forever  departed! 

Scattered  like  dust  and  leaves,  when  the 
mighty  blasts  of  October 

Seize  them,  and  whirl  them  aloft,  and 
sprinkle  them  far  o'er  the  ocean. 

Naught  but  tradition  remains  of  the  beau 
tiful  village  of  Grand-Pre. 

Ye  who  believe  in  affection  that  hopes, 

and  endures,  and  is  patient, 
Ye  who  believe  in  the  beauty  and  strength 

of  woman's  devotion, 
List  to  the  mournful  tradition,  still  sung 

by  the  pines  of  the  forest; 
List  to  a  Tale  of  Love  in  Acadie,  home 

of  the  happy.  J9 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


377 


PART  THE  FIRST 


Pleasantly  rose  next  morn  the  sun  on  the 

village  of  Grand  Pre. 
Pleasantly  gleamed  in  the  soft,  sweet  air 

the  Basin  of  Minas, 
Where  the   ships,   with   their   wavering 

shadows,  were  riding  at  anchor. 
Life  had  long  been  astir  in  the  village, 

and  clamorous  labor 
Knocked  with  its  hundred  hands  at  the 

golden  gates  of  the  morning. 
Now  from  the  country  around,  from  the 

farms  and  neighboring  hamlets, 
Came  in  their  holiday  dresses  the  blithe 

.  Acadian  peasants. 
Many   a   glad   good-morrow   and   jocund 

laugh  from  the  young  folk 
Made  the  bright  air  brighter,  as  up  from 

the  numerous  meadows, 
Where  no  path  could  be  seen  but  the  track 

of  wheels  in  the  greensward,  I0 

Group  after  group  appeared,  and  joined, 

or  passed  on  the  highway. 
Long  ere  noon,  in  the  village  all  sounds 

of  labor  were  silenced. 
Thronged  were  the  streets  with  people; 

and  noisy  groups  at  the  house-doors 
Sat  in  the  cheerful  sun,  and  rejoiced  and 

gossipped  together. 
Every  house  was  an  inn,  where  all  were 

welcomed  and  feasted ; 
For  with  this  simple  people,  who  lived  like 

brothers  together, 
All  things  were  held  in  common,  and  what 

one  had  was  another's. 
Yet    under     Benedict's    roof    hospitality 

seemed  more  abundant : 
For  Evangeline   stood  among  the  guests 

of  her  father; 
Bright    was    her    face    with    smiles,    and 

words  of  welcome  and  gladness       x 
Fell  from  her  beautiful  lips,  and  blessed 

the  cup  as  she  gave  it. 

Under  the  open  sky,  in  the  odorous  air 

of  the  orchard, 
Stript  of  its  golden  fruit,  was  spread  the 

feast  of  betrothal. 
There  in  the  shade  of  the  porch  were  the 

priest  and  the  notary  seated; 
There  good  Benedict  sat,  and  sturdy  Basil 

the  blacksmith. 
Not    far  withdrawn    from    these,    by   the 

cider-press  and  the  beehives, 
Michael  the  fiddler  was  placed,  with  the 

gayest  of  hearts  and  of  waistcoats. 


Shadow  and  light  from  the  leaves  alter 
nately  played  on  his  snow-white 
Hair,  as  it  waved  in  the  wind;  and  the 

jolly  face  of  the  fiddler 
Glowed  like  a  living  coal  when  the  ashes 

are  blown   from  the  embers.  3° 

Gayly  the  old   man   sang  to  the  vibrant 

sound  of  his  fiddle, 
Tons  les  Bourgeois  de  Chartres,  and  Le 

Carillon  de  Dunquerque, 
And  anon  with  his  wooden  shoes  beat  time 

to  the  music. 
Merrily,   merrily   whirled   the  wheels   of 

the  dizzying  dances 
Under   the   orchard-trees   and   down   the 

path  to  the  meadows; 
Old  folk  and  young  together,  and  children 

mingled  among  them. 
Fairest  of  all  the  maids  was  Evangeline, 

Benedict's   daughter ! 
Noblest  of  all  the  youths  was  Gabriel,  son 

of  the  blacksmith ! 

So  passed  the  morning  away.    And  lo! 

with  a  summons  sonorous 
Sounded  the  bell  from  its  tower,  and  over 

the  meadows  a  drum  beat.  40 

Thronged   erelong  was   the   church   with 

men.    Without,  in  the  churchyard, 
Waited  the  women.     They  stood  by  the 

graves,  and  hung  on  the  headstones 
Garlands  of  autumn-leaves  and  evergreens 

fresh  from  the  forest. 
Then  came  the  guard  from  the  ships,  and 

marching  proudly  among  them 
Entered  the  sacred  portal.   With  loud  and 

dissonant  clangor 
Echoed  the  sound  of  their  brazen  drums 

from  ceiling  and  casement, — 
Echoed   a  moment  only,   and   slowly  the 

ponderous  portal 
Closed,  and  in  silence  the  crowd  awaited 

the  will  of  the  soldiers. 
Then  uprose  their  commander,  and  spake 

from  the  steps  of  the  altar, 
Holding  aloft  in  his  hands,  with  its  seals, 

the   royal   commission.  5° 

"You  are  convened  this  day,"  he  said,  "by 

his   Majesty's  orders. 
Clement  and  kind  has  he  been ;  but  how 

you  have  answered  his  kindness, 
Let  your  own  hearts  reply !     To  my  nat 
ural  make  and  my  temper 
Painful  the  task  is  I  do,  which  to  you  I 

know  must  be  grievous. 
Yet  must  I  bow  and  obey,  and  deliver  the 

will  of  our  monarch ; 
Namely,  that  all  your  lands,  and   dwell 
ings,  and  cattle  of  all  kinds 


378 


AMERICAN   POETRY 


Forfeited  be  to  the  crown;  and  that  you 

yourselves  from  this  province 
Be  transported  to  other  lands.    God  grant 

you  may  dwell  there 
Ever   as    faithful   subjects,   a  happy  and 

peaceable  people! 
Prisoners  now  I  declare  you;  for  such  is 

his  Majesty's  pleasure!"  &> 

As,  when  the  air  is  serene  in  sultry  sol 
stice  of  summer, 
Suddenly  gathers  a  storm,  and  the  deadly 

sling  of  the  hailstones 
Beats  down  the  farmer's  corn  in  the  field 

and  shatters  his  windows, 
Hiding  the  sun,  and  strewing  the  ground 

with  thatch  from  the  house-roofs, 
Bellowing  fly  the  herds,  and  seek  to  break 

their  enclosures; 
So  on  the  hearts  of  the  people  descended 

the  words  of  the  speaker. 
Silent  a  moment  they  stood  in  speechless 

wonder,  and  then  rose 
Louder  and  ever  louder  a  wail  of  sorrow 

and  anger, 
And,  by  one  impulse,  moved,  they  madly 

rushed  to  the  door-way. 
Vain  was  the  hope  of  escape;  and  cries 

and  fierce  imprecations  7° 

Rang  through  the  house  of  prayer;  and 

high  o'er  the  heads  of  the  others 
Rose,  with  his  arms  uplifted,  the  figure  of 

Basil  the  blacksmith, 
As,  on  a  stormy  sea,  a  spar  is  tossed  by  the 

billows. 
Flushed  was  his  face  and  distorted  with 

passion;  and  wildly  he  shouted, — 
"Down  with  the  tyrants  of  England!  we 

never  have  sworn  them  allegiance! 
Death  to  these  foreign  soldiers,  who  seize 

on  our  homes  and  our  harvests !" 
More  he  fain  would  have  said,  but  the 

merciless  hand  of  a  soldier 
Smote  him  upon  the  mouth,  and  dragged 

him  down  to  the  pavement. 

In  the  midst  of  the  strife  and  tumult  of 

angry  contention, 
Lo!  the  door  of  the  chancel  opened,  and 

Father  Felician  8° 

Entered,  with  serious  mien,  and  ascended 

the  steps  of  the  altar. 
Raising  his  reverend  hand,  with  a  gesture 

he  awed  into  silence 
All  that  clamorous  throng;  and  thus  he 

spake  to  his  people; 

Deep  were  his  tones  and  solemn;  in  ac 
cents  measured  and  mournful 
Spake  he,   as,  after  the  tocsin's   alarum, 

distinctly  the  clock  strikes. 


"What  is  this  that  ye  do,  my  children? 
what  madness  has  seized  you? 

Forty  years  of  my  fife  have  I  labored 
among  you,  and  taught  you, 

Not  in  word  alone,  but  in  deed,  to  love 
one  another! 

Is  this  the  fruit  of  my  toils,  of  my  vigils 
and  prayers  and  privations? 

Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  all  lessons  of 
love  and  forgiveness?  9° 

This  is  the  house  of  the  Prince  of  Peace, 
and  would  you  profane  it 

Thus  with  violent  deeds  and  hearts  over 
flowing  with  hatred? 

Lo!  where  the  crucified  Christ  from  his 

cross  is  gazing  upon  you! 
.  See !  in  those  sorrowful  eyes  what  meek 
ness  and  holy  compassion ! 

Hark !  how  those  lips  still  repeat  the 
prayer,  *O  Father,  forgive  them !' 

Let  us  repeat  that  prayer  in  the  hour  when 
the  wicked  assail  us, 

Let  us  repeat  it  now,  and  say,  'O  Father, 
forgive  them !' " 

Few  were  his  words  of  rebuke,  but  deep 
in  the  hearts  of  his  people 

Sank  they,  and  sobs  of  contrition  suc 
ceeded  the  passionate  outbreak, 

While  they  repeated  his  prayer,  and  said, 
"O  Father,  forgive  them!"  I0° 

Then   came   the  evening  service.     The 

tapers  gleamed  from  the  altar. 
Fervent  and  deep  was  the  voice  of  the 

priest,  and  the  people  responded, 
Not  with  their  lips  alone,  but  their  hearts ; 

and  the  Ave  Maria 
Sang  they,  and   fell  on  their  knees,  and 

their  souls,  with   devotion  translated, 
Rose  on  the  ardor  of  prayer,  like  Elijah 

ascending  to  heaven. 

Meanwhile  had  spread  in  the  village  the 
tidings  of  ill,  and  on  all  sides 

Wandered,  wailing,  from  house  to  house 
the  women  and  children. 

Long  at  her  father's  door  Evangeline 
stood,  with  her  right  hand 

Shielding  her  eyes  from  the  level  rays  of 
the  sun,  that,  descending, 

Lighted  the  village  street  with  mysterious 
splendor,  and  roofed  each  no 

Peasant's  cottage  with  golden  thatch,  and 
emblazoned  its  windows. 

Long  within  had  been  spread  the  snow- 
white  cloth  on  the  table; 

There  stood  the  wheaten  loaf,  and  the 
honey  fragrant  with  wild-flowers; 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


379 


There  stood  the  tankard  of  ale,  and  the 
cheese  fresh  brought  from  the  dairy, 

And,  at  the  head  of  the  board,  the  great 
arm-chair  of  the  farmer. 

Thus  did  Evangeline  wait  at  her  father's 
door,  as  the  sunset 

Threw  the  long  shadows  of  trees  o'er  the 
broad  ambrosial  meadows. 

Ah !  on  her  spirit  within  a  deeper  shadow 
had  fallen, 

And  from  the  fields  of  her  soul  a  fra 
grance  celestial  ascended, — 

Charity,  meekness,  love,  and  hope,  and 
forgiveness,  and  patience!  I2° 

Then,  all-forgetful  of  self,  she  wandered 
into  the  village, 

Cheering  with  looks  and  words  the  mourn 
ful  hearts  of  the  women, 

As  o'er  the  darkening  fields  with  linger 
ing  steps  they  departed, 

Urged  by  their  household  cares,  and  the 
weary  feet  of  their  children. 

Down  sank  the  great  red  sun,  and  in 
golden,  glimmering  vapors 

Veiled  the  light  of  his  face,  like  the 
Prophet  descending  from  Sinai. 

Sweetly  over  the  village  the  bell  of  the 
Angelus  sounded. 

Meanwhile,  amid  the  gloom,  by  the 
church  Evangeline  lingered. 

All  was  silent  within;  and  in  vain  at  the 
door  and  the  windows 

Stood  she,  and  listened  and  looked,  till, 
overcome  by  emotion,  '3° 

"Gabriel !"  cried  she  aloud  with  tremu 
lous  voice;  but  no  answer 

Came  from  the  graves  of  the  dead,  nor 
the  gloomier  grave  of  the  living. 

Slowly  at  length  she  returned  to  the 
tenantless  house  of  her  father. 

Smouldered  the  fire  on  the  hearth,  on  the 
board  was  the  supper  untasted, 

Empty  and  drear  was  each  room,  and 
haunted  with  phantoms  of  terror. 

Sadly  echoed  her  step  on  the  stair  and  the 
floor  of  her  chamber. 

In  the  dead  of  the  night  she  heard  the 
disconsolate  rain  fall 

Loud  on  the  withered  leaves  of  the  syca 
more-tree  by  the  window. 

Keenly  the  lightning  flashed;  and  the 
voice  of  the  echoing  thunder 

Told  her  that  God  was  in  heaven,  and 
governed  the  world  He  created !  '4° 

Then  she  remembered  the  tale  she  had 
heard  of  the  justice  of  Heaven; 

Soothed  was  her  troubled  soul,  and  she 
peacefully  slumbered  till  morning. 


PART  THE  SECOND 
ii 

It  was  the  month  of  May.  Far  down  the 
Beautiful  River, 

Past  the  Ohio  shore  and  past  the  mouth 
of  the  Wabash, 

Into  the  golden  stream  of  the  broad  and 
swift  Mississippi, 

Floated  a  cumbrous  boat,  that  was  rowed 
by  Acadian  boatmen. 

It  was  a  band  of  exiles :  a  raft,  as  it  were, 
from  the  shipwrecked 

Nation,  scattered  along  the  coast,  now 
floating  together, 

Bound  by  the  bonds  of  a  common  belief 
and  a  common  misfortune; 

Men  and  women  and  children,  who,  guid 
ed  by  hope  or  by  hearsay, 

Sought  for  their  kith  and  their  kin  among 
the  few-acred  farmers 

On  the  Acadian  coast,  and  the  prairies  of 
fair  Opelousas.  I0 

With  them  Evangeline  went,  and  her 
guide,  the  Father  Felician. 

Onward  o'er  sunken  sands, 'through  a  wil 
derness  sombre  with  forests, 

Day  after  day  they  glided  down  the  tur 
bulent  river; 

Night  after  night,  by  their  blazing  fires, 
encamped  on  its  borders. 

Now  through  rushing  chutes,  among  green 
islands,  where  plumelike 

Cotton-trees  nodded  their  shadowy  crests, 
they  swept  with  the  current, 

Then  emerged  into  broad  lagoons,  where 
silvery  sand-bars 

Lay  in  the  stream,  and  along  the  wim- 
pling  waves  of  their  margin, 

Shining  with  snow-white  plumes,  large 
flocks  of  pelicans  waded. 

Level  the  landscape  grew,  and  along  the 
shores  of  the  river,  *° 

Shaded  by  china-trees,  in  the  midst  of 
luxuriant  gardens, 

Stood  the  houses  of  planters,  with  negro- 
cabins  and  dove-cots. 

They  were  approaching  the  region  where 
reigns  perpetual  summer, 

Where  through  the  Golden  Coast,  and 
groves  of  orange  and  citron, 

Sweeps  with  majestic  curve  the  river  away 
to  the  eastward. 

They,  too,  swerved  from  their  course; 
and  entering  the  Bayou  of  Plaque- 
mine, 

Soon  were  lost  in  a  maze  of  sluggish  and 
devious  waters, 


380 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Which,  like  a  network  of  steel,  extended 
in  every  direction. 

Over  their  heads  the  towering  and  tene 
brous  boughs  of  the  cypress 

Met  in  a  dusky  arch,  and  trailing  mosses 
in  mid-air  30 

Waved  like  banners  that  hang  on  the  walls 
of  ancient  cathedrals. 

Deathlike  the  silence  seemed,  and  un 
broken,  save  by  the  herons 

Home  to  their  roosts  in  the  cedar-trees 
returning  at  sunset, 

Or  by  the  owl,  as  he  greeted  the  moon 
with  demoniac  laughter. 

Lovely  the  moonlight  was  as  it  glanced 
and  gleamed  on  the  water, 

Gleamed  on  the  columns  of  cypress  and 
cedar  sustaining  the  arches, 

Down  through  whose  broken  vaults  it  fell 
as  through  chinks  in  a  ruin. 

Dreamlike,  and  indistinct,  and  strange 
were  all  things  around  them; 

And  o'er  their  spirits  there  came  a  feel 
ing  of  wonder  and  sadness, — 

Strange  forebodings  of  ill,  unseen  and 
that  cannot  be  compassed.  4p 

As,  at  the  tramp  of  a  horse's  hoof  on  the 
turf  of  the  prairies, 

Far  in  advance  are  closed  the  leaves  of 
the  shrinking  mimosa, 

So,  at  the  hoof-beats  of  fate,  with  sad 
forebodings  of  evil, 

Shrinks  and  closes  the  heart,  ere  the 
stroke  of  doom  has  attained  it. 

But  Evangeline's  heart  was  sustained  by 
a  vision,  that  faintly 

Floated  before  her  eyes,  and  beckoned 
her  on  through  the  moonlight. 

It  was  the  thought  of  her  brain  that  as 
sumed  the  shape  of  a  phantom 

Through  those  shadowy  aisles  had  Ga 
briel  wandered  before  her, 

And  every  stroke  of  the  oar  now  brought 
him  nearer  and  nearer. 

Then  in  his  place,  at  the  prow  of  the 

boat,  rose  one  of  the  oarsmen,        5° 
And,   as   a   signal   sound,    if   others   like 

them   peradventure 
Sailed    on    those    gloomy    and    midnight 

streams,  blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle. 
Wild   through    the    dark   colonnades    and 

corridors  leafy  the  blast  rang, 
Breaking  the  seal  of  silence,  and  giving 

tongues  to  the  forest. 
Soundless  above  them  the  banners  of  moss 

just  stirred  to  the  music. 
Multitudinous  echoes  awoke  and  died  in 

the  distance. 


Over  the  watery  floor,  and  beneath  the 

reverberant  branches ; 
But  not  a  voice  replied ;  no  answer  came 

from  the  darkness; 
And,  when  the  echoes  had  ceased,  like  a 

sense  of  pain  was  the  silence. 
Then  Evangeline  slept;  but  the  boatmen 

rowed  through  the  midnight,  6° 

Silent  at  times,  then  singing  familiar  Can 
adian  boat-songs, 
Such  as  they  sang  of  old  on  their  own 

Acadian  rivers, 
While  through  the  night  were  heard  the 

mysterious  sounds  of  the  desert, 
Far  off, — indistinct, — as  of  wave  or  wind 

in  the  forest, 
Mixed  with  the  whoop  of  the  crane  and 

the  roar  of  the  grim  alligator. 

Thus  ere  another  noon  they  emerged 
from  the  shades ;  and  before  them 

Lay,  in  the  golden  sun,  the  lakes  of  the 
Atchafalaya. 

Water-lilies  in  myriads  rocked  on  the 
slight  undulations 

Made  by  the  passing  oars,  and,  resplen 
dent  in  beauty,  the  lotus  7° 

Lifted  her  golden  crown  above  the  heads 
of  the  boatmen. 

Faint  was  the  air  with  the  odorous  breath 
of  magnolia  blossoms, 

And  with  the  heat  of  noon;  and  number 
less  sylvan  islands, 

Fragrant  and  thickly  embowered  with 
blossoming  hedges  of  roses, 

Near  to  whose  shores  they  glided  along, 
invited  to  slumber. 

Soon  by  the  fairest  of  these  their  weary 
oars  were  suspended. 

Under  the  boughs  of  Wachita  willows, 
that  grew  by  the  margin, 

Safely  their  boat  was  moored ;  and  scat 
tered  about  on  the  greensward, 

Tired  with  their  midnight  toil,  the  weary 
travellers  slumbered. 

Over  them  vast  and  high  extended  the 
cope  of  a  cedar.  - 

Swinging  from  its  great  arms,  the  trum 
pet-flower  and  the  grapevine  8° 

Hung  their  ladder  of  ropes  aloft  like  the 
ladder  of  Jacob, 

On  whose  pendulous  stairs  the  angels  as 
cending,  descending, 

Were  the  swift  humming-birds,  that  flit 
ted  from  blossom  to  blossom. 

Such  was  the  vision  Evangeline  saw  as 
she  slumbered  beneath  it. 

Filled  was  her  heart  with  love,  and  the 
dawn  of  an  opening  heaven 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


381 


Lighted  her  soul  in  sleep  with  the  glory 
of  regions  celestial. 

Nearer,    and    ever    nearer,    among   the 

numberless  islands, 
Darted  a  light,  swift  boat,  that  sped  away 

o'er  the  water, 
Urged  on  its  course  by  the  sinewy  arms 

of  hunters  and  trappers. 
Northward   its   prow   was  turned,  to  the 

land  of  the  bison  and  beaver.          9° 
At  the  helm  sat  a  youth,  with  countenance 

thoughtful  and  careworn. 
Dark  and  neglected  locks  overshadowed 

his  brow,  and  a  sadness 
Somewhat  beyond  his  years  on  his  face 

was  legibly  written. 
Gabriel  was  it,  who,  weary  with  waiting, 

unhappy  and  restless, 
Sought  in  the  Western  wilds  oblivion  of 

self  and  of  sorrow. 
Swiftly  they  glided  along,  close  under  the 

lee  of  the  island, 
But  by  the  opposite  bank,  and  behind  a 

screen  of  palmettos, 
So  that  they  saw  not  the  boat,  where  it 

lay  concealed  in  the  willows ; 
All  undisturbed  by  the  dash  of  their  oars, 

and  unseen,  were  the  sleepers. 
Angel  of  God  was  there  none  to  awaken 

the    slumbering    maiden.  10° 

Swiftly  they  glided  away,  like  the  shade 

of  a  cloud  on  the  prairie. 
After   the    sound   of   their   oars   on    the 

tholes  had  died  in  the  distance, 
As    from    a    magic    trance    the    sleepers 

awoke,  and   the   maiden 
Said  with   a  sigh  to  the   friendly  priest, 

"O  Father  Felician ! 
Something  says  in  my  heart  that  near  me 

Gabriel  wanders. 
Is  it  a  foolish  dream,  an  idle  and  vague 

superstition? 
Or  has  an  angel  passed,  and  revealed  the 

truth  to  my  spirit?" 
Then,  with  a  blush,  she  added,  "Alas  for 

my  credulous  fancy ! 
Unto  ears  like  thine  such  words  as  these 

have  no  meaning." 
But  made  answer  the  reverend  man,  and 

he  smiled  as  he  answered, —  no 

"Daughter,   thy  words  are  not  idle;  nor 

are  they  to  me  without  meaning. 
Feeling  is  deep  and  still;  and  the  word 

that  floats  on  the  surface 
Is  as  the  tossing  buoy,  that  betrays  where 

the  anchor  is  hidden. 
Therefore  trust  to  thy  heart,  and  to  what 

the  world  calls  illusions. 


Gabriel  truly  is  near  .thee ;    for  not   far 

away  to  the  southward, 
On  the  banks  of  the  Teche,  are  the  towns 

of  St.  Maur  and  St.  Martin. 
There  the  long-wandering  bride  shall  be 

given  again  to  her  bridegroom. 
There  the   long-absent  pastor   regain   his 

flock  and  his  sheepfold. 
Beautiful  is  the  land,  with  its  prairies  and 

forests  of  fruit-trees; 
Under  the  feet  a  garden  of  flowers,  and 

the  bluest  of  heavens  I2° 

Bending  above,  and  resting  its  dome  on 

the  walls  of  the  forest. 
They  who  dwell  there  have  named  it  the 

Eden  of  Louisiana!" 

With  these  words  of  cheer  they  arose 
and  continued  their  journey. 

Softly  the  evening  came.  The  sun  from 
the  western  horizon 

Like  a  magician  extended  his  golden  wand 
o'er  the  landscape ; 

Twinkling  vapors  arose;  and  sky  and  wa 
ter  and  forest 

Seemed  all  on  fire  at  the  touch,  and 
melted  and  mingled  together. 

Hanging  between  two  skies,  a  cloud  with 
edges  of  silver, 

Floated  the  boat,  with  its  dripping  oars, 
on  the  motionless  water. 

Filled  was  Evangeline's  heart  with  inex 
pressible  sweetness.  J3° 

Touched  by  the  magic  spell,  the  sacred 
fountains  of  feeling 

Glowed  with  the  light  of  love,  as  the  skies 
and  waters  around  her. 

Then  from  a  neighboring  thicket  the 
mocking-bird,  wildest  of  singers, 

Swinging  aloft  on  a  willow  spray  that 
hung  o'er  the  water, 

Shook  from  his  little  throat  such  floods 
of  delirious  music, 

That  the  whole  air  and  the  woods  and  the 
waves  seemed  silent  to  listen. 

Plaintive  at  first  were  the  tones  and  sad : 
then  soaring  to  madness 

Seemed  they  to  follow  or  guide  the  revel 
of  frenzied  Bacchantes. 

Single  notes  were  then  heard,  in  sorrow 
ful,  low  lamentation; 

Till,  having  gathered  them  all,  he  flung 
them  abroad  in  derision, 

As  when,  after  a  storm,  a  gust  of  wind 
through  the  tree-tops  '4° 

Shakes  down  the  rattling  rain  in  a  crystal 
shower  on  the  branches. 

With  such  a  prelude  as  this,  and  hearts 
that  throbbed  with  emotion, 


382 


AMERICAN   POETRY 


Slowly  they  entered  the  Teche,  where  it 

flows  through  the  green  Opelousas, 
And,  through   the  amber   air,   above  the 

crest  of  the  woodland, 
Saw  the  column  of  smoke  that  arose  from 

a  neighboring  dwelling; — 
Sounds  of   a  horn   they   heard,   and   the 

distant  lowing  of  cattle. 

CONCLUSION 

Still  stands  the  forest  primeval;  but  far 
away  from  its  shadow, 

Side  by  side,  in  their  nameless  graves,  the 
lovers  are  sleeping. 

Under  the  humble  walls  of  the  little  Cath 
olic  churchyard, 

In  the  heart  of  the  city,  they  lie,  un 
known  and  unnoticed.  1^° 

Daily  the  tides  of  life  go  ebbing  and 
flowing  beside  them, 

Thousands  of  throbbing  hearts,  where 
theirs  are  at  rest  and  forever, 

Thousands  of  aching  brains,  where  theirs 
no  longer  are  busy, 

Thousands  of  toiling  hands,  where  theirs 
have  ceased  from  their  labors, 

Thousands  of  weary  feet,  where  theirs 
have  completed  their  journey! 

Still  stands  the  forest  primeval;  but 
under  the  shade  of  its  branches 

Dwells  another  race,  with  other  customs 
and  language. 

Only  along  the  shore  of  the  mournful  and 
misty  Atlantic 

Linger  a  few  Acadian  peasants,  whose 
fathers  from  exile 

Wandered  back  to  their  native  land  to  die 
in  its  bosom.  l6° 

In  the  fisherman's  cot  the  wheel  and  the 
loom  are  still  busy; 

Maidens  still  wear  their  Norman  caps  and 
their  kirtles  of  homespun, 

And  by  the  evening  fire  repeat  Evange- 
line's  story, 

While  from  its  rocky  caverns  the  deep- 
voiced,  neighboring  ocean 

Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  an 
swers  the  wail  of  the  forest. 


1845-47. 


Separately  published  1847. 


FROM   THE   BUILDING  OF  THE 
SHIP 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State! 
Sail  on,  O  UNION,  strong  and  great! 
Humanity  with  all  its  fears, 
With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 


Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate! 
We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 
What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 
Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 
What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 
In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat  I0 

Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope ! 
Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 
'Tis  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock; 
'Tis  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 
And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale ! 
In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar, 
In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 
Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea ! 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our 
tears,  2° 

Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 
Are  all  with  thee, — are  all  with  thee ! 

In  "The  Seaside  and  The  Fireside,"  1849. 


TWILIGHT 

The  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy, 
The  wind  blows  wild  and  free, 

And  like  the  wings  of  sea-birds 
Flash  the  white  caps  of  the  sea. 

But  in  the  fisherman's  cottage 
There   shines   a  ruddier   light, 

And  a  little  face  at  the  window 
Peers  out  into  the  night. 

Close,  close  it  is  pressed  to  the  window, 
As  if  those  childish  eyes  10 

Were  looking  into  the  darkness 
To  see  some  form  arise. 

And  a  woman's  waving  shadow 

Is  passing  to  and  fro, 
Now  rising  to  the  ceiling, 

Now  bowing  and  bending  low. 

What  tale  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  bleak  and  wild, 

As  they  beat  at  the  crazy  casement, 
Tell  to  that  little  child?  2° 

And  why  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  wild  and  bleak, 

As  they  beat  at  the  heart  of  the  mother 
Drive  the  color  from  her  cheek? 

In  "The  Seaside  and  The  Fireside,"  1849. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


383 


RESIGNATION  * 

There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and 
tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there! 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe'er  defended, 

But  has  one  vacant  chair! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying, 
And  mournings  for  the  dead; 

The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  cry 
ing, 
Will  not  be  comforted! 

Let  us  be  patient !  These  severe  afflictions 
Not  from  the  ground  arise,  I0 

But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 
Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and 
vapors ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  Death !     What  seems  so  is 
transition ; 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose-  portal  we  call  Death.  20 

She  is  not  dead, — the  child  of  our  affec 
tion, — 

But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  pro 
tection, 
And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclu 
sion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pol 
lution, 
She  lives  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 
In  those  bright  realms  of  air;  30 

Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 
Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  un 
broken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives, 
Thinking  that  our   remembrance,  though 

unspoken, 
May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

1  Written    in    the    autumn    of    1848    after    the 
death  of  Longfellow's  little  daughter  Fanny. 


Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her; 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 
In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a  child;  4° 

But  a  fair  maiden,  in  her  Father's  man 
sion, 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace; 
And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul's  expan 
sion 
Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And    though    at    times    impetuous    with 

emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed, 
The   swelling  heart  heaves   moaning  like 

the  ocean, 
That  cannot  be  at  rest, — 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feel 
ing 

We  may  not  wholly  stay;  so 

By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 
1848.       . 
In  "The  Seaside  and  The  Fireside,"  1849. 


FROM   THE    SONG   OF   HIAWATHA 

m 
HIAWATHA'S  CHILDHOOD 

Downward  through  the  evening  twilight, 
In  the  days  that  are  forgotten, 
In  the  unremembered  ages, 
From  the  full  moon  fell  Nokomis, 
Fell  the  beautiful  Nokomis, 
She  a  wife,  but  not  a  mother. 

She  was  sporting  with  her  women, 
Swinging  in  a  swing  of  grape-vines, 
When  her  rival  the  rejected, 
Full  of  jealousy  and  hatred,        •  I0 

Cut  the  leafy  swing  asunder, 
Cut  in  twain  the  twisted  grape-vines, 
And  Nokomis  fell  affrighted 
Downward  through  the  evening  twilight, 
On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 
On  the  prairie  full  of  blossoms. 
"See!  a  star  falls!"  said  the  people; 
"From  the  sky  a  star  is  falling !" 

There  among  the  ferns  and  mosses, 
There  among  the  prairie  lilies,  m 

On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 
In  the  moonlight  and  the  starlight, 
Fair  Nokomis  bore  a  daughter. 
And  she  called  her  name  Wenonah, 


384 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


As  the  first-born  of  her  daughters. 

And  the  daughter  of  Nokomis 

Grew  up  like  the  prairie  lilies, 

Grew  a  tall  and  slender  maiden, 

With  the  beauty  of  the  moonlight, 

With  the  beauty  of  the  starlight.  30 

And  Nokomis  warned  her  often, 
Saying  oft,  and  oft  repeating, 
"Oh,  beware  of  Mudjekeewis, 
Of  the  West-Wind,  Mudjekeewis; 
Listen  not  to  what  he  tells  you; 
Lie  not  down  upon  the  meadow, 
Stoop  not  down  among  the  lilies, 
Lest    the    West-Wind    come    and    harm 
you !" 

But  she  heeded  not  the  warning, 
Heeded  not  those  words  of  wisdom,    4° 
And  the  West-Wind  came  at  evening, 
Walking  lightly  o'er  the  prairie, 
Whispering  to  the  leaves  and  blossoms, 
Bending  low  the  flowers  and  grasses, 
Found  the  beautiful  Wenonah, 
Lying  there  among  the  lilies, 
Wooed  her  with  his  words  of  sweetness, 
Wooed  her  with  his  soft  caresses, 
Till  she  bore  a  son  in  sorrow, 
Bore  a  son  of  love  and  sorrow.  5° 

Thus  was  born  my  Hiawatha, 
Thus  was  born  the  child  of  wonder; 
But  the  daughter  of  Nokomis, 
Hiawatha's  gentle  mother, 
In  her  anguish  died  deserted 
By  the  West-Wind,  false  and  faithless, 
By  the  heartless  Mudjekeewis. 

For  her  daughter  long  and  loudly 
Wailed  and  wept  the  sad  Nokomis ; 
"Oh  that  I  were  dead !"  she  murmured,  6° 
"Oh  that  I  were  dead,  as  thou  art! 
No  more  work,  and  no  more  weeping, 
Wahonowin !  Wahonowin !" 

By  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gumee, 
By  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water, 
Stood  the  wigwam  of  Nokomis, 
Daughter  of  the  Moon,  Nokomis. 
Dark  behind  it  rose  the  forest, 
Rose  the  black  and  gloomy  pine-trees, 
Rose  the  firs  with  cones  upon  them;      7° 
Bright  before  it  beat  the  water, 
Beat  the  clear  and  sunny  water, 
Beat   the   shining   Big-Sea-Water. 

There  the  wrinkled  old  Nokomis 
Nursed  the  little  Hiawatha, 
Rocked  him  in  his  linden  cradle, 
Bedded  soft  in  moss  and  rushes, 
Safely  bound  with   reindeer   sinews; 
Stilled  his  fretful  wail  by  saying, 
"Hush!  the  Naked  Bear  will  hear  thee!" 
Lulled  him  into  slumber,  singing,  8l 

"Ewa-yea !  my  little  owlet ! 


Who  is  this,  that  lights  the  wigwam? 
With  his  great  eyes  lights  the  wigwam? 
Ewa-yea !  my  little  owlet !" 

Many  things  Nokomis  taught  him 
Of  the  stars  that  shine  in  heaven; 
Showed  him  Ishkoodah,  the  comet, 
Ishkoodah,  with  fiery  tresses ; 
Showed  the  Death-Dance  of  the  spirits,  9° 
Warriors  with   their  plumes  and   war- 
clubs, 

Flaring  far  away  to  northward 
In  the  frosty  nights  of  Winter; 
Showed  the  broad  white  road  in  heaven, 
Pathway  of  the  ghosts,  the  shadows, 
Running  straight  across  the  heavens, 
Crowded  with  the  ghosts,  the  shadows. 

At  the  door  on  summer  evenings 
Sat  the  little  Hiawatha; 
Heard  the  whispering  of  the  pine-trees, 
Heard  the  lapping  of  the  waters,  I01 

Sounds  of  music,  words  of  wonder; 
"Minne-wawa !"  said  the  pine-trees, 
"Mudway-aushka !"  said  the  water. 

Saw  the  fire-fly,  Wah-wah-taysee, 
Flitting  through  the  dusk  of  evening, 
With  the  twinkle  of  its  candle 
Lighting  up  the  brakes  and  bushes, 
And  he  sang  the  song  of  children, 
Sang  the  song  Nokomis  taught  him:     II0 
"Wah-wah-taysee,  little  fire-fly, 
Little,  flitting,  white-fire  insect, 
Little,    dancing,    white-fire   creature, 
Light  me  with  your  little  candle, 
Ere  upon  my  bed  I  lay  me, 
Ere  in  sleep  I  close  my  eyelids !" 

Saw  the  moon  rise  from  the  water 
Rippling,  rounding  from  tTie  water, 
Saw  the  flecks  and  shadows  on  it, 
Whispered,  "What  is  that,  Nokomis?"  12° 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered : 
"Once  a  warrior,  very  angry, 
Seized  his  grandmother,  and  threw  her 
Up  into  the  sky  at  midnight; 
Right  against  the  moon  he  threw  her; 
'Tis  her  body  that  you  see  there." 

Saw  the  rainbow  in  the  heaven, 
In  the  eastern  sky,  the  rainbow, 
Whispered,  "What  is  that,  Nokomis?" 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered :         J3° 
'  'Tis  the  heaven  of  flowers  you  see  there ; 
All  the  wild-flowers  of  the  forest, 
All  the  lilies  of  the  prairie, 
When  on  earth  they  fade  and  perish, 
Blossom  in  that  heaven  above  us." 

When  he  heard  the  owls  at  midnight, 
Hooting,  laughing  in  the  forest, 
"What  is  that?"  he  cried  in  terror, 
"What  is  that,"  he  said,  "Nokomis?" 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered :         '4° 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 


385 


"That  is  but  the  owl  and  owlet, 
Talking  in  their  native  language, 
Talking,  scolding  at  each  other." 

Then  the  little  Hiawatha 
Learned  of  every  bird  its  language, 
Learned  their  names  and  all  their  secrets, 
How  they  built  their  nests  in  Summer, 
Where  they  hid  themselves  in  Winter, 
Talked  with  them  whene'er  he  met  them, 
Called  them  "Hiawatha's  Chickens."      '5° 

Of  all  beasts  he  learned  the  language, 
Learned  their  names  andr.U  their  secrets, 
How  the  beavers  built  their  lodges, 
Where  the  squirrels  hid  their  acorns, 
How  the  reindeer  ran  so  swiftly, 
Why  the  rabbit  was  so  timid, 
Talked  with  them  whene'er  he  met  them, 
Called  them  "Hiawatha's  Brothers." 

Then  lagoo,  the  great  boaster, 
He  the  marvellous  story-teller,  l6° 

He  the  traveller  and  the  talker, 
He  the  friend  of  old  Nokomis, 
Made  a  bow  for  Hiawatha; 
From  a  branch  of  ash  he  made  it, 
From  an  oak-bough  made  the  arrows, 
Tipped  with  flint,  and  winged  with  feath 
ers, 
And  the  cord  he  made  of  deer-skin. 

Then  he  said  to  Hiawatha : 
"Go,  my  son,  into  the  forest, 
Where  the  red  deer  herd  together,        '7° 
Kill  for  us  a  famous  roebuck, 
Kill  for  us  a  deer  with  antlers!" 

Forth  into  the  forest  straightway 
All  alone  walked  Hiawatha 
Proudly,  with  his  bow  and  arrows ; 
And  the  birds  sang  round  him,  o'er  him, 
"Do  not  shoot  us,  Hiawatha !" 
Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
Sang  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
"Do  not  shoot  us,  Hiawatha !"  l8° 

Up  the  oak-tree,  close  beside  him, 
Sprang  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
In  and  out  among  the  branches, 
Coughed  and  chattered  from  the  oak-tree, 
Laughed,  and  said  between  his  laughing, 
"Do  not  shoot  me,  Hiawatha !" 

And  the  rabbit  from  his  pathway 
Leaped  aside,  and  at  a  distance 
Sat  erect  upon  his  haunches, 
Half  in  fear  and  half  in  frolic,  '90 

Saying  to  the   little   hunter, 
"Do  not  shoot  me,  Hiawatha !" 

But  he  heeded  not,  nor  heard  them, 
For  his  thoughts  were  with  the  red  deer; 
On  their  tracks  his  eyes  were  fastened, 
Leading  downward  to  the  river, 
To  the  ford  across  the  river, 
And  as  one  in  slumber  walked  he. 


Hidden  in  the  alder-bushes, 
There  he  waited  till  the  deer  came,      2°° 
Till  he  saw  two  antlers  lifted, 
Saw  two  eyes  look  from  the  thicket, 
Saw  two  nostrils  point  to  windward. 
And  a  deer  came  down  the  pathway, 
Flecked  with  leafy  light  and  shadow. 
And  his  heart  within  him  fluttered, 
Trembled  like  the  leaves  above  him, 
Like  the  birch-leaf  palpitated, 
As  the  deer  came  down  the  pathway. 

Then,  upon  one  knee  uprising,  21° 

Hiawatha  aimed  an  arrow ; 
Scarce  a  twig  moved  with  his  motion, 
Scarce  a  leaf  was  stirred  or  rustled, 
But  the  wary  roebuck  started, 
Stamped  with  all  his  hoofs  together, 
Listened  with  one  foot  uplifted, 
Leaped  as  if  to  meet  the  arrow; 
Ah !  the  singing,  fatal  arrow, 
Like  a  wasp  it  buzzed  and  stung  him ! 

Dead  he  lay  there  in  the  forest,          220 
By  the  ford  across  the  river; 
Beat  his  timid  heart  no  longer, 
But  the  heart  of  Hiawatha 
Throbbed  and  shouted  and  exulted, 
As  he  bore  the  red  deer  homeward, 
And  lagqo  and  Nokomis 
Hailed  his  coming  with  applauses. 

From  the  red  deer's  hide  Nokomis 
Made  a  cloak  for  Hiawatha, 
From  the  red  deer's  flesh  Nokomis      23° 
Made  a  banquet  to  his  honor. 
All  the  village  came  and  feasted, 
All  the  guests  praised  Hiawatha, 
Called  him  Strong-Heart,  Soan-ge-taha ! 
Called  him  Loon-Heart,  Mahn-go-taysee ! 


HIAWATHA  S   FASTING 

You  shall  hear  how  Hiawatha 
Prayed  and   fasted  in  the   forest, 
Not  for  greater  skill  in  hunting, 
Not  for  greater  craft  in  fishing, 
Not  for  triumphs  in  the  battle, 
And  renown  among  the  warriors, 
But  for  profit  of  the  people, 
For  advantage  of  the  nations. 

First  he  built  a  lodge  for  fasting, 
Built  a  wigwam  in  the  forest, 
By  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water, 
In  the  blithe  and  pleasant  Spring-time, 
In  the  Moon  of  Leaves  he  built  it, 
And,  with  dreams  and  visions  many, 
Seven  whole  days  and  nights  he  fasted. 

On  the  first  day  of  his  fasting 


386 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Through  the  leafy  woods  he  wandered; 
Saw  the  deer  start  from  the  thicket, 
Saw  the  rabbit  in  his  burrow, 
Heard  the  pheasant,  Bena,  drumming,    2° 
Heard  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Rattling  in  his  hoard  of  acorns, 
Saw  the  pigeon,  the  Omeme, 
Building  nests  among  the  pine-trees, 
And  in  flocks  the  wild-goose,  Wawa, 
Flying  to  the  fen-lands  northward, 
Whirring,  wailing  far  above  him. 
"Master  of  Life!"  he  cried,  desponding, 
"Must  our  lives  depend  on  these  things?" 

On  the  next  day  of  his  fasting  3° 

By  the  river's  brink  he  wandered, 
Through  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 
Saw  the  wild  rice,  Mahnomonee, 
Saw  the  blueberry,  Meenahga, 
And  the  strawberry,  Odahmin, 
And  the  gooseberry,   Shahbomin, 
And  the  grape-vine,  the  Bemahgut, 
Trailing  o'er  the  alder-branches, 
Filling  all  the  air  with  fragrance! 
"Master  of  Life!"  he  cried,  desponding,  4° 
"Must  our  lives  depend  on  these  things?" 

On  the  third  day  of  his  fasting 
By  the  lake  he  sat  and  pondered, 
By  the  still,  transparent  water; 
Saw  the  sturgeon,  Nahma,  leaping, 
Scattering  drops  like  beads  of  wampum, 
Saw  the  yellow  perch,  the  Sahwa, 
Like  a  sunbeam  in  the  water, 
Saw  the  pike,  the  Maskenqzha, 
And  the  herring,  Okahahwis,  so 

And  the  Shawgashee,  the  craw-fish! 
"Master  of  Life!"  he  cried,  desponding,^ 
"Must  our  lives  depend  on  these  things?" 

On  the  fourth  day  of  his  fasting 
In  his  lodge  he  lay  exhausted; 
From  his  couch,  of  leaves  and  branches 
Gazing  with  half-open  eyelids, 
Full  of  shadowy  dreams  and  visions, 
On  the  dizzy,  swimming  landscape, 
On  the  gleaming  of  the  water,  6° 

On  the  splendor  of  the  sunset. 

And  he  saw  a  youth  approaching, 
Dressed  in  garments  green  and  yellow, 
Coming  through  the  purple  twilight, 
Through  the  splendor  of  the  sunset; 
Plumes  of  green  bent  o'er  his  forehead, 
And  his  hair  was  soft  and  golden. 

Standing  at  the  open   doorway, 
Long  he  looked  at  Hiawatha, 
Looked  with  pity  and  compassion  7° 

On  his  wasted  form  and  features, 
And,  in  accents  like  the  sighing 
Of  the  South-Wind  in  the  tree-tops, 
Said  he,  "O  my  Hiawatha! 
All  your  prayers  are  heard  in  heaven, 


For  you  pray  not  like  the  others; 

Not  for  greater  skill  in  hunting, 

Not  for  greater  craft  in  fishing, 

Not  for  triumph  in  the  battle, 

Nor  renown  among  the  warriors,          8° 

But  for  profit  of  the  people, 

For  advantage  of  the  nations. 

"From  the  Master  of  Life  descending, 
I,  the  friend  of  man,  Mondamin, 
Come  to  warn  you  and  instruct  you, 
How  by  struggle  and  by  labor 
You  shall  gain  what  you  have  prayed  for. 
Rise  up  from  your  bed  of  branches, 
Rise,  O  youth,  and  wrestle  with  me !" 

Faint  with  famine,  Hiawatha  9° 

Started  from  his  bed  of  branches, 
From  the  twilight  of  his  wigwam 
Forth  into  the  flush  of  sunset 
Came,  and  wrestled  with  Mondamin; 
At  his  touch  he  felt  new  courage 
Throbbing  in  his  brain  and  bosom, 
Felt  new  life  and  hope  and  vigor 
Run  through  every  nerve  and  fibre. 

So  they  wrestled  there  together 
In  the  glory  of  the  sunset,  I0° 

And  the  more  they  strove  and  struggled, 
Stronger  still  grew  Hiawatha; 
Till  the  darkness  fell  around  them, 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  her  nest  among  the  pine-trees, 
Gave  a  cry  of  lamentation, 
Gave  a  scream  of  pain  and  famine. 

"  Tis  enough!"  then  said  Mondamin, 
Smiling  upon  Hiawatha, 
"But  to-morrow,  when  the  sun  sets,      no 
I  will  come  again  to  try  you." 
And  he  vanished,  and  was  seen  not; 
Whether  sinking  as  the  rain  sinks, 
Whether  rising  as  the  mists  rise, 
Hiawatha  saw  not,  knew  not, 
Only  saw  that  he  had  vanished, 
Leaving  him  alone  and  fainting, 
With  the  misty  lake  below  him, 
And  the  reeling  stars  above  him. 

On  the  morrow  and  the  next  day,     12° 
When  the  sun  through  heaven  descending, 
Like  a  red  and  burning  cinder 
From  the  hearth  of  the  Great  Spirit, 
Fell  into  the  western  waters, 
Came  Mondamin  for  the  trial, 
For  the  strife  with  Hiawatha; 
Came  as  silent  as  the  dew  comes, 
From  the  empty  air  appearing, 
Into  empty  air  returning. 
Taking  shape  when  earth  it  touches,     r3o 
But  invisible  to  all  men 
In  its  coming  and  its  going. 

Thrice  they  wrestled  there  together 
In  the  glory  of  the  sunset, 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


387 


Till  the  darkness  fell  arounckthem, 
Till  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  her  nest  among  the  pine-trees, 
Uttered  her  loud  cry  of  famine, 
And  Mondamin  paused  to  listen. 

Tall  and  beautiful  he  stood  there,     J4° 
In  his  garments  green  and  yellow; 
To  and  fro  his  plumes  above  him 
Waved  and  nodded  with  his  breathing, 
And  the  sweat  of  the  encounter 
Stood  like  drops  of  dew  upon  him. 

And  he  cried,  "O  Hiawatha! 
Bravely  have  you  wrestled  with  me, 
Thrice  have  wrestled  stoutly  with  me, 
And  the  Master  of  Life,  who  sees  us, 
He  will  give  to  you  the  triumph !"          '5° 

Then  he  smiled,  and  said :  "To-morrow 
Is  the  last  day  of  your  conflict, 
Is  the  last  day  of  your  fasting. 
You  will  conquer  and  o'ercome  me; 
Make  a  bed  for  me  to  lie  in, 
Where  the  rain  may  fall  upon  me, 
Where  the  sun  may  come  and  warm  me ; 
Strip  these  garments,  green  and  yellow, 
Strip  this  nodding  plumage  from  me, 
Lay  me  in  the  earth,  and  make  it        l6° 
Soft  and  loose  and  light  above  me. 

"Let  no  hand  disturb  my  slumber, 
Let  no  weed  nor  worm  molest  me, 
Let  not  Kahgahgee,  the  raven, 
Come  to  haunt  me  and  molest  me, 
Only  come  yourself  to  watch  me, 
Till  I  wake,  and  start,  and  quicken, 
Till  I  leap  into  the  sunshine." 

And  thus  saying,  he  departed; 
Peacefully  slept  Hiawatha,  17° 

But  he  heard  the  Wawonaissa, 
Heard  the  whippoorwill  complaining, 
Perched  upon  his  lonely  wigwam; 
Heard  the  rushing  Sebowisha, 
Heard  the  rivulet  rippling  near  him, 
Talking  to  the  darksome  forest; 
Heard  the  sighing  of  the  branches, 
As  they  lifted  and  subsided 
At  the  passing  of  the  night-wind, 
Heard  them,  as  one  hears  in  slumber    l8° 
Far-off  murmurs,  dreamy  whispers : 
Peacefully  slept  Hiawatha. 

On  the  morrow  came  Nokomis, 
On  the  seventh  day  of  his  fasting, 
Came  with  food  for  Hiawatha, 
Came  imploring  and  bewailing, 
Lest  his  hunger  should  o'ercome  him, 
Lest  his  fasting  should  be  fatal. 

But  he  tasted  not,  and  touched  not, 
Only  said  to  her,  "Nokomis,  '9° 

.Wait  until  the  sun  is  setting, 
Till  the  darkness  falls  around  us, 
Till  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 


Crying  from  the  desolate  marshes, 
Tells  us  that  the  day  is  ended." 

Homeward  weeping  went  Nokomis, 
Sorrowing  for  her  Hiawatha, 
Fearing  lest  his  strength  should  fail  him, 
Lest  his  fasting  should  be  fatal. 
He  meanwhile  sat  weary  waiting  *» 

For  the  coming  of  Mondamin, 
Till  the  shadows,  pointing  eastward, 
Lengthened  over  field  and  forest, 
Till  the  sun  dropped  from  the  heaven, 
Floating  on  the  waters  westward, 
As  a  red  leaf  in  the  Autumn 
Falls  and  floats  upon  the  water, 
Falls  and  sinks  into  its  bosom. 

And  behold !  the  young  Mondamin, 
With  his  soft  and  shining  tresses,  2I° 

With  his  garments  green  and  yellow, 
With  his  long  and  glossy  plumage, 
Stood  and  beckoned  at  the  doorway. 
And  as  one  in  slumber  walking, 
Pale  and  haggard,  but  undaunted, 
From  the  wigwam  Hiawatha 
Came  and  wrestled  with  Mondamin. 

Round  about  him  spun  the  landscape, 
Sky  and  forest  reeled  together. 
And  his  strong  heart  leaped  within  him, 
As  the  sturgeon  leaps  and  struggles       22° 
Tn  a  net  to  break  its  meshes. 
Like  a  ring  of  fire  around  him 
Blazed  and  flared  the  red  horizon, 
And  a  hundred  suns  seemed  looking 
At  the  combat  of  the  wrestlers. 

Suddenly  upon  the  greensward 
All  alone  stood  Hiawatha, 
Panting  with  his  wild  exertion, 
Palpitating  with  the  struggle;  230 

And  before  hjm  breathless,  lifeless, 
Lay  the  youth,  with  hair  dishevelled, 
Plumage  torn,  and  garments  tattered, 
Dead  he  lay  there  in  the  sunset. 

And  victorious  Hiawatha 
Made  the  grave  as  he  commanded, 
Stripped  the  garments  from  Mondamin, 
Stripped  his  tattered  plumage  from  him, 
Laid  him  in  the  earth,  and  made  it 
Soft  and  loose  and  light  above  him;    240 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  the  melancholy  moorlands, 
Gave  a  cry  of  lamentation, 
Gave  a  cry  of  pain  and  anguish ! 

Homeward  then  went  Hiawatha 
To  the  lodge  of  old  Nokomis, 
And  the  seven  days  of  his  fasting 
Wrere  accomplished  and  completed. 
But  the  place  was  not  forgotten 
Where  he  wrestled  with  Mondamin;     2S° 
Nor  forgotten  nor  neglected 
Was  the  grave  where  lay  Mondamin, 


388 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Sleeping  in  the  rain  and  sunshine, 
Where  his  scattered  plumes  and  garments 
Faded  in  the  rain  and  sunshine. 

Day  by  day  did  Hiawatha 
Go  to  wait  and  watch  beside  it; 
Kept  the  dark  mould  soft  above  it, 
Kept  it  clean  from  weeds  and  insects, 
Drove  away,  with  scoffs  and  shoutings, 
Kahgahgee,  the  king  of  ravens.  ^l 

Till  at  length  a  small  green  feather 
From  the  earth  shot  slowly  upward, 
Then  another  and  another, 
And  before  the  Summer  ended 
Stood  the  maize  in  all  its  beauty, 
With  its  shining  robes  about  it, 
And  its  long,  soft,  yellow  tresses; 
And  in  rapture  Hiawatha 
Cried  aloud,  "It  is  Mondamin !  27° 

Yes,  the  friend  of  man,  Mondamin !" 

Then  he  called  to  old  Nokomis 
And  lagoo,  the  great  boaster, 
Showed  them  where  the  maize  was  grow 
ing, 

Told  them  of  his  wondrous  vision, 
Of  his  wrestling  and  his  triumph, 
Of  this  new  gift  to  the  nations, 
Which  should  be  their  food  forever. 

And  still  later,  when  the  Autumn 
Changed  the  long,  green  leaves  to  yellow, 
And  the  soft  and  juicy  kernels  2gl 

Grew  like  wampum  hard  and  yellow, 
Then  the  ripened  ears  he  gathered, 
Stripped   the  withered   husks    from  off 

them, 

As  he  once  had  stripped  the  wrestler, 
Gave  the  first  Feast  of  Mondamin, 
And  made  known  unto  the  people 
This  new  gift  of  the  Great  Spirit. 


HIAWATHA  S    WOOING 

"As  unto  the  bow  the  cord  is, 

So  unto  the  man  is  woman ; 

Though  she  bends  him,  she  obeys  him, 

Though  she  draws  him,  yet  she  follows ; 

Useless  each  without  the  other !" 

Thus  the  youthful  Hiawatha 
Said  within  himself  and  pondered, 
Much  perplexed  by  various   feelings, 
Listless,  longing,  hoping,  fearing, 
Dreaming  still  of  Minnehaha,  10 

Of  the  lovely  Laughing  Water, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs. 

"Wed  a  maiden  of  your  people," 
Warning  said  the  old  Nokomis ; 
"Go  not  eastward,  go  not  westward, 


For  a  stranger,  whom  we  know  not ! 

Like  a  fire  upon  the  hearth-stone 

Is  a  neighbor's  homely  daughter, 

Like  the  starlight  or  the  moonlight 

Is  the  handsomest  of  strangers !"  x 

Thus  dissuading  spake  Nokomis, 
And  my  Hiawatha  answered 
Only  this :  "Dear  old  Nokomis, 
Very  pleasant  is  the  firelight, 
But  I  like  the  starlight  better, 
Better  do  I  like  the  moonlight !" 

Gravely  then  said  old  Nokomis: 
"Bring  not  here  an  idle  maiden, 
Bring  not  here  a  useless  woman, 
Hands  unskilful,   feet  unwilling ;  3<> 

Bring  a  wife  with  nimble  fingers, 
Heart  and  hand  that  move  together, 
Feet  that  run  on  willing  errands !" 

Smiling  answered  Hiawatha: 
"In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs 
Lives  the  Arrow-maker's  daughter, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Handsomest  of  all  the  women. 
I  will  bring  her  to  your  wigwam, 
She  shall  run  upon  your  errands,  4° 

Be  your  starlight,  moonlight,  firelight, 
Be  the  sunlight  of  my  people !" 

Still  dissuading  said  Nokomis  : 
"Bring  not  to  my  lodge  a  stranger 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs ! 
Very  fierce  are  the  Dacotahs, 
Often  is  there  war  between  us, 
There  are  feuds  yet  unforgotten, 
Wounds  that  ache  and  still  may  open !" 

Laughing  answered  Hiawatha:  5» 

"For  that  reason,  if  no  other, 
Would  I  wed  the  fair  Dacotah, 
That  our  tribes  might  be  united, 
That  old  feuds  might  be  forgotten, 
And  old  wounds  be  healed  forever !" 

Thus  departed  Hiawatha 
To  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
To  the  land  of  handsome  women; 
Striding  over  moor  and  meadow, 
Through  interminable  forests,  6° 

Through  uninterrupted  silence. 

With  his  moccasins  of  magic, 
At  each  stride  a  mile  he  measured ; 
Yet  the  way  seemed  long  before  him, 
And  his  heart  outran  his  footsteps; 
And  he  journeyed  without  resting. 
Till  he  heard  the  cataract's  laughter, 
Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  him  through  the  silence. 
"Pleasant  is  the  sound !"  he  murmured,  7° 
"Pleasant  is  the  voice  that  calls  me !" 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  forests, 
'Twixt  the  shadow  and  the  sunshine, 
Herds  of  fallow  deer  were  feeding, 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


389 


But  they  saw  not  Hiawatha ; 

To  his  bow  he  whispered,  "Fail  not!" 

To  his  arrow  whispered,  "Swerve  not !" 

Sent  it  singing  on  its  errand, 

To  the  red  heart  of  the  roebuck; 

Threw  the  deer  across  his  shoulder,       8° 

And  sped  forward  without  pausing. 

At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam 
Sat  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
Making  arrow-heads  of  jasper, 
Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony. 
At  his  side,  in  all  her  beauty, 
Sat  the  lovely  Minnehaha, 
Sat  his  daughter,  Laughing  Water, 
Plaiting  mats  of  flags  and  rushes;  9° 

Of  the  past  the  old  man's  thoughts  were, 
And  the  maiden's  of  the  future. 

He  was  thinking,  as  he  sat  there, 
Of  the  days  when  with  such  arrows 
He  had  struck  the  deer  and  bison, 
On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow; 
Shot  the  wild  goose,  flying  'southward, 
On  the  wing,  the  clamorous  Wawa; 
Thinking  of  the  great  war-parties, 
How  they  came'  to  buy  his  arrows,         I0° 
Could  not  fight  without  his  arrows. 
Ah,  no  more  such  noble  warriors 
Could  be  found  on  earth  as  they  were ! 
Now  the  men  were  all  like  women, 
Only  used  their  tongues  for  weapons ! 

She  was  thinking  of  a  hunter, 
From  another  tribe  and  country, 
Young  and  tall  and  very  handsome, 
Who  one  morning,  in  the  Spring-time, 
Came  to  buy  her  father's  arrows,  "° 

Sat  and  rested  in  the  wigwam, 
Lingered  long  about  the  doorway, 
Looking  back  as  he  departed. 
She  had  heard  her  father  praise  him, 
Praise  his  courage  and  his  wisdom; 
Would  he  come  again  for  arrows 
To  the  falls  of  Minnehaha? 
On  the  mat  her  hands  lay  idle, 
And  her  eyes  were  very  dreamy. 

Through   their   thoughts   they   heard   a 
footstep,  12° 

Heard  a  rustling  in  the  branches, 
And  with  glowing  cheek  and  forehead, 
With  the  deer  upon  his  shoulders, 
Suddenly  from  out  the  woodlands 
Hiawatha  stood  before  them. 

Straight  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Looked  up  gravely  from  his  labor, 
Laid  aside  the  unfinished  arrow, 
Bade  him  enter  at  the  doorway, 
Saying,  as  he  rose  to  meet  him,  13° 

"Hiawatha,  you  are  welcome !" 

At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water 


Hiawatha  laid  his  burden, 
Threw  the  red  deer  from  his  shoulders; 
And  the  maiden  looked  up  at  him, 
Looked  up  from  her  mat  of  rushes, 
Said  with  gentle  look  and  accent, 
"You  are  welcome,  Hiawatha !" 

Very  spacious  was  the  wigwam, 
Made    of    deer-skins    dressed    and    whit 
ened,  14° 
With  the  Gods  of  the  Dacotahs 
Drawn  and  painted  on  its  curtains, 
And  so  tall  the  doorway,  hardly 
Hiawatha  stooped  to  enter, 
Hardly  touched  his  e'agle- feathers 
As  he  entered  at  the  doorway. 

Then  uprose  the  Laughing  Water, 
From  the  ground  fair  Minnehaha, 
Laid  aside  her  mat  unfinished,  J49 

Brought  forth  food  and  set  before  them, 
Water  brought  them  from  the  brooklet, 
Gave  them  food  in  earthen  vessels, 
Gave  them  drink  in  bowls  of  bass-wood, 
Listened  while  the  guest  was  speaking, 
Listened  while  her  father  answered, 
But  not  once  her  lips  she  opened, 
Not  a  single  word  she  uttered. 

Yes,  as  in  a  dream  she  listened 
To  the  words  of  Hiawatha, 
As  he  talked  of  old  Npkomis,  :6° 

Who  had  nursed  him  in  his  childhood, 
As  he  told  of  his  companions, 
Chibiabos,  the  musician, 
And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
And  of  happiness  and  plenty 
In  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 
In  the  pleasant  land  and  peaceful. 

"After  many  years  of  warfare, 
Many  years  of  strife  and  bloodshed, 
There  is  peace  between  the  Ojibways     '7° 
And  the  tribe  of  the  Dacotahs." 
Thus  continued  Hiawatha, 
And  then  added,  speaking  slowly, 
"That  this  peace  may  last  forever, 
And  our  hands  be  clasped  more  closely, 
And  our  hearts  be  more  united, 
Give  me  as  my  wife  this  maiden, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Loveliest  of  Dacotah  Women !" 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker  l8° 

Paused  a  moment  ere  he  answered, 
Smoked  a  little  while  in  silence, 
Looked  at  Hiawatha  proudly, 
Fondly  looked  at  Laughing  Water, 
And  made  answer  very  gravely: 
"Yes,  if  Minnehaha  wishes; 
Let  your  heart  speak,  Minnehaha !" 

And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Seemed  more  lovely  as  she  stood  there, 
Neither  willing  nor  reluctant,  19° 


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AMERICAN    POETRY 


As  she  went'  to  Hiawatha, 
Softly  took  the  seat  beside  him, 
While  she  said,  and  blushed  to  say  it, 
"I  will  follow  you,  my  husband !" 

This  was  Hiawatha's  wooing! 
Thus  it  was  he  won  the  daughter 
Of  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs! 

From  the  wigwam  he  departed, 
Leading  with  him  Laughing  Water;      2°° 
Hand  in  hand  they  went  together, 
Through  the  woodland  and  the  meadow, 
Left  the  old  man  standing  lonoly 
At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam, 
Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehah.* 
Calling  to  them  from  the  distance, 
Crying  to  them  from  afar  off, 
Fare  thee  well,  O  Minnehaha !" 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Turned  again  unto  his  labor,  2I° 

Sat  down  by  his  sunny  doorway. 
Murmuring  to  himself,  and  saying : 
"Thus  it  is  our  daughters  leave  us, 
Those  we  love,  and  those  who  love  us ! 
Just  when  they  have  learned  to  help  us, 
When  we  are  old  and  lean  upon  them, 
Comes  a  youth  with  flaunting  feathers, 
With  his  flute  of  reeds,  a  stranger 
Wanders  piping  through  the  village, 
Beckons  to  the  fairest  maiden,  22° 

And  she  follows  where  he  leads  her, 
Leaving  all  things  for  the  stranger !" 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward, 
Through  interminable  forests, 
Over  meadow,  over  mountain, 
Over  river,  hill,  and  hollow. 
Short  it  seemed  to  Hiawatha, 
Though  they  journeyed  very  slowly, 
Though  his  pace  he  checked  and  slack 
ened 
To  the  steps  of  Laughing  Water.          23° 

Over  wide  and  rushing  rivers 
In  his  arms  he  bore  the  maiden ; 
Light  he  thought  her  as  a  feather, 
As  the  plume  upon  his  head-gear; 
Cleared  the  tangled  pathway  for  her, 
Bent  aside  the  swaying  branches, 
Made  at  night  a  lodge  of  branches, 
And  a  bed  with  boughs  of  hemlock, 
And  a  fire  before  the  doorway 
With  the  dry  cones  of  the  pine-tree.    24° 

All  the  travelling  winds  went  with  them, 
O'er  the  meadows,  through  the  forest; 
All  the  stars  of  night  looked  at  them, 
Watched  with  sleepless  eyes  their  slum 
ber; 

From  his  ambush  in  the  oak-tree 
Peeped  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Watched  with  eager  eyes  the  lovers; 


And  the  rabbit,  the  Wabasso, 
Scampered  from  the  path  before  them, 
Peering,  peeping  from  his  burrow,          25° 
Sat  erect  upon  his  haunches, 
Watched  with  curious  eyes  the  lovers. 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward! 
All  the  birds  sang  loud  and  sweetly 
Songs  of  happiness  and  heart's-ease ; 
Sang  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
"Happy  are  you,  Hiawatha, 
Having  such  a  wife  to  love  you !" 
Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
"Happy  are  you,  Laughing  Water,         26° 
Having  such  a  noble  husband !" 

From  the  sky  the  sun  benignant 
Looked  upon  them  through  the  branches, 
Saying  to  them,  "O  my  children, 
Love  is  sunshine,  hate  is  shadow, 
Life  is  checkered  shade  and  sunshine, 
Rule  by  love,  O  Hiawatha !" 

From  the  sky  the  moon  looked  at  them, 
Filled  the  lodge  with  mystic  splendors, 
Whispered  to  them,  "O  my  children,     27° 
Day  is  restless,  night  is  quiet, 
Man  imperious,  woman  feeble ; 
Half  is  mine,  although  I  follow; 
Rule  by  patience,  Laughing  Water !" 

Thus  it  was  they  journeyed  homeward; 
Thus  it  was  that  Hiawatha 
To  the  lodge  of  old  Nokomis 
Brought  the  moonlight,  starlight,  firelight, 
Brought  the  sunshine  of  his  people. 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water,  28° 

Handsomest  of  all  the  women 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
In  the  land  of  handsome  women. 


XXI 
THE  WHITE   MAN'S  FOOT 

In  his  lodge  beside  a  river, 
Close  beside  a  frozen  river, 
Sat  an  old  man,  sad  and  lonely. 
White  his  hair  was  as  a  snow-drift; 
Dull  and  low  his  fire  was  burning, 
And  the  old  man  shook  and  trembled, 
Folded  in  his  Waubewyon, 
In  his  tattered  white-skin-wrapper, 
Hearing  nothing  but  the  tempest 
As  it  roared  along  the  forest,  I0 

Seeing  nothing  but  the  snow-storm, 
As  it  whirled  and  hissed  and  drifted. 
All  the  coals  were  white  with  ashes, 
And  the  fire  was  slowly  dying, 
As  a  young  man,  walking  lightly, 
At  the  open  doorway  entered. 
Red  with  blood  of  youth  his  cheeks  were, 


391 


Soft  his  eyes,  as  stars  in  Spring-time, 
Bound  his  forehead  was  with  grasses ; 
Bound  and  plumed  with  scented  grasses,  *° 
On  his  lips  a  smile  of  beauty, 
Filling  all  the  lodge  with  sunshine, 
In  his  hand  a  bunch  of  blossoms 
Filling  all  the  lodge  with  sweetness. 

"Ah,  my  son !"  exclaimed  the  old  man, 
"Happy  are  my  eyes  to  see  you. 
Sit  here  on  the  mat  beside  me, 
Sit  here  by  the  dying  embers, 
Let  us  pass  the  night  together, 
Tell  me  of  your  strange  adventures,       3° 
Of  the  lands  where  you  have  travelled; 
I  will  tell  you  of  my  prowess, 
Of  my  many  deeds  of  wonder." 

From  his  pouch  he  drew  his  peace-pipe, 
Very  old  and  strangely  fashioned; 
Made  of  red  stone  was  the  pipe-head, 
And  the  stem  a  reed  with  feathers ; 
Filled  the  pipe  with  bark  of  willow, 
Placed  a  burning  coal  upon  it,   • 
Gave  it  to  his  guest,  the  stranger,  4° 

And  began  to  speak  in  this  wise  : 
"When  I  blow  my  breath  about  me, 
When  I  breathe  upon  the  landscape, 
Motionless  are  all  the  rivers, 
Hard  as  stone  becomes  the  water !" 

And  the  young  man  answered,  smiling : 
"When  I  blow  my  breath  about  me, 
When  I  breathe  upon  the  landscape, 
Flowers  spring  up  o'er  all  the  meadows, 
Singing,  onward  rush  the  rivers !"          5° 

"When  I  shake  my  hoary  tresses," 
Said  the  old  man  darkly  frowning, 
"All  the  land  with  snow  is  covered; 
All  the  leaves  from  all  the  branches 
Fall  and  fade  and  die  and  wither, 
For  I  breathe,  and  lo !  they  are  not. 
From  the  waters  and  the  marshes 
Rise  the  wild  goose  and  the  heron, 
Fly  away  to  distant  regions, 
For  I  speak,  and  lo !  they  are  not.          &> 
And  where'er  my  footsteps  wander, 
All  the  wild  beasts  of  the  forest 
Hide  themselves  in  holes  and  caverns, 
And  the  earth  becomes  as  flintstone !" 

"When  I  shake  my  flowing  ringlets," 
Said  the  young  man,  softly  laughing, 
"Showers  of  rain  fall  warm  and  welcome, 
Plants  lift  up  their  heads  rejoicing, 
Back  into  their  lakes  and  marshes 
Come  the  wild  goose  and  the  heron,      7° 
Homeward  shoots  the  arrowy  swallow, 
Sing  the  bluebird  and  the  robin, 
And  where'er  my  footsteps  wander, 
All  the  meadows  wave  with  blossoms, 
All  the  woodlands  ring  with  music, 
All  the  trees  are  dark  with  foliage !" 


While  they  spake,  the  night  departed : 
From  the  distant  realms  of  Wabun, 
From  his  shining  lodge  of  silver, 
Like  a  warrior  robed  and  painted,          8° 
Came  the  sun,  and  said,  "Behold  me 
Gheezis,  the  great  sun,  behold  me !" 

Then  the  old  man's  tongue  was  speech 
less 

And  the  air  grew  warm  and  pleasant, 
And  upon  the  wigwam  sweetly 
Sang  the  bluebird  and  the  robin, 
And  the  stream  began  to  murmur, 
And  a  scent  of  growing  grasses 
Through  the  lodge  was  gently  wafted. 

And  Segwun,  the  youthful  stranger,   9° 
More  distinctly  in  the  daylight 
Saw  the  icy  face  before' him; 
It  was  Peboan,  the  Winter ! 

From  his  eyes  the  tears  were  flowing, 
As  from  melting  lakes  the  streamlets, 
And  his  body  shrunk  and  dwindled 
As  the  shouting  sun  ascended, 
Till  into  the  air  it  faded, 
Till  into  the  ground  it.  vanished, 
And  the  young  man  saw  before  him,     I0° 
On  the  hearth-stone  of  the  wigwam, 
Where  the  fire  had  smoked  and  smoul 
dered, 

Saw  the  earliest  flower  of  Spring-time, 
Saw  the  Beauty  of  the  Spring-time, 
Saw  the  Miskodeed   in  blossom. 

Thus  it  was  that  in  the  North-land 
After  that  unheard-of  coldness, 
That  intolerable  Winter, 
Came  the  Spring  with  all  its  splendor, 
All  its  birds  and  all  its  blossoms,  II0 

All  its  flowers  and  leaves  and  grasses. 

Sailing  on  the  wind  to  northward, 
Flying  in  great  flocks,  like  arrows, 
Like  huge  arrows  shot  through  heaven, 
Passed  the  swan,  the  Mahnahbezee, 
Speaking  almost  as  a  man  speaks ; 
And  in  long  lines  waving,  bending 
Like  a  bow-string  snapped  asunder, 
Came  the  white  goose,  Waw-be-wawa; 
And  in  pairs,  or  singly  flying,  I2° 

Mahng  the  loon,  with  clangorous  pinions, 
The  blue  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
And  the  grouse,  the  Mushkodasa. 

In  the  thickets  and  the  meadows 
Piped  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
On  the  summit  of  the  lodges 
Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
In  the  covert  of  the  pine-trees 
Cooed  the  pigeon,  the  Omemee; 
And  the  sorrowing  Hiawatha,  *3f> 

Speechless  in  his  infinite  sorrow, 
Heard  their  voices  calling  to  him, 
Went  forth  from  his  gloomy  doorway, 


392 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


60 


Stood  and  gazed  into  the  heaven, 
Gazed  upon  the  earth  and  waters. 

From  his  wanderings  far  to  eastward, 
From  the  regions  of  the  morning, 
From  the  shining  land  of  Wabun, 
Homeward  now  returned  lagoo, 
The  great  traveller,  the  great  boaster,   H 
Full  of  new  and  strange  adventures, 
Marvels  many  and  many  wonders. 

And  the  people  of  the  village 
Listened  to  him  as  he  told  them 
Of  his  marvellous  adventures, 
Laughing  answered  him  in  this  wise: 
"Ugh  !  it  is  indeed  lagoo  ! 
No  one  else  beholds  such  wonders  !" 
•  He  had  seen,  he  said,  a  water 
Bigger  than  the  Big-Sea-Water,  '5 

Broader  than  the  Gitche  Gumee, 
Bitter  so  that  none  could  drink  it  ! 
At  each  other  looked  the  warriors, 
Looked  the  women  at  each  other, 
Smiled,  and  said,  "It  cannot  be  so  ! 
Kaw  !"  they  said,  "it  cannot  be  so  !" 

"O'er  it,"  said  he,  "o'er  this  water 
Came  a  great  canoe  with  pinions, 
A  canoe  with  wings  came  flying, 
Bigger  than  a  grove  of  pine-trees, 
Taller  than  the  tallest  tree-tops!" 
And  the  old  men  and  the  women 
Looked  and  tittered  at  each  other; 
"Kaw  !"  they  said,  "we  don't  believe  it  !" 

From  its  mouth,  he  said,  to  greet  him, 
Came  Waywassimo,  the  lightning, 
Came  the  thunder,  Annemeekee  ! 
And  the  warriors  and  the  women 
Laughed  aloud  at  poor  lagoo;  l69 

"Kaw  !"  they  said,  "what  tales  you  tell  us  !" 

"In  it,"  said  he,  "came  a  people, 
In  the  great  canoe  with  pinions 
Came,  he  said,  a  hundred  warriors; 
Painted  white  were  all  their  faces 
And  with  hair  their  chins  were  covered  !" 
And  the  warriors  and  the  women 
Laughed  and  shouted  in  derision, 
Like  the  ravens  on  the  tree-tops, 
Like  the  crows  upon  the  hemlocks.         '79 
"Kaw  !"  they  said,  "what  lies  you  tell  us  ! 
Do  not  think  that  we  believe  them  !" 

Only  Hiawatha  laughed  not, 
But  he  gravely  spake  and  answered 
To  their  jeering  and  their  jesting: 
"True  is  all  lagoo  tells  us  ; 
I  have  seen  it  in  a  vision, 
Seen  the  great  canoe  with  pinions, 
Seen  the  people  with  white  faces, 
Seen  the  coming  of  this  bearded 
People  of  the  wooden  vessel 
From  the  regions  of  the  morning, 
From  the  shining  lands  of  Wabun. 


J9<> 


"Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty, 
The  Great  Spirit,  the  Creator, 
Sends  them  hither  on  his  errand, 
Sends  them  to  us  with  his  message. 
Wheresoe'er  they  move,  before  them 
Swarms  the  stinging  fly,  the  Ahmo, 
Swarms  the  bee,  the  honey-maker; 
Wheresoe'er  they  tread,  beneath  them    20° 
Springs  a  flower  unknown  among  us, 
Springs  the  White-man's  Foot  in  blossom. 

"Let  us  welcome,  then,  the  strangers, 
Hail  them  as  our  friends  and  brothers, 
And  the  heart's  right  hand  of  friendship 
Give  them  when  they  come  to  see  us. 
Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty, 
Said  this  to  me  in  my  vision. 

"I  beheld,  too,  in  that  vision 
All  the  secrets  of  the  future,  2I° 

Of  the  distant  days  that  shall  be. 
I  beheld  the  westward  marches 
Of  the  unknown,  crowded  nations. 
All  the  land  was  full  of  people, 
Restless,  struggling,  toiling,  striving, 
Speaking  many  tongues,  yet  feeling 
But  one  heart-beat  in  their  bosoms. 
In  the  woodlands  rang  their  axes, 
Smoked  their  towns  in  all  the  valleys, 
Over  all  the  lakes  and  rivers  22° 

Rushed  their  great  canoes  of  thunder. 

"Then  a  darker,  drearier  vision 
Passed  before  me,  vague  and  cloud-like; 
I  beheld  our  nation  scattered, 
All   forgetful  of  my  counsels, 
Weakened,  warring  with  each  other : 
Saw  the  remnants  of  our  people 
Sweeping  westward,  wild  and  woful, 
Like  the  cloud-rack  of  a  tempest, 
Like  the  withered  leaves  of  Autumn !"  23° 


HIAWATHA  S   DEPARTURE 

By  the  shore  of  Gitche  Gumee, 
By  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water, 
At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam, 
In  the  pleasant  summer  morning, 
Hiawatha  stood  and  waited. 
All  the  air  was  full  of  freshness, 
All  the  earth  was  bright  and  joyous, 
And  before  him,  through  the  sunshine, 
Westward  toward  the  neighboring  forest 
Passed  in  golden  swarms  the  Ahmo,       I0 
Passed  the  bees,  the  honey-makers, 
Burning,  singing  in  the  sunshine. 

Bright  above  him  shone  the  heavens, 
Level  spread  the  lake  before  him  ; 
From  its  boson  leaped  the  sturgeon, 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


393 


Sparkling,  flashing  in  the  sunshine; 
On  its  margin  the  great  forest 
Stood  reflected  in  the  water, 
Every  tree-top  had  its  shadow, 
Motionless  beneath  the  water.  2° 

From  the  brow  of  Hiawatha 
Gone  was  every  trace  of  sorrow, 
As  the  fog  from  off  the  water, 
As  the  mist  from  off  the  meadow. 
With  a  smile  of  joy  and  triumph, 
With  a  look  of  exultation, 
As  of  one  who  in  a  vision 
Sees  what  is  to  be,  but  is  not, 
Stood  and  waited  Hiawatha. 

Toward  the  sun  his  hands  were  lifted, 
Both  the  palms  spread  out  against  it,      31 
And  between  the  parted  fingers 
Fell  the  sunshine  on  his  features, 
Flecked  with  light  his  naked  shoulders, 
As  it  falls  and  flecks  an  oak-tree 
Through  the  rifted  leaves  and  branches. 

O'er  the  water  floating,  flying, 
Something  in  the  hazy  distance, 
Something  in  the  mists  of  morning, 
Loomed  and  lifted  from  the  water,         40 
Now  seemed  floating,  now  seemed  flying, 
Coming  nearer,  nearer,  nearer. 

Was  it  Shingebis  the  diver? 
Or  the  pelican,  the  Shada? 
Or  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah? 
Or  the  white  goose,  Waw-be-wawa, 
With  the  water  dripping,  flashing, 
From  its  glossy  neck  and  feathers? 

It  was  neither  goose  nor  diver, 
Neither  pelican  nor  heron,  so 

O'er  the  water  floating,  flying, 
Through  the  shining  mist  of  morning, 
But  a  birch  canoe  with  paddles, 
Rising,  sinking  on  the  water, 
Dripping,  flashing  in  the  sunshine; 
And  within  it  came  a  people 
From  the  distant  land  of  Wabun, 
From  the  farthest  realms  of  morning 
Came  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Prophet. 
He  the  Priest  of  Prayer,  the  Pale-face,  6° 
With  his  guides  and  his  companions. 

And  the  noble  Hiawatha, 
With  his  hands  aloft  extended, 
Held  aloft  in  sign  of  welcome 
Waited,  full  of  exultation, 
Till  the  birch  canoe  with  paddles 
Grated  on  the  shining  pebbles, 
Stranded  on  the  sandy  margin, 
Till  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Pale-face, 
With  the  cross  upon  his  bosom,  7° 

Landed  on  the  sandy  margin. 

Then  the  joyous  Hiawatha 
Cried  aloud  and  spake  in  this  wise: 
"Beautiful  is  the  sun,  O  strangers, 


When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us! 
All  our  town  in  peace  awaits  you, 
All  our  doors  stand  open  for  you; 
You  shall  enter  all  our  wigwams, 
For  the  heart's  right  hand  we  give  you. 

"Never  bloomed  the  earth  so  gayly,    8° 
Never  shone  the  sun  so  brightly, 
As  to-day  they  shine  and  blossom 
When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us ! 
Never  was  our  lake  so  tranquil, 
Nor  so  free  from  rocks  and  sand-bars; 
For  your  birch  canoe  in  passing 
Has  removed  both  rock  and  sand-bar. 

"Never  before  had  our  tobacco 
Such  a  sweet  and  pleasant  flavor, 
Never  the  broad  leaves  of  our  cornfields 
Were  so  beautiful  to  look  on,  91 

As  they  seem  to  us  this  morning, 
When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us !" 

And  the  Black-Robe  chief  rnade  answer, 
Stammered  in  his  speech  a  little, 
Speaking  words  yet  unfamiliar: 
"Peace  be  with  you,  Hiawatha, 
Peace  be  with  you  and  your  people, 
Peace  of  prayer,  and  peace  of  pardon, 
Peace  of  Christ,  and  joy  of  Mary !"      I0° 

Then  the  generous  Hiawatha 
Led  the  strangers  to  his  wigwam, 
Seated  them  on  skins  of  bison, 
Seated  them  on  skins  of  ermine, 
And  the  careful  old  Nokomis 
Brought  them  food  in  bowls  of  basswood, 
Water  brought  in  birchen  dippers, 
And  the  calumet,  the  peace-pipe, 
Filled  and  lighted  for  their  smoking. 

All  the  old  men  of  the  village,        '    »° 
All  the  warriors  of  the  nation, 
All  the  Jpssakeeds,  the  Prophets, 
The  magicians,  the  Wabenos. 
And  the  Medicine-men,  the  Medas, 
Came  to  bid  the  strangers  welcome; 
"It  is  well,"  they  said,  "O  brothers, 
That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us !" 

In  a  circle  round  the  doorway, 
With  their  pipes  they  sat  in  silence, 
Waiting  to  behold  the  strangers,  I2° 

Waiting  to  receive  their  message ; 
Till  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Pale-face, 
From  the  wigwam  came  to  greet  them, 
Stammering  in  his  speech  a  little, 
Speaking  words  yet  unfamiliar; 
"It  is  well,"  they  said,  "O  brother, 
That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us !" 

Then  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Prophet, 
Told  his  message  to  the  people, 
Told  the  purport  of  his  mission,  J3« 

Told  them  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 
And  her  blessed  Son,  the  Saviour, 
How  in  distant  lands  and  ages 


394 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


He  had  lived  on  earth  as  we  do; 
How  he  fasted,  prayed,  and  labored;      / 
How  the  Jews,  the  tribe  accursed, 
Mocked  him,  scourged  him,  crucified  him; 
How  he  rose  from  where  they  laid  him, 
Walked  again  with  his  disciples, 
And  ascended  into  heaven.  140 

And  the  chiefs  made  answer,  saying: 
"We  have  listened  to  your  message, 
We  have  heard  your  words  of  wisdom, 
We  will  think  on  what  you  tell  us. 
It  is  well  for  us,  O  brothers, 
That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us !" 
Then  they  rose  up  and  departed 
Each  one  homeward  to  his  wigwam, 
To  the  young  men  and  the  women 
Told  the  story  of  the  strangers  J5° 

Whom  the  Master  of  Life  had  sent  them 
From  the  shining  land  of  Wabun. 

Heavy  with  the  heat  and  silence 
Grew  the  afternoon  of  summer; 
With  a  drowsy  sound  the  forest 
Whispered  round  the  sultry  wigwam, 
With  a  sound  of  sleep  the  water 
Rippled  on  the  beach  below  it; 
From  the  cornfields  shrill  and  ceaseless 
Sang  the  grasshopper,  Pah-puk-keena ;  l6° 
And  the  guests  of  Hiawatha, 
Weary  with  the  heat  of  Summer, 
Slumbered  in  the  sultry  wigwam. 

Slowly  o'er  the  simmering  landscape 
Fell  the  evening's  dusk  and  coolness, 
And  the  long  and  level  sunbeams 
Shot  their  spears  into  the  forest, 
Breaking  through  its  shields  of  shadow, 
Rushed  into  each  secret  ambush, 
Searched  each  thicket,  dingle,  hollow;   J7° 
Still  the  guests  of  Hiawatha 
Slumbered  in  the  silent  wigwam. 

From  his  place  rose  Hiawatha, 
Bade  farewell  to  old  Nokomis,  _ 
Spake  in  whispers,  spake  in  this  wise, 
.Did  not  wake  the  guests,  that  slumbered: 

"I  am  going,  O  Nokomis, 
On  a  long  and  distant  journey, 
To  the  portals  of  the  Sunset, 
To  the  regions  of  the  home-wind,  l%° 

Of  the  Northwest-Wind,  Keewaydin. 
But  these  guests  I  leave  behind  me, 
In  your  watch  and  ward  I  leave  them ; 
See  that  never  harm  comes  near  them, 
See  that  never  fear  molests  them, 
Never  danger  nor  suspicion, 
Never  want  of  food  or  shelter, 
In  the  lodge  of  Hiawatha !" 

Forth  into  the  village  went  he, 
Bade  farewell  to  all  the  warriors,          J9° 
Bade  farewell  to  all  the  young  men, 
Spake  persuading,  spake  in  this  wise : 


"I  am  going,  O  my  people, 
On  a  long  and  distant  journey; 
Many  moons  and  many  winters 
Will  have  come,  and  will  have  vanished, 
Ere  I  come  again  to  see  you. 
But  my  guests  I  leave  behind  me; 
Listen  to  their  words  of  wisdom, 
Listen  to  the  truth  they  tell  you,  -200 

For  the  Master  of  Life  has  sent  them 
From  the  land  of  light  and  morning !" 

On  the  shore  stood  Hiawatha, 
Turned  and  waved  his  hand  at  parting; 
On  the  clear  and  luminous  water 
Launched  his  birch  canoe  for  sailing, 
From  the  pebbles  of  the  margin 
Shoved  it  forth  into  the  water; 
Whispered  to  it,  "Westward !  westward  !" 
And  with  speed  it  darted  forward.          2I° 

And  the  evening  sun  descending 
Set  the  clouds  on  fire  with  redness, 
Burned  the  broad  sky,  like  a  prairie, 
Left  upon  the  level  water 
One  long  track  and  trail  of  splendor, 
Down  whose  stream,  as  down  a  river, 
Westward,  westward,  Hiawatha 
Sailed  into  the  fiery  sunset, 
Sailed  into  the  purple  vapors, 
Sailed  into  the  dusk  of  evening.  22° 

And  the  people  from  the  margin 
Watched  him  floating,  rising,  sinking, 
Till  the  birch  canoe  seemed  lifted 
High  into  that  sea  of  splendor, 
Till  it  sank  into  the  vapors 
Like  the  new  moon  slowly,  slowly 
Sinking  in  the  purple  distance. 

And   they  said,    "Farewell    forever !" 
Said,  "Farewell,  O  Hiawatha !" 
And  the  forests,  dark  and  lonely,  23° 

Moved  through  all  their  depths  of  dark 
ness, 

Sighed,  "Farewell,  O  Hiawatha!" 
And  the  waves  upon  the  margin 
Rising,  rippling  on  the  pebbles, 
Sobbed,  "Farewell,  O  Hiawatha !" 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  her  haunts  among  the  fen-lands, 
Screamed,  "Farewell,  O  Hiawatha !" 

Thus  departed  Hiawatha, 
Hiawatha  the  Beloved,  24° 

In  the  glory  of  the  sunset, 
In  the  purple  mists  of  evening, 
To  the  regions  of  the  home-wind, 
Of  the  Northwest-Wind,  Keewaydin, 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  Kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
To  the  Land  of  the  Hereafter ! 

June  25,  1854-Mar.  21,  1855. 

Separately  published  Nov.,  1855. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


395 


FROM  THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES 
STANDISH 

in 

THE    LOVER'S    ERRAND 

So  the  strong  will  prevailed,  and  Alden 

went  on  his  errand, 
Out  of  the  street  of  the  village,  and  into 

the  paths  of  the  forest, 
Into  the  tranquil  woods,  where  bluebirds 

and  robins  were  building 
Towns  in  the  populous  trees,  with  hang 
ing  gardens  of  verdure, 
Peaceful,  aerial  cities  of  joy  and  affection 

and  freedom. 
All  around  him  was  calm,  but  within  him 

commotion  and  conflict, 
Love  contending  with  friendship,  and  self 

with  each  generous  impulse. 
To  and  fro  in  his  breast  his  thoughts  were 

heaving  and  dashing, 
As  in  a  foundering  ship,  with  every  roll 

of  the  vessel, 
Washes  the  bitter  sea,  the  merciless  surge 

of  the  ocean  !  I0 

"Must  I  relinquish  it  all,"  he  cried  with  a 

wild  lamentation, — 
"Must  I  relinquish  it  all,  the  joy,  the  hope, 

the  illusion? 
Was  it  for  this  I  have  loved,  and  waited, 

and  worshipped  in  silence? 
Was  it  for  this  I  have  followed  the  flying 

feet  and  the  shadow 
Over  the  wintry  sea,  to  the  desolate  shores 

of  New  England? 
Truly  the  heart  is  deceitful,  and  out  of 

its  depths  of  corruption 
Rise,  like  an  exhalation,  the  misty  phan 
toms  of  passion; 
Angels  of  light  they  seem,  but  are  only 

delusions  of  Satan. 
All  is  clear  to  me  now ;  I  feel  it,  I  see  it 

distinctly ! 
Thrs  is  the  hand  of  the  Lord;  it  is  laid 

upon  me  in  anger,  M 

For  I  have  followed  too  much  the  heart's 

desires  and  devices, 

Worshipping  Astaroth  blindly,  and  impi 
ous  idols  of  Baal. 
This  is  the  cross  I  must  bear ;  the  sin  and 

the  swift  retribution." 

So  through  the  Plymouth  woods  John 
Alden  went  on  his  errand; 

Crossing  the  brook  at  the  ford,  where  it 
brawled  over  pebble  and  shallow. 

Gathering  still,  as  he  went,  the  May-flow 
ers  blooming  around  him, 


Fragrant,  filling  the  air  with  a  strange  and 

wonderful  sweetness, 
Children  lost  in  the  woods,  and  covered 

with  leaves'  in  their  slumber. 
"Puritan  flowers,"  he  said,  "and  the  type 

of  Puritan  maidens, 
Modest  and  simple  and  sweet,  the  very 

type  of  Priscilla!  3° 

So  I  will  take  them  to  her;  to  Priscilla 

the  Mayflower  of  .Plymouth, 
Modest  and  simple  and  sweet,  as  a  part 
ing  gift  will  I  take  them; 
Breathing  their  silent   farewells,   as  they 

fade  and  wither  and  perish, 
Soon  to  be  thrown  away  as  is  the  heart  of 

the  giver." 
So   through   the    Plymouth   woods   John 

Alden  went  on  his  errand ; 
Came  to  an  open  space,  and  saw  the  disk 

of  the  ocean, 

Sailless,  sombre  and  cold  with  the  com 
fortless  breath  of  the  east  wind; 
Saw  the  new-built  house,  and  people  at 

work  in  a  meadow; 

Heard,  as  he  drew  near  the  door,  the  mu 
sical  voice  of  Priscilla 
Singing  the  hundredth  Psalm,  the  grand 

old  Puritan  anthem,  4° 

Music   that    Luther    sang   to   the    sacred 

words  of  the  Psalmist, 
Full  of  the  breath  of  the  Lord,  consoling 
/      and  comforting  many. 
Then,  as  he  opened  the  door,  he  beheld  the 

form  of  the  maiden 
Seated  beside  her  wheel,  and  the  carded 

wool  like  a  snow-drift 
Piled  at  her  knee,  her  white  hands  feed 
ing  the  ravenous  spindle, 
While  with  her  foot  on  the  treadle  she 

guided  the  wheel  in  its  motion. 
Open  wide  on  her  lap  lay  the  well-worn 

psalm-book  of  Ainsworth, 
Printed  in  Amsterdam,  the  words  and  the 

music  together, 
Rough-hewn,  angular  notes,  like  stones  in 

the  wall  of  a  churchyard, 
Darkened  and  overhung  by  the  running 

vine  of  the  verses.  s° 

Such  was  the  book  from  whose  pages  she 

sang  the  old  Puritan  anthem. 
She,  the  Puritan  girl,  in  the  solitude  of  the 

forest, 
Making  the  humble  house  and  the  modest 

apparel  of  homespun 
Beautiful  with  her  beauty,  and  rich  with 

the  wealth  of  her  being! 
Over  him  rushed,  like  a  wind  that  is  keen 

and  cold  and  relentless, 


396 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Thoughts  of  what  might  have  been,  and 
the  weight  and  woe  of  his  errand; 

All  the  dreams  that  had  faded,  and  all  the 
hopes  that  had  vanished, 

All  his  life  henceforth  a  dreary  and  ten- 
entless  mansion, 

Haunted  by  vain  regrets,  and  pallid,  sor 
rowful  faces. 

Still  he  said  to  himself,  and  almost  fiercely 
he  said  it,  v  .  6° 

"Let  not  him  that  putteth  his  hand  to  the 
plough  look  backwards ; 

Though  the  ploughshare  cut  through  the 
flowers  of  life  to  its  fountains, 

Though  it  pass  o'er  the  graves  of  the  dead 
and  the  hearths  of  the  living, 

It  is  the  will  of  the  Lord ;  and  his  mercy 
endureth  forever !" 


So  he  entered  the  house :  and  the  hum 

of  the  wheel  and  the  singing 
Suddenly  ceased ;  for  Priscilla,  aroused  by 

his  step  on  the  threshold, 
Rose  as   he   entered,   and  gave  him   her- 

hand,  in  signal  of  welcome, 
Saying,  "I  knew  it  was  you,  when  I  heard 

your  step  in  the  passage; 
For  I  was  thinking  of  you,  as  I  sat  there 

singing  and  spinning." 
Awkward  and  dumb  with  delight,  that  a 

thought  of  him  had  been  mingled    70 
Thus  in  the  sacred  psalm,  that  came  from 

the  heart  of  the  maiden, 
Silent  before  her  he  stood,  and  gave  her 

the  flowers  for  an  answer, 
Finding  no  words   for  his   thought.     He 

remembered  that  day  in  the  winter, 
After  the  first  great  snow,  when  he  broke 

a  path  from  the  village, 
Reeling  and  plunging  along,  through  the 

drifts  that  encumbered  the  doorway, 
Stamping  the  snow  from  his  feet  as  he  en 
tered  the  house,  and  Priscilla 
Laughed  at  his  snowy  locks,  and  gave  him 

a  seat  by  the  fireside, 
Grateful    and    pleased    to   know    he    had 

thought  of  her  in  the  snow-storm. 
Had  he  but  spoken  then !  perhaps  not  in 

vain  had  he  spoken; 

Now  it  was  all  too  late;  the  golden  mo 
ment  had  vanished!  8° 
So  he  stood  there  abashed,  and  gave  her 

the  flowers  for  an  answer. 


Then  they  sat  down  and  talked  of  the 

birds    and   the    beautiful    spring-time, 

Talked  of  their  friends  at  home,  and  the 

Mayflower  that  sailed  on  the  morrow. 


"I  have  been  thinking  all  day,"  said  gently 

the  Puritan  maiden, 
"Dreaming  all  night,  and  thinking  all  day, 

of  the  hedge-rows  of  England, — 
They  are  in  blossom  now,  and  the  country 

is  all  like  a  garden : 
Thinking  of  lanes  and  fields,  and  the  song 

of  the  lark  and  the  linnet, 
Seeing    the    village    street,    and    familiar 

faces  of  neighbors 
Going  about  as  of  old,  and   stopping  to 

gossip  together, 
And,  at  the  end  of  the  street,  the  village 

church,  with  the  ivy  9° 

Climbing  the  old  gray  tower,  and  the  quiet 

graves  in  the  churchyard. 
Kind  are  the  people  I  live  with,  and  dear 

to  me  my  religion ; 
Still  my  heart  is  so  sad,  that  I  wish  myself 

back  in  Old  England. 
You  will  say  it  is  wrong,  but  I  cannot  help 

it :  I  almost 
Wish  myself  back  in  Old  England,  I  feel 

so  lonely  and  wretched." 

Thereupon  answered  the  youth :  "In 
deed  I  do  not  condemn  you ; 

Stouter  hearts  than  a  woman's  have 
quailed  in  this  terrible  winter. 

Yours  is  tender  and  trusting,  and  needs 
a  stronger  to  lean  on ; 

So  I  have  come  to  you  now,  with  an  offer 
and  proffer  of  marriage 

Made  by  a  good  man  and  true,  Miles 
Standish  the  Captain  of  Plymouth !" 

Thus  he  delivered  his  message,  the  dex 
terous  writer  of  letters, —  I01 

Did  not  embellish  the  theme,  nor  array  it 
in  beautiful  phrases, 

But  came  straight  to  the  point,  and  blurted 
it  out  like  a  school-boy ; 

Even  the  Captain  himself  could  hardly 
have  said  it  more  bluntly. 

Mute  with  amazement  and  sorrow,  Pris 
cilla  the  Puritan  maiden 

Looked  into  Alden's  face,  her  eyes  dilated 
with  wonder, 

Feeling  his  words  like  a  blow,  that  stunned 
her  and  rendered  her  speechless ; 

Till  at  length  she  exclaimed,  interrupting 
the  ominous  silence : 

"If  the  great  Captain  of  Plymouth  is  so 
very  eager  to  wed  me, 

Why  does  he  not  come  himself,  and  take 
the  trouble  to  woo  me?  1I0 

If  I  am  not  worth  the  wooing,  I  surely 
am  not  worth  the  winning !" 

Then  John  Alden  began  explaining  and 
smoothing  the  matter, 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


397 


Making  it  worse  as  he  went,  by  saying  the 

Captain   was   busy, — 
Had  no  time  for  such  things — such  things ! 

the  words  grating  harshly 
Fell  on  the  ear  of  Priscilla;  and  swift  as 

a  flash  she  made  answer : 
"Has  he  no  time  for  such  things,  as  you 

call  it,  before  he  is  married, 
Would  he  be  likely  to  find  it,  or  make  it, 

after  the  wedding? 
That  is  the  way  with  you  men ;  you  don't 

understand  us,  you  cannot. 
When  you  have  made  up  your  minds,  af 
ter  thinking  of  this  one  and  that  one, 
Choosing,   selecting,   rejecting,  comparing 

one  with  another,  I2° 

Then  you  make  known  your  desire,  with 

abrupt  and  sudden  avowal, 
And  are  offended  and  hurt,  and  indignant 

perhaps,  that  a  woman 
Does  not  respond  at  once  to  a  love  that 

she  never  suspected, 
Does  not  attain  at  a  bound  the  height  to 

which  you  have  been  climbing. 
This  is  not  right  nor  just:   for  surely  a 

woman's  affection 
Is  not  a  thing  to  be  asked  for,  and  had 

for  only  the  asking. 
When  one  is  truly  in  love,  one  not  only 

says  it,  but  shows  it. 
Had  he  but  waited  awhile,  had  he  only 

showed  that  he  loved  me, 
Even  this  Captain  of  yours — who  knows? 

— at  last  might  have  won  me, 
Old  and  rough  as  he  is;  but  now  it  never 

can  happen."  *3° 

Still  John  Alden  went  on,  unheeding  the 
words  of  Priscilla, 

Urging  the  suit  of  his  friend,  explaining, 
persuading,  expanding; 

Spoke  of  his  courage  and  skill,  and  of  all 
his  battles  in  Flanders, 

How  with  the  people  of  God  he  had  chos 
en  to  suffer  affliction; 

How,  in  return  for  his  zeal,  they  had 
made  him  Captain  of  Plymouth; 

He  was  a  gentleman  born,  could  trace  his 
pedigree  plainly 

Back  to  Hugh  Standish  of  Duxbury  Hall, 
in  Lancashire,  England, 

Who  was  the  son  of  Ralph,  and  the  grand 
son  of  Thurston  de  Standish; 

Heir  unto  vast  estates,  of  which  he  was 
basely  defrauded, 

Still  bore  the  family  arms,  and  had  for 
his  crest  a  cock  argent,  '4<> 

Combed  and  wattled  gules,  and  all  the 
rest  of  the  blazon. 


He  was  a  man  of  honor,  of  noble  and 

generous  nature; 
Though  he  was  rough,  he  was  kindly;  she 

knew  how  during  the  winter 
He  had  attended  the  sick,  with  a  hand  as 

gentle  as  woman's ; 
Somewhat   hasty   and   hot,   he  could  not 

deny  it,  and  headstrong, 
Stern  as  a  soldier  might  be,  but  hearty, 

and  placable  always, 

Not   to  be  laughed   at  and   scorned,  be 
cause  he  was  little  of  stature; 
For  he  was  great  of  heart,  magnanimous, 

courtly,  courageous; 
Any  woman  in  Plymouth,  nay,  any  woman 

in  England, 
Might  be  happy  and  proud  to  be  called 

the  wife  of  Miles  Standish !  jso 

But  as  he  warmed  and  glowed,  in  his 

simple  and  eloquent  language, 
Quite  forgetful  of  self,   and   full  of  the 

praise  of  his  rival, 
Archly  the  maiden  smiled,  and,  with  eyes 

overrunning  with  laughter, 
Said,   in  a  tremulous  voice,   "Why  don't 

you  speak  for  yourself,  John?" 

IX 
THE  WEDDING-DAY 

Forth  from  the  curtain  of  clouds,  from 

the  tent  of  purple  and  scarlet, 
Issued  the  sun,  the  great  High-Priest,  in 

his  garments  resplendent, 
Holiness  unto  the  Lord,  in  letters  of  light, 

on  his  forehead, 
Round  the  hem  of  his  robe  the  golden 

bells  and  pomegranates. 
Blessing  the  world  he  came,  and  the  bars 

of  vapor  beneath  him 
Gleamed  like  a  grate  of  brass,  and  the  sea 

at  his  feet  was  a  laver ! 

This  was  the  wedding  morn  of  Priscilla 

the  Puritan  maiden. 

Friends  were  assembled  together;  the  El 
der  and  Magistrate  also 
Graced  the  scene  with  their  presence,  and 

stood  like  the  Law  and  the  Gospel, 
One  with  the  sanction  of  earth  and  one 

with  the  blessing  of  heaven.  I0 

Simple  and  brief  was  the  wedding,  as  that 

of  Ruth  and  of  Boaz. 
Softly  the  youth  and  the  maiden  repeated 

the  words  of  betrothal. 
Taking  each  other  for  husband  and  wife 

In  the  Magistrate's  presence, 
After  the  Puritan  way,  and  the  laudable 

custom  of  Holland. 


398 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Fervently  then,  and  devoutly,  the  excellent 
Elder  of  Plymouth 

Prayed  for  the  hearth  and  the  home,  that 
were  founded  that  day  in  affection, 

Speaking  of  life  and  of  death,  and  im 
ploring  Divine  benedictions. 

Lo !  when  the  service  was  ended,  a  form 
appeared  on  the  threshold, 

Clad  in  armor  of  steel,  a  sombre  and  sor 
rowful  figure! 

Why  does  the  bridegroom  start  and  stare 
at  the  strange  apparition?  x 

Why  does  the  bride  turn  pale,  and  hide 
her  face  on  his  shoulder? 

Is  it  a  phantom  of  air, — a  bodiless,  spec 
tral  illusion? 

Is  it  a  ghost  from  the  grave,  that  has  come 
to  forbid  the  betrothal? 

Long  had  it  stood  there  unseen,  a  guest 
uninvited,  unwelcomed; 

Over  its  clouded  eyes  there  had  passed  at 
times  an  expression 

Softening  the  gloom  and  revealing  the 
warm  heart  hidden  beneath  them, 

As  when  across  the  sky  the  driving  rack 
of  the  rain-cloud 

Grows  for  a  moment  thin,  and  betrays  the 
sun  by  its  brightness. 

Once  it  had  lifted  its  hand,  and  moved  its 
lips,  but  was  silent, 

As  if  an  iron  will  had  mastered  the  fleet 
ing  intention.  30 

But  when  were  ended  the  troth  and  the 
prayer  and  the  last  benediction, 

Into  the  room  it  strode,  and  the  people 
beheld  with  amazement 

Bodily  there  in  his  armor  Miles  Standish, 
the  Captain  of  Plymouth ! 

Grasping  the  bridegroom's  hand,  he  said 
with  emotion,  "Forgive  me ! 

I  have  been  angry  and  hurt, — too  long 
have  I  cherished  the  feeling; 

I  have  been  cruel  and  hard,  but  now,  thank 
God !  it  is  ended. 

Mine  is  the  same  hot  blood  that  leaped  in 
the  veins  of  Hugh  Standish, 

Sensitive,  swift  to  resent,  but  as  swift  in 
atoning  for  error. 

Never  so  much  as  now  was  Miles  Stand 
ish  the  friend  of  John  Alden." 

Thereupon  answered  the  bridegroom : 
"Let  all  be  forgotten  between  us, —  4° 

All  save  the  dear  old  friendship,  and  that 
shall  grow  older  and  dearer !" 

Then  the  Captain  advanced,  and,  .bowing, 
saluted  Priscilla, 

Gravely,  and  after  the  manner  of  old- 
fashioned  gentry  in  England, 


Something  of  camp  and  of  court,  of  town 

and  of  country,  commingled, 
Wishing    her    joy    of    her    wedding,    and 

loudly  lauding  her  husband. 
Then  he  said  with  a  smile :  "I  should  have 

remembered  the  adage, — 
If  you  would  be  well  served,  you  must 

serve  yourself;  and  moreover, 
No  man  can  gather  cherries  in  Kent  at 

the  season  of  Christmas!" 

Great  was  the  people's  amazement,  and 

greater  yet  their   rejoicing, 
Thus  to  behold  once  more  the  sunburnt 

face  of  their  Captain,  so 

Whom  they  had  mourned  as   dead;   and 

they  gathered  and  crowded  about  him, 
Eager  to  see  him  and  hear  him,  forgetful 

of  bride  and  of  bridegroom, 
Questioning,     answering,     laughing,     and 

each  interrupting  the  other, 
Till  the  good  Captain  declared,  being  quite 

overpowered  and  bewildered, 
He  had  rather  by  far  break  into  an  Indian 

encampment, 
Than  come  again  to  a  wedding  to  which 

he  had  not  been  invited. 

Meanwhile  the  bridegroom  went  forth 
and  stood  with  the  bride  at  the  door 
way, 

Breathing  the  perfumed  air  of  that  warm 
and  beautiful  morning. 

Touched  with  autumnal  tints,  but  lonely 
and  sad  in  the  sunshine, 

Lay  extended  before  them  the  land  of  toil 
and  privation ;  6° 

There  were  the  graves  of  the  dead,  and 
the  barren  waste  of  the  sea-shore, 

There  the  familiar  fields,  the  groves  of 
pine,  and  the  meadows; 

But  to  their  eyes  transfigured,  it  seemed 
as  the  Garden  of  Eden, 

Filled  with  the  presence  of  God,  whose 
voice  was  the  sound  of  the  ocean. 

Soon  was  their  vision  disturbed  by  the 
noise  and  stir  of  departure, 

Friends  coming  forth  from  the  house,  and 
impatient  of  longer  delaying, 

Each  with  his  plan  for  the  day,  and  the 
work  that  was  left  uncompleted. 

Then  from  a  stall  near  at  hand,  amid  ex 
clamations  of  wonder, 

Alden  the  thoughtful,  the  careful,  so 
happy,  so  proud  of  Priscilla, 

Brought  out  his  snow-white  bull,  obeying 
the  hand  of.  its  master,  7° 

Led  by  a  cord  that  was  tied  to  an  iron 
ring  in  its  nostrils, 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


399 


Covered  with  crimson  cloth,  and  a  cush 
ion  placed  for  a  saddle. 

She  should  not  walk,  he  said,  through  the 
dust  and  heat  of  the  noonday; 

Nay,  she  should  ride  like  a  queen,  not 
plod  along  like  a  peasant. 

Somewhat  alarmed  at  first,  but  reassured 
by  the  others, 

Placing  her  hand  on  the  cushion,  her  foot 
in  the  hand  of  her  husband, 

Gayly,  with  joyous  laugh,  Priscilla  mount 
ed  her  palfrey. 

"Nothing  is  wanting  now,"  he  said  with 
a  smile,  "but  the  distaff; 

Then  you  would  be  in  truth  my  queen,  my 
beautiful  Bertha!" 

Onward     the     bridal     procession     now 

moved  to  their  new  habitation,         8° 
Happy  husband  and  wife,  and  friends  con 
versing  together. 
Pleasantly  murmured  the  brook,  as  they 

crossed  the  ford  in  the  forest, 
Pleased  with  the  image  that  passed,  like 

a  dream  of  love,  through  its  bosom, 
Tremulous,  floating  in  air,  o'er  the  depths 

of  the  azure  abysses. 
Down  through  the  golden  leaves  the  sun 

was  pouring  his  splendors, 
Gleaming   on   purple    grapes,   that,    from 

branches  above  them  suspended, 
Mingled    their    odorous    breath    with    the 

balm  of  the  pine  and  the  fir-tree, 
Wild  and  sweet  as  the  clusters  that  grew 

in  the  valley  of  Eshcol. 
Like  a  picture  it  seemed  of  the  primitive, 

pastoral  ages, 
Fresh  with  the  youth  of  the  world,  and 

recalling  Rebecca  and  Isaac,  9° 

Old  and  yet  ever  new,  and   simple  and 

beautiful  always, 
Love  immortal  and  young  in  the  endless 

succession  of  lovers. 
So  through  the   Plymouth  woods  passed 

onward  the  bridal  procession. 
1857-58.  Separately  published,  1858. 

MY  LOST  YOUTH 

Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town1 

That  is  seated  by  the  sea; 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 

And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 

1  The  town  is  Portland,  Maine,  Longfellow's 
birthplace.  The  fight  mentioned  in  the  fifth 
stanza  took  place  between  the  American  brig 
Enterprise  and  the  English  Boxer,  in  1813.  The 
finterprise  was  victorious  and  brought  her  cap 
tive  into  the  harbor. 


And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees,  I0 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 
Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

I   remember  the  black  wharves  and  the 

slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free;  2° 

And  the  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill; 
The  sunrise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar,    3° 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away, 

How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide! 
And  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 
In   their  graves,  o'erlooking  the  tranquil 
bay  40 

Where  they  in  battle  died. 
And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  Woods ; 
And    the    friendships    old   and    the    early 

loves 
Come  back  with  a  Sabbath  sound,  as  of 

doves 
In  quiet  neighborhoods.  5° 


400 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song, 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  gloomsv  that 

dart 

Across  the  school-boy's  brain ; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 
Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 
And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song    6° 
Sings  on,  and  is  never  still  : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

There   are   things    of   which   I    may   not 

speak ; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die ; 
There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong 

heart  weak, 

And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek, 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 
And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill :  7° 

"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town; 
But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well- 
known  street, 

As  they  balance  up  and  down, 
Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will,       8° 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

And  Deering's  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that 

were, 

I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 
And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts."  90 


1855. 


With  "Miles  Standish,"  1858. 


SANDALPHON 

Have  you  read  in  the  Talmud  of  old, 
In  the  Legends  the  Rabbins  have  told 

Of  the  limitless  realms  of  the  air, 
Have  you  read  it, — the  marvellous  story 
Of  Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Glory, 

Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Prayer? 

How,  erect,  at  the  outermost  gates 
Of  the  City  Celestial  he  waits, 

With  his  feet  on  the  ladder  of  light, 
That,  crowded  with  angels  unnumbered, 10 
By  Jacob  was  seen,  as  he  slumbered. 

Alone  .in  the  desert  at  night? 

The  Angels  of  Wind  and  of  Fire 
Chant  only  one  hymn,  and  expire 

With  the  song's  irresistible  stress; 
Expire  in  their  rapture  and  wonder, 
As  harp-strings  are  broken  asunder 

By  music  they  throb  to  express. 

But  serene  in  the  rapturous  throng, 
Unmoved  by  the  rush  of  the  song,          2° 

With  eyes  unimpassioned  and  slow, 
Among  the  dead  angels,  the  deathless 
Sandalphon  stands  listening  breathless 

To  sounds  that  ascend  from  below ; — 

From  the  spirits  on  earth  that  adore, 
From  the  souls  that  entreat  and  implore 

In  the  fervor  and  passion  of  prayer; 
From    the    hearts    that    are    broken    with 

losses, 
And  weary  with  dragging  the  crosses 

Too  heavy  for  mortals  to  bear.  3° 

And  he  gathers  the  prayers  as  he  stands, 
And  they  change  into  flowers  in  his  hands, 

Into  garlands  of  purple  and  red; 
And  beneath  the  great  arch  of  the  portal, 
Through  the  streets  of  the  City  Immortal 

Is  wafted  the  fragrance  they  shed. 

It  is  but  a  legend,  I  know, — 
A  fable,  a  phantom,  a  show, 

Of  the  ancient  Rabbinical  lore; 
Yet  the  old  mediaeval  tradition,  4° 

The  beautiful,  strange  superstition, 

But  haunts  me  and  holds  me  the  more. 

When  I  look  from  my  window  at  night, 
And  the  welkin  above  is  all  white, 

All  throbbing  and  panting  with  stars, 
Among  them  majestic  is  standing 
Sandalphon  the  angel,  expanding 

His  pinions  in  nebulous  bars. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


401 


And  the  legend,  I  feel,  is  a  part 

Of  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  heart,   5° 

The  frenzy  and  fire  of  the  brain, 
That  grasps  at  the  fruitage  forbidden, 
The  golden  pomegranates  of  Eden, 

To  quiet  its  fever  and  pain. 

The  Atlantic  Monthly,  April,  1858. 

PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 
Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 
On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in   Seventy- 
five; 

Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive        ,  < 
Who    remembers   that    famous    day    and 

year. 
He   said   to   his    friend,    "If   the   British 

march 

By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a  signal 

light- 
One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea;      I0 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through    every    Middlesex    village    and 

farm, 
For  the  country  folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 

Then    he    said,    "Good-night !"    and    with 

muffled  oar 

Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 
Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 
Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 
The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war; 
A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 
Across  the  moon  like,  a  prison  bar,        2I 
And  a  huge  black  hulk,  that  was  magnified 
By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile,  his  friend,  through  alley  and 

street, 

Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears, 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers, 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the 

shore.  3° 

Then  he  climbed  the  tower  of  the  Old 

North  Church, 

By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 
To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead, 
And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 
On  the   sombre  rafters,   that   round   him 

made 


Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade, — 
By  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall, 
To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall, 
Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 
A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town,      4° 
And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead, 
In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill, 
Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 
That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread, 
The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 
Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 
And  seeming  to  whisper,  "All  is  well!" 
A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 
Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret 
dread  so 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead; 
For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 
On  a  shadowy  something  far  away, 
Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay, — 
A  line  of  black  that  bends  and  floats 
On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 


Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Re 
vere. 

Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side,  6° 

Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 
And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle-girth; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The   belfry -tower   of   the    Old    North 

Church, 

As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 
<And  lo!  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,   the  bridle  he 
turns,  70 

But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns! 


A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 
<A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the 
dark, 

And  beneath,   from  the  pebbles,  in  pass 
ing,  a  spark 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and 
fleet; 

That  was  all!   And  yet,  through  the  gloom 
and  the  light. 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night; 

And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in 
his   flight,  79 

Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 


402 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the 

steep, 
And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and 

deep, 

Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides; 
And  under  the  alders  that  skirt  its  edge, 
Now  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on  the 

ledge, 
Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock, 
When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford 

town. 

He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 
And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog,      90 
And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 
That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock, 
When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 
He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 
Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed, 
And   the   meeting-house    windows,   blank 

and  bare, 

Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 
As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 
At    the    bloody    work    they    would    look 

upon.  10° 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord 

town. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 
And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 
And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 
Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 
And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 
Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall. 
Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 
Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball.  "° 

You  know  the   rest.     In  the  books  you 

have  read, 

How  the  British  Regulars  fired  and  fled, — 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farm-yard 

wall, 

Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere; 
And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of 

alarm  I2° 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, — 
A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 
A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the 

door, 
And  a  word  that  shall  echo  f orevermore ! 


For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 

Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 

In  the  hour  of   darkness   and  peril   and 

need, 

The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 
The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed, 
And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Re 
vere.  :3° 

1860.        The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Jan.,  1861. 


THE  SICILIAN'S  TALE 
King  Robert  of  Sicily1 

Robert  of  Sicily,  brother  of  Pope  Urbane 
And  Valmond,  Emperor  of  Allemaine, 
Apparelled  in  magnificent  attire, 
With  retinue  of  many  a  knight  and  squire, 
On  St.  John's  eve,  at  vespers,  proudly  sat 
And  heard  the  priest  chant  the  Magnificat. 
And  as  he  listened,  o'er  and  o'er  again 
Repeated,  like  a  burden  or  refrain, 
He  caught  the  words,  "Deposuit  potentes 
De  sede,  et  exaltavit  humiles;"  I0 

And  slowly  lifting  up  his  kingly  head, 
He  to  a  learned  clerk  beside  him  said, 
"What  mean  these  words?"  The  clerk 

made  answer  meet, 
"He  has  put  down  the  mighty  from  their 

seat, 

And  has  exalted  them  of  low  degree." 
Thereat  King  Robert  muttered  scornfully, 
"  'Tis  well  that  such  seditious  words  are 

sung 

Only  by  priests  and  in  the  Latin  tongue ; 
For  unto  priests  and  people  be  it  known, 
There  is  no  power  can  push  me  from  my 

throne !"  2° 

And    leaning   back,   he   yawned   and    fell 

asleep, 

Lulled  by  the  chant  monotonous  and  deep. 
When  he  awoke,  it  was  already  night ; 
The  church  was  empty,  and  there  was  no 

light, 
Save   where   the   lamps,   that   glimmered 

few  and  faint, 

Lighted  a  little  space  before  some  saint. 
He  started  from  his  seat  and  gazed 

around, 
But   saw   no   living  thing   and   heard   no 

sound. 
He  groped  towards  the  door,  but  it  was 

locked ; 
He   cried   aloud,   and   listened,   and   then 

knocked,  3° 

1  This  tale  has  had  wide  distribution  and  many 
retellings  from  Gesta  Ronianorum  to  William 
Morris's  The  Earthly  Paradise. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


403 


And  uttered  awful  threatenings  and  com 
plaints, 

And  imprecations  upon  men  and  saints. 

The  sounds  reechoed  from  the  roof  and 
walls 

As  if  dead  priests  were  laughing  in  their 
stalls. 

At  length  the  sexton,  hearing  from  with 
out 

The  tumult  of  the  knocking  and  the  shout, 
And  thinking  thieves  were  in  the  house  of 

prayer, 
Came  with  his  lantern,  asking,  "Who  is 

there?" 
Half    choked    with    rage,    King    Robert 

fiercely  said, 
"Open :    'tis    I,    the    King !      Art    thou 

afraid?"  40 

The  frightened  sexton,  muttering,  with  a 

curse, 
"This    is    some    drunken    vagabond,    or 

worse !" 
Turned  the  great  key  and  flung  the  portal 

wide; 

A  man  rushed  by  him  at  a  single  stride, 
Haggard,  half  naked,  without  hat  or  cloak, 
Who  neither  turned,  nor  looked  at  him, 

nor  spoke, 

But  leaped  into  the  blackness  of  the  night, 
And  vanished  like  a  spectre  from  his  sight. 

Robert  of  Sicily,  brother  of  Pope  Urbane 
And  Valmond,  Emperor  of  Allemaine, 
Despoiled  of  his  magnificent  attire,         Si 
Bareheaded,  breathless,  and  besprent  with 

mire, 

With  sense  of  wrong  and  outrage  desper 
ate, 
Strode  on   and   thundered   at  the   palace 

gate; 
Rushed  through  the  courtyard,  thrusting 

in  his  rage 

To  right  and  left  each  seneschal  and  page, 
And  hurried  up  the  broad  and  sounding 

stair, 
His   white    face   ghastly   in    the   torches' 

glare. 

From  hall  to  hall  he  passed  with  breath 
less  speed ; 

Voices  and  cries  he  heard,   but   did   not 

heed,  6° 

Until  at  last  he  reached  the  banquet-room, 

Blazing    with    light,    and    breathing    with 

perfume. 

There  on  the  dais  sat  another  king, 
Wearing  his  robes,  his  crown,  his  signet- 
ring, 


King  Robert's  self  in  features,  form,  and 

height, 

But  all  transfigured  with  angelic  light! 
It  was  an  Angel ;  and  his  presence  there 
With  a  divine  effulgence  filled  the  air, 
An  exaltation,  piercing  the  disguise, 
Though    none   the    hidden    Angel    recog 
nize.  70 

A  moment  speechless,  motionless,  amazed, 
The    throneless    monarch    on    the    Angel 

gazed, 

Who  met  his  look  of  anger  and  surprise 
With  the  divine  compassion  of  his  eyes; 
Then  said,  "Who  art  thou?  and  why 

com'st  thou  here?" 
To  which  King  Robert  answered  with  a 

sneer, 
"I  am  the  King,  and  come  to  claim  my 

own 
From     an     impostor,     who     Usurps     my 

throne !" 

And  suddenly,  at  these  audacious  words, 
Up  sprang  the  angry  guests,  and  drew 

their  swords;  80 

The  Angel  answered,  with  unruffled  brow, 
"Nay,  not  the  King,  but  the  King's  Jester, 

thou 

Henceforth  shalt  wear  the  bells  and  scal 
loped  cape, 

And  for  thy  counsellor  shalt  lead  an  ape; 
Thou  shalt  obey  my  servants  when  they 

call, 
And  wait  upon  my  henchmen  in  the  hall !" 

Deaf  to  King  Robert's  threats  and  cries 
and  prayers, 

They  thrust  him  from  the  hall  and  down 
the  stairs; 

A  group  of  tittering  pages  ran  before, 

And  as  they  opened  wide  the  folding- 
door,  9° 

His  heart  failed,  for  he  heard,  with 
strange  alarms, 

The  boisterous  laughter  of  the  men-at- 
arms, 

And  all  the  vaulted  chamber  roar  and 
ring 

With  the  mock  plaudits  of  "Long  live  the 
King !" 

Next  morning,  waking  with  the  day's  first 

beam, 

He  said  within  himself,  "It  was  a  dream !" 
But  the  straw   rustled   as   he  turned   his 

head ; 
There  were  the  cap  and  bells  beside  his 

bed; 


404 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Around    him    rose    the    bare,    discolored 

walls ; 
Close   by,   the   steeds   were  champing   in 

their  stalls,  I0° 

And  in  the  corner,  a  revolting  shape, 
Shivering  and  chattering  sat  the  wretched 

ape. 
It  was  no  dream;  the  world  he  loved  so 

much 
Had    turned    to    dust    and    ashes    at    his 

touch ! 

Days  came  and  went;  and  now  returned 

again 

To  Sicily  the  old  Saturnian  reign ; 
Under  the  Angel's  governance  benign 
The  happy  island  danced  with  corn  and 

wine, 
And  deep  within  the  mountain's  burning 

breast 
Enceladus,  the  giant,  was  at  rest.  II0 

Meanwhile    King    Robert    yielded    to    his 

fate, 

Sullen  and  silent  and  disconsolate. 
Dressed  in  the  motley  garb  J;hat  Jesters 

wear, 

With  look  bewildered  and  a  vacant  stare, 
Close   shaven   above  the  ears,   as   monks 

are  shorn, 
By  courtiers  mocked,  by  pages  laughed  to 

scorn, 

His  only  friend  the  ape,  his  only  food 
What  others  left, — he  still  was  unsubdued. 
And  when  the  Angel  met  him  on  his  way, 
And  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest,  would 

say,  I2° 

Sternly,   though  tenderly,   that   he   might 

feel 

The  velvet  scabbard  held  a  sword  of  steel, 
"Art  thou  the  King?"  the  passion  of  his 

woe 

Burst  from  him  in  resistless  overflow, 
And,  lifting  high  his  forehead,  he  would 

fling 
The    haughty    answer   back,    "I    am    the 

King!" 

Almost   three  years   were   ended;    when 

there  came 

Ambassadors  of  great  repute  and  name 
From  Valmond,  Emperor  of  Allemaine, 
Unto  King  Robert,  saying  that  Pope  Ur 
bane  !3° 

By   letter   summoned   them    forthwith   to 

come 
On  Holy  Thursday  to  his  city  of  Rome. 


The   Angel   with   great  joy   received   his 

guests, 
And  gave  them  presents  of  embroidered 

vests, 

And  velvet  mantles  with  rich  ermine  lined, 
And  rings  and  jewels  of  the  rarest  kind. 
Then  he  departed  with  them  o'er  the  sea 
Into  the  lovely  land  of  Italy, 
Whose   loveliness   was   more   resplendent 

made 

By  the  mere  passing  of  that  cavalcade,  J4° 
With   plumes,   and  cloaks,  and  housings, 

and  the  stir 

Of  jewelled  bridle  and  of  golden  spur. 
And  lo !  among  the  menials,  in  mock  state, 
Upon    a    piebald    steed,    with    shambling 

gait, 
His    cloak    of    fox-tails    flapping    in    the 

wind, 

The  solemn  ape  demurely  perched  behind, 
King   Robert   rode,   making   huge   merri 
ment 
In  all  the  country  towns  through  which 

they  went. 
The  Pope  received  them  with  great  pomp 

and  blare 
Of  bannered  trumpets,   on   Saint  Peter's 

square,  'so 

Giving  his  benediction  and  embrace, 
Fervent,  and  full  of  apostolic  grace. 
While  with  congratulations  and  with 

prayers 

He  entertained  the  Angel  unawares, 
Robert,  the  Jester,  bursting  through  the 

crowd, 
Into    their    presence    rushed,    and    cried 

aloud, 

"I  am  the  King !     Look,  and  behold  in  me 
Robert,  your  brother,  King  of  Sicily ! 
This   man,   who   wears   my  semblance   to 

your  eyes, 

Is  an  impostor  in  a  king's  disguise.       l6° 
Do  you  not  know  me?  does  no  voice  with 
in 

Answer  my  cry,  and  say  we  are  akin?" 
The  Pope  in   silence,   but  with   troubled 

mien, 

Gazed  at  the  Angel's  countenance  serene; 
The     Emperor,     laughing,     said,     "It     is 

strange  sport 
To    keep    a    madman    for    thy    Fool    at 

court !" 

And  the  poor,  baffled  Jester  in  disgrace 
Was  hustled  back  among  the  populace. 

In  solemn  state  the  Holy  Week  went  by, 

And    Easter    Sunday   gleamed    upon    the 

sky ;  '7° 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


405 


The  presence  of  the  Angel,  with  its  light, 
Before  the  sun  rose,  made  the  city  bright, 
And  with  new  fervor  filled  the  hearts  of 

men, 
Who    felt   that   Christ   indeed   had   risen 

again. 

Even  the  Jester,  on  his  bed  of  straw, 
With  haggard  eyes  the  unwonted  splendor 

saw, 

He  felt  within  a  power  unfelt  before, 
And,    kneeling   humbly   on    his    chamber- 
floor, 
He   heard  the   rushing  garments   of   the 

Lord 

Sweep  through   the  silent  air,  ascending 
heavenward.  180 

And  now  the  visit  ending,  and  once  more 
Valmond  returning  to  the  Danube's  shore, 
Homeward  the  Angel  journeyed,  and 

again 
The  land  was  made  resplendent  with  his 

train, 

Flashing  along  the  towns  of  Italy 
Unto  Salerno,  and  from  thence  by  sea. 
And   when    once   more   within    Palermo's 

wall, 
And,   seated  on  the  throne  in  his  great 

hall, 
He    heard    the    Angelus     from    convent 

towers, 
As    if   the   better   world   conversed   with 

ours,  190 

He   beckoned   to    King   Robert    to    draw 

nigher, 

And  with  a  gesture  bade  the  rest  retire; 
And    when    they    were    alone,    the    Angel 

said, 
"Art  thou  the  King?"  Then,  bowing  down 

his  head, 
King  Robert  crossed  both  hands  upon  his 

breast, 
And  meekly  answered  him :   "Thou  know- 

est  best! 

My  sins  as  scarlet  are;  let  me  go  hence, 
And    in    some    cloister's    school    of    peni 
tence, 
Across  those  stones,   that  pave  the  way 

to  heaven, 
Walk    barefoot,    till    my    guilty    soul    be 

shriven !"  200 

The  Angel  smiled,  and  from  his  radiant 

face 

A  holy  light  illumined  all  the  place. 
And  through  the  open  window,  loud  and 

clear, 
They  heard  the  monks  chant  in  the  chapel 

near, 


Above  the  stir  and  tumult  of  the  street: 
"He  has  put  down  the  mighty  from  their 

seat, 

And  has  exalted  them  of  low  degre^!" 
And  through  the  chant  a  second  melody 
Rose  like  the  throbbing  of  a  single  string. 
I  am  an  Angel,  and  thou  art  the  King!" 

King  Robert,  who  was  standing  near  the 
throne,  an 

Lifted  his  eyes,  and  lo!  he  was  alone! 

But  all  apparelled  as  in  days  of  old, 

With  ermined  mantle  and  with  cloth  of 
gold; 

And  when  his  courtiers  came,  they  found 
him  there 

Kneeling  upon  the  floor,  absorbed  in  silent 
•  prayer. 

1861? 

THE  MUSICIAN'S  TALE 
The  Saga  of  King  O/o/1 


THE    CHALLENGE   OF    THOR 

I  am  the  God  Thor, 
I  am  the  War  God, 
I  am  the  Thunderer! 
Here  in  my  Northland, 
My  fastness  and  fortress, 
Reign  I  forever! 

Here  amid  icebergs 

Rule  I  the  nations; 

This  is  my  hammer, 

Miolner  the  mighty;  10 

Giants  and  sorcerers 

Cannot  withstand  it! 

These  are  the  gauntlets 
Wherewith  I  wield  it, 
And  hurl  it  afar  off; 
This  is  my  girdle; 
Whenever  I  brace  it, 
Strength  is  redoubled! 

The  light  thou  beholdest 

Stream  through  the  heavens,  20 

In  flashes  of  crimson, 

Is  but  my  red  beard 

Blown  by  the  night-wind, 

Affrighting  the  nations! 

1  Longfellow  obtained  the  material  for  The 
Saga  of  King  Olaf  from  The  Heimskringla;  or 
Chronicle  of  the  Kings  of  Norway.  Translated 
from  the  Icelandic  by  SNORRO  STURLESON,  with 
a  Preliminary  Dissertation  by  SAMUEL  LAING. 
The  poems  deal  with  striking  incidents  in  Olaf's 
career. 


406 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Jove  is  my  brother; 

Mine  eyes  are  the  lightning; 

The  wheels  of  my  chariot 

Roll  in  the  thunder, 

The  blows  of  my  hammer 

Ring  in  the  earthquake !  30 

Force  rules  the  world  still, 
Has  ruled  it,  shall  rule  it; 
Meekness  is  weakness, 
Strength  is  triumphant, 
Over  the  whole  earth 
Still  is  it  Thor's-Day ! 

Thou  art  a  God  too, 

O  Galilean! 

And  thus  single-handed 

Unto  the  combat  »  4° 

Gauntlet  or  Gospel, 

Here  I  defy  thee! 


KING    OLAF  S    RETURN 

And  King  Olaf  heard  the  cry, 
Saw  the  red  light  in  the  sky, 

Laid  his  hand  upon  his  sword, 
As  he  leaned  upon  the  railing, 
And  his  ships  went  sailing,  sailing 

Northward  into  Drontheim  fiord. 

There  he  stood  as  one  who  dreamed ; 
And  the  red  light  glanced  and  gleamed  5° 

On  the  armor  that  he  wore ; 
And  he  shouted,  as  the  rifted 
Streamers  o'er  him  shook  and  shifted, 

"I  accept  thy  challenge,  Thor !" 

To  avenge  his  father  slain, 
And  reconquer  realm  and  reign, 

Came  the  youthful  Olaf  home, 
Through  the  midnight  sailing,  sailing, 
Listening  to  the  wild  wind's  wailing, 

And  the  dashing  of  the  foam.  6o 

To  his  thoughts  the  sacred  name 
Of  his  mother  Astrid  came, 

And  the  tale  she  oft  had  told 
Of  her  flight  by  secret  passes 
Through  the  mountains  and  morasses, 

To  the  home  of  Hakon  old. 

Then  strange  memories  crowded  back 
Of  Queen  Gunhild's  wrath  and  wrack, 

And  a  hurried  flight  by  sea; 
Of  grim  Vikings,  and  the  rapture  7° 

Of  the  sea-fight,  and  the  capture, 

And  the  life  of  slavery. 


How  a  stranger  watched  his  face 
In  the  Esthonian  market-place, 

Scanned  his  features  one  by  one, 
Saying,  "We  should  know  each  other ; 
I  am  Sigurd,  Astrid's  brother, 

Thou  art  Olaf,  Astrid's  son !" 


Then  as  Queen  Allogia's  page, 

Old  in  honors,  young  in  age,  80 

Chief  of  all  her  men-at-arms ; 
Till  vague  whispers,  and  mysterious, 
Reached  King  Valdemar,  the  imperious, 

Filling  him  with  strange  alarms. 


Then  his  cruisings  o'er  the  seas, 
Westward  to  the  Hebrides 

And  to  Scilly's  rocky  shore ; 
And  the  hermit's  cavern  dismal, 
Christ's  great  name  and  rites  baptismal 

In  the  ocean's  rush  and  roar.  90 

All  these  thoughts  of  love  and  strife 
Glimmered  through  his  lurid  life, 

As  the  stars'  intenser  light 
Through  the  red  flames  o'er  him  trailing, 
As  his  ships  went  sailing,  sailing 

Northward  in  the  summer  night. 

Trained  for  either  camp  or  court, 
Skilful  in  each  manly  sport, 

Young  and  beautiful  and  tall; 
Art  of  warfare,  craft  of  chases,  I0° 

Swimming,  skating,  snow-shoe  races, 

Excellent  alike  in  all. 

When  at  sea,  with  all  his  rowers, 
He  along  the  bending  oars 

Outside  of  his  ship  could  run. 
He  the  Smalsor  Horn  ascended, 
And  his  shining  shield  suspended 

On  its  summit,  like  a  sun. 

On  the  ship-rails  he  could  stand 

Wield  his  sword  with  either  hand,         "° 

And  at  once  two  javelins  throw; 
At  all  feasts  where  ale  was  strongest 
Sat  the  merry  monarch  longest, 

First  to  come  and  last  to  go. 

Norway  never  yet  had  seen 
One  so  beautiful  of  mien, 

One  so  royal  in  attire, 
When  in  arms  completely  furnished, 
Harness  gold-inlaid  and  burnished, 

Mantle  like  a  flame  of  fire.  I2° 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


407 


Thus  came  Olaf  to  his  own, 
When  upon  the  night-wind  blown 

Passed  that  cry  along  the  shore; 
And  he  answered,  while  the  rifted 
Streamers  o'er  him  shook  and  shifted, 

"I  accept  thy  challenge,  Thor !" 


in 


THORA    OF    RIMOL 

"Thora  of  Rimol !  hide  me!  hide  me! 

Danger  and  shame  and  death  betide  me ! 

For  Olaf  the  King  is  hunting  me  down 

Through  field  and   forest,  through  thorp 
and  town !"  '3° 

Thus  cried  Jarl  Hakon 
To  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

"Hakon  Jarl !  for  the  love  I  bear  thee 
Neither  shall  shame  nor  death  come  near 

thee! 

But  the  hiding-place  wherein  thou  must  lie 
Is  the  cave  underneath  the  swine  in  the 

sty." 

Thus  to  Jarl  Hakon 
Said  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

So  Hakon  Jarl  and  his  base  thrall  Karker 
Crouched    in    the    cave,    than    a    dungeon 
darker,  »*> 

As  Olaf  came  riding,  with  men  in  mail, 
Through  the  forest  roads  into  Orkadale, 
Demanding  Jarl  Hakon 
Of  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

"Rich  and  honored  shall  be  whoever 
The  head  of  Hakon  Jarl  shall  dissever!" 
Hakon  heard  him,  and  Karker  the  slave, 
Through  the  breathing-holes  of  the  dark 
some  cave. 

Alone  in  her  chamber 

Wept  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women.    is° 

Said  Karker,  the  crafty,  "I  will  not  slay 

thee! 
For  all  the  king's  gold  I  will  never  betray 

thee !" 
"Then   why   dost   thou   turn   so    pale,    O 

churl, 
And  then  again  black  as  the  earth?"  said 

the  Earl. 

More  pale  and  more  faithful 
Was  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

From    a    dream    in    the    night    the    thrall 

started,  saying, 
"Round  my  neck  a  gold  ring  King  Olaf 

was  laying !" 


And   Hakon   answered,    "Beware   of   the 

king! 

He  will  lay  round  thy  neck  a  blood-red 
ring."  l6° 

At  the  ring  on  her  finger 
Gazed  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

At  daybreak  slept  Hakon,  with  sorrows 

encumbered, 
But   screamed   and   drew  up   his    feet   as 

he  slumbered ; 
The  thrall  in  the  darkness  plunged  with 

his  knife, 
And  the  Earl  awakened  no  more  in  this 

life. 

But  wakeful  and  weeping 
Sat  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

At  Nidarholm  the  priests  are  all  singing, 
Two    ghastly    heads    on    the    gibbet    are 
swinging;  170 

One  is  Jarl  Hakon's  and  one  is  his  thrall's, 
And  the  people  are  shouting  from  win 
dows  and  walls ; 
While  alone  in  her  chamber 
Swoons  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 


IV 


QUEEN    SIGRID    THE    HAUGHTY 

Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty  sat  proud  and 

aloft 
In  her  chamber,  that  looked  over  meadow 

and  croft. 
Heart's  dearest, 
Why  dost  thou  sorrow  so? 

The  floor  with  tassels  of  fir  was  besprent, 
Filling  the  room  with  their  fragrant  scent. 

She  heard  the  birds  sing,  she  saw  the  sun 

shine,  lSl 

The  air  of  summer  was  sweeter  than  wine. 

Like  a  sword  without  scabbard  the  bright 

river  lay 
Between  her  own  kingdom  and  Norroway. 

But  Olaf  the  King  had  sued  for  her  hand, 
The  sword  would  be  sheathed,  the  river 
be  spanned.' 

Her  maidens  were  seated  around  her  knee, 
Working  bright  figures  in  tapestry. 

And  one  was  singing  the  ancient  rune 
Of    Brynhilda's    love    and    the    wrath    of 
Gudrun.  J9° 


408 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


And  through  it,  and   round   it,  and  over 

it  all 
Sounded  incessant  the  waterfall. 

The  Queen  in  her  hand  held  a  ring  of 

gold, 
From  the  door  of  Lade's  Temple  old. 

King  Olaf  had  sent  her  this  wedding  gift, 
But   her  thoughts   as   arrows   were  keen 
and  swift. 

She  had  given  the  ring  to  her  goldsmiths 

twain, 
Who  smiled,  as  they  handed  it  back  again. 

And   Sigrid  the   Queen,   in   her  haughty 

way, 
Said,  "Why  do  you  smile,  my  goldsmiths, 

say?"  20° 

And   they  answered :    "O   Queen !   if   the 

truth  must  be  told, 
The  ring  is  of  copper,  and  not  of  gold!" 

The   lightning  flashed  o'er  her   forehead 

and  cheek, 
She  only  murmured,  she  did  not  speak: 

"If  in  his  gifts  he  can  faithless  be, 
There  will  be  no  gold  in  his  love  to  me." 

A  footstep  was  heard  on  the  outer  stair, 
And  in  strode  King  Olaf  with  royal  air. 

He    kissed    the    Queen's    hand,    and    he 

whispered  of  love, 
And  swore  to   be  true  as  the   stars  are 

above.  2I° 

But  she  smiled  with  contempt  as  she  an 
swered  :  "O  King, 

Will  you  swear  it,  as  Odin  once  swore, 
on  the  ring?" 

And  the  King:   "Oh,  speak  not  of  Odin 

to  me, 
The  wife  of  King  Olaf  a  Christian  must 

be." 

Looking  straight  at  the   King,  with  her 

level  brows, 
She  said,  "I  keep  true  to  my   faith  and 

my  vows." 

Then  the  face  of  King  Olaf  was  darkened 

with  gloom, 
He  rose  in  his  anger  and  strode  through 

the  room. 


"Why,  then,  should  I  care  to  have  thee?" 

he  said, —  2I9 

"A  faded  old  woman,  a  heathenish  jade !" 

His  zeal  was  stronger  than  fear  or  love, 
And  he  struck  the  Queen  in  the  face  with 
his  glove. 

Then   forth    from   the  chamber  in   anger 

he  fled, 
And  the  wooden  stairway  shook  with  his 

tread. 

Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty  said  under  her 

breath, 
"This    insult,    King    Olaf,    shall    be    thy 

death !" 

Heart's  dearest, 
Why  dost  thou  sorrow  so? 

VII 
IRON-BEARD 

Olaf  the  King,  one  summer  morn, 
Blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle-horn,  230 

Sending   his   signal  through   the  land   of 
Drontheim. 

And  to  the  Hus-Ting  held  at  Mere 
Gathered  the  farmers  far  and  near, 
With  their  war  weapons  ready  to  confront 
him. 

Ploughing  under  the  morning  star, 
Old  Iron-Beard  in  Yriar 
Heard  the  summons,  chuckling  with  a  low 
laugh. 

He  wiped  the  sweat-drops   from  his 

brow, 
Unharnessed    his    horses     from    the 

plough, 
And   clattering  came   on   horseback   to 

King  Olaf.  240 

He  was  the  churliest  of  the  churls; 
Little  he  cared  for  king  or  earls; 
Bitter  as  home-brewed  ale  were  his  foam 
ing  passions. 

Hodden-gray  was  the  garb  he  wore, 
And  by  the  Hammer  of  Thor  he  swore ; 
He   hated   the  narrow  town,   and   all   its 
fashions. 

But  he  loved  the  freedom  of  his  farm, 
His  ale  at  night,  by  the  fireside  warm. 
Gudrun    his    daughter,    with    her    flaxen 
tresses. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


409 


He  loved  his  horses  and  his  herds,    2s° 
The  smell  of  the  earth,  and  the  song  of 

birds, 
His  well-filled  barns,  his  brook  with  its 

water-cresses. 

Huge  and  cumbersome  was  his  frame; 
His    beard,    from    which    he    took    his 

name, 
Frosty  and  fierce,  like  that  of  Hymer  the 

Giant. 

So  at  the  Hus-Ting  he  appeared, 

The  farmer  of  Yriar,  Iron-Beard, 

On  horseback,  in  an  attitude  defiant. 

And  to  King  Olaf  he  cried  aloud, 
Out  of  the  middle  of  the  crowd,        26° 
That    tossed    about    him    like    a    stormy 


"Such  sacrifices  shalt  thou  bring 
To  Odin  and  to  Thor,  O  King, 
As   other  kings   have   done   in   their 
votion !" 


de- 


King  Olaf  answered :  "I  command 
This  land  to  be  a  Christian  land; 
Here  is  my  Bishop  who  the  folk  baptizes ! 

"But  if  you  ask  me  to  restore 
Your  sacrifices,  stained  with  gore, 
Then  will  I  offer  human  sacrifices!        27° 

"Not  slaves  and  peasants  shall  they  be, 
But  men  of  note  and  high  degree, 
Such  men  as  Orm  of  Lyra  and  Kar  of 
Gryting !" 

Then  to  their  Temple  strode  he  in, 
And  loud  behind  him  heard  the  din 
Of    his    men-at-arms    and    the    peasants 
fiercely  fighting. 

There  in  the  Temple,  carved  in  wood, 
The  image  of  great  Odin  stood, 
And    other    gods,     with    Thor    supreme 
among  them. 

King  Olaf  smote  them  with  the  blade  28° 
Of  his  huge  war-axe,  gold  inlaid, 
And  downward  shattered  to  the  pavement 
flung  them. 

At  the  same  moment  rose  without, 
From  the  contending  crowd,  a  shout, 
A  mingled  sound  of  triumph  and  of  wail 
ing. 


And  there  upon  the  trampled  plain 
The  farmer  Iron-Beard  lay  slain, 
Midway  between  the  assailed  and  the  as 
sailing. 

King  Olaf  from  the  doorway  spoke : 
"Choose    ye    between    two    things,    my 
folk,  290 

To  be  baptized  or  given  up  to  slaughter !" 

And  seeing  their  leader  stark  and  dead, 
The  people  with  a  murmur  said, 
"O  King,  baptize  us  with  thy  holy  water." 

So  all  the  Drontheim  land  became 
A  Christian  land  in  name  and  fame, 
In  the  old  gods  no   more  believing  and 
trusting. 

And  as  a  blood-atonement,  soon 
King  Olaf  wed  the  fair  Gudrun ; 
And  thus  in  peace  ended  the  Drontheim 
Hus-Ting !  3«o 


RAUD    THE    STRONG 

"All  the  old  gods  are  dead, 

All  the  wild  warlocks  fled; 

But  the  White  Christ  lives  and  reigns, 

And  throughout  my  wide  domains 

His  Gospel  shall  be  spread !" 

On  the  Evangelists 

Thus  swore  King  Olaf. 

But  still  in  dreams  of  the  night 

Beheld  he  the  crimson  light, 

And  heard  the  voice  that  defied  3 

Him  who  was  crucified, 

And  challenged  him  to  the  fight. 

To  Sigurd  the  Bishop 

King  Olaf  confessed  it. 

And  Sigurd  the  Bishop  said, 
"The  old  gods  are  not  dead. 
For  the  great  Thor  still  reigns, 
And  among  the  Jarls  and  Thanes 
The  old  witchcraft  still  is  spread." 

Thus  to  King  Olaf  3- 

Said  Sigurd  the  Bishop. 

"Far  north  in  the  Salten  Fiord, 

By  rapine,  fire,  and  sword, 

Lives  the  Viking,  Raud  the  Strong; 

All  the  Godoe  Isles  belong 

To  him  and  his  heathen  horde." 

Thus  went  on  speaking 

Sigurd  the  Bishop. 


410 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


"A  warlock,  a  wizard  is  he, 

A  lord  of  the  wind  and  the  sea;  330 

And  whichever  way  he  sails, 

He  has  ever  favoring  gales, 

By  his  craft  in  sorcery." 

Here  the  sign  of  the  cross 

Made  devoutly  King  Olaf. 

"With  rites  that  we  both  abhor, 

He  worships  Odin  and  Thor; 

So  it  cannot  yet  be  said, 

That  all  the  old  gods  are  dead, 

And  the  warlocks  are  no  more,"  34° 

Flushing  with  anger 

Said  Sigurd  the  Bishop. 


Then  King  Olaf  cried  aloud : 
"I  will  talk  with  this  mighty  Raud, 
And  along  the  Salten  Fiord 
Preach  the  Gospel  with  my  sword, 
Or  be  brought  back  in  my  shroud !" 

So  northward  from  Drontheim 

Sailed  King  Olaf! 

XIX 

KING  OLAF'S  WAR-HORNS 

"Strike  the  sails!"  King  Olaf  said;       350 
"Never  shall  men  of  mine  take  flight, 
Never  away  from  battle  I  fled, 
Never  away  from  my  foes ! 

Let  God  dispose 
Of  my  life  in  the  fight!" 

"Sound  the  horns!"  said  Olaf  the  King; 
And  suddenly  through  the  drifting  brume 
The  blare  of  the  horns  began  to  ring, 
Like  the  terrible  trumpet  shock 

Of  Regnarock,  360 

On  the  Day  of  Doom ! 

Louder  and  louder  the  war-horns  sang 
Over  the  level  floor  of  the  flood; 
All  the  sails  came  down  with  a  clang, 
And  there  in  the  midst  overhead 

The  sun  hung  red 
As  a  drop  of  blood. 

Drifting  down  on  the  Danish  fleet 
Three  together  the  ships  were  lashed,   369 
So  that  neither  should  turn  and  retreat; 
In  the  midst,  but  in  front  of  the  rest, 

The  burnished  crest 
Of  the  Serpent  flashed. 


King  Olaf  stood  on  the  quarter-deck, 
With  bow  of  ash  and  arrows  of  oak; 
His  gilded  shield  was  without  a  fleck, 
His  helmet  inlaid  with  gold, 

And  in  many  a  fold 
Hung  his  crimson  cloak. 

On  the  forecastle  Ulf  the  Red  38° 

Watched  the  lashing  of  the  ships; 

"If  the  Serpent  lie  so  far  ahead, 

We  shall  have  hard  work  of  it  here," 

Said  he  with  a  sneer 
On  his  bearded  lips. 

King  Olaf  laid  an  arrow  on  string, 
"Have  I  a  coward  on  board?"  said  he. 
"Shoot  it  another  way,  O  King !" 
Sullenly  answered  Ulf, 

The  old  sea-wolf;  390 

"You  have  need  of  me !" 

In    front   came   Svend,   the    King  of   the 

Danes, 

Sweeping  down  with  his  fifty  rowers; 
To  the  right,  the  Swedish  king  with  his 

thanes ; 
And  on  board  of  the  Iron-Beard 

Earl  Eric  steered 
To  the  left  with  his  oars. 

"These  soft  Danes  and  Swedes,"  said  the 

King, 

"At  home  with  their  wives  had  better  stay, 
Than  come  within  reach  of  my  Serpent's 

sting : 
But  where  Eric  the  Norseman  leads      4°° 

Heroic  deeds 
Will  be  done  to-day !" 

Then  as  together  the  vessels  crashed 
Eric  severed  the  cables  of  hide, 
With  which  King  Olaf's  ships  were  lashed, 
And  left  them  to  drive  and  drift 

With  the  currents  swift 
Of  the  outward  tide. 

Louder  the  war-horns  growl  and  snarl,  4'° 
Sharper  the  dragons  bite  and  sting! 
Eric  the  son  of  Hakon  Jarl 
A  death-drink  salt  as  the  sea 

Pledges  to  thee, 
Olaf  the  King! 

xx 

EINAR  TAMBERSKELVER 

It  was  Einar  Tamberskelver 

Stood  beside  the  mast; 
From  his  yew-bow,  tipped  with  silver, 

Flew  the  arrows  fast; 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


411 


Aimed  at  Eric  unavailing,  4*> 

As  he  sat  concealed, 
Half  behind  the  quarter-railing, 

Half  behind  his  shield. 

First  an  arrow  struck  the  tiller 

Just  above  his  head; 
"Sing,  O  Eyvind  Skaldaspiller," 

Then  Earl  Eric  said. 
"Sing  the  song  of  Hakon  dying, 

Sing  his   funeral  wail !" 
And  another  arrow  flying  43<> 

Grazed  his  coat  of  mail. 

Turning  to  a  Lapland  yeoman, 

As  the  arrow  passed, 
Said  Earl  Eric,  "Shoot  that  bowman 

Standing  by  the  mast." 
Sooner  than  the  word  was  spoken 

Flew  the  yeoman's  shaft; 
Einar's  bow  in  twain  was  broken, 

Einar  only  laughed. 

"What  was  that?"  said  Olaf,  standing  44° 

On  the  quarter-deck. 
"Something  heard  I  like  the  stranding 

Of  a  shattered  wreck." 
Einar  then,  the  arrow  taking 

From  the  loosened  string, 
Answered,  "That  was  Norway  breaking 

From  thy  hand,  O  King !" 

"Thou  art  but  a  poor  diviner," 

Straightway  Olaf  said ; 
"Take  my  bow,  and  swifter,  Einar,        45° 

Let  thy  shafts  be  sped." 
Of  his  bows  the  fairest  choosing, 

Reached  he  from  above ; 
Einar  saw  the  blooddrops  oozing 

Through  his  iron  glove. 

But  the  bow  was  thin  and  narrow ; 

At  the  first  essay, 
O'er  its  head  he  drew  the  arrow, 

Flung  the  bow  away ; 
Said,  with  hot  and  angry  temper  460 

Flushing  in  his  cheek, 
"Olaf !  for  so  great  a  Kamper 

Are  thy  bows  too  weak !" 

Then,  with  smile  of  joy  defiant 

On  his  beardless  lip, 
Scaled  he,  light  and  self-reliant, 

Eric's  dragon-ship. 
Loose  his  golden  locks  were  flowing, 

Bright  his  armor  gleamed; 
Like  Saint  Michael  overthrowing  47» 

Lucifer  he  seemed. 


XXI 

KING  OLAF'S  DEATH-DRINK 

All  day  has  the  battle  raged, 
All  day  have  the  ships  engaged, 
But  not  yet  is  assuaged 

The  vengeance  of  Eric  the  Earl. 

The  decks  with  blood  are  red, 
The  arrows  of  death  are  sped, 
The  ships  are  filled  with  the  dead, 
And  the  spears  the  champions  hurl. 

They  drift  as  wrecks  on  the  tide,  480 

The  grappling-irons  are  plied, 
The  boarders  climb  up  the  side, 
The  shouts  are  feeble  and  few. 

Ah !  never  shall  Norway  again 
See  her  sailors  come  back  o'er  the  main; 
They  all  lie  wounded  or  slain, 
Or  asleep  in  the  billows  blue! 

On  the  deck  stands  Olaf  the  King, 
Around  him  whistle  and  sing 
The  spears  that  the  foemen  fling,  49° 

And   the   stones   they   hurl   with   their 
hands. 

In  the  midst  of  the  stones  and  the  spears, 
Kolbiorn,  the  marshal,  appears, 
His  shield  in  the  air  he  uprears, 

By  the  side  of  King  Olaf  he  stands. 

Over  the  slippery  wreck 
Of  the  Long  Serpent's  deck 
Sweeps  Eric  with  hardly  a  check, 
His  lips  with  anger  are  pale; 

He  hews  with  his  axe  at  the  mast,          soo 
Till  it  falls,  with  the  sails  overcast, 
Like  a  snow-covered  pine  in  the  vast 
Dim  forests  of  Orkadale. 

Seeking  King  Olaf  then, 
He  rushes  aft  with  his  men, 
As  a  hunter  into  the  den 
Of  the  bear,  when  he  stands  at  bay. 

"Remember  Jarl  Hakon !"  he  cries ; 
When  lo !  on  his  wondering  eyes 
Two  kingly  figures  arise,  5'° 

Two  Olaf s  in  warlike  array ! 

Then  Kolbiorn  speaks  in  the  ear 
Of  King  Olaf  a  word  of  cheer, 
In  a  whisper  that  none  may  hear, 
With  a  smile  on  his  tremulous  lip; 


412 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Two  shields  raised  high  in  the  air, 
Two  flashes  of  golden  hair, 
Two  scarlet  meteors'  glare, 
And  both  have  leaped  from  the  ship. 

Earl  Eric's  men  in  the  boats 
Seize  Kolbiorn's  shield  as  it  floats, 
And  cry,  from  their  hairy  throats, 
"See!  it  is  Olaf  the  King!" 


While  far  on  the  opposite  side 
Floats  another  shield  on  the  tide, 
Like  a  jewel  set  in  the  wide 
Sea-current's  eddying  ring. 


There  is  told  a  wonderful  tale, 
How  the  King  stripped  off  his  mail, 
Like  leaves  of  the  brown  sea-kale,        53° 
As  he  swam  beneath  the  main; 


But  the  young  grew  old  and  gray, 
And  never,  by  night  or  by  day, 
In  his  kingdom  of  Norroway 
Was  King  Olaf  seen  again ! 


THE  BIRDS  OF  KILLINGWORTH 

It  was  the  season,  when  through  all  the 

land 

The  merle  and  mavis  build,  and  build 
ing  sing 

Those  lovely  lyrics,  written  by  his  hand, 
Whom  Saxon  Caedmon  calls  the  Blithe- 
heart  King; 

When  on  the  boughs  the  purple  buds  ex 
pand, 
The   banners   of   the  vanguard   of   the 

Spring, 

And  rivulets,  rejoicing,  rush  and  leap, 
And   wave   their   fluttering    signals    from 
the  steep. 


"Give   us,   O   Lord,    this    day,   our   daily 
bread !" 

_  < 

Across   the   Sound  the  birds  of  passage 

sailed, 
Speaking      some      unknown      language 

strange  and  sweet 

Of  tropic  isle  remote,  and  passing  hailed 

The  village  with  the  cheers  of  all  their 

fleet ;  20 

Or    quarrelling    together,     laughed    and 

railed 

Like  foreign  sailors,  landed  in  the  street 
Of    seaport    towns,    and    with    outlandish 

noise 

Of  oaths  and  gibberish   frightening  girls 
and  boys. 

Thus  came  the  jocund  Spring  in  Killing- 
worth, 
In  fabulous  days,  some  hundred  years 

ago; 
And   thrifty    farmers,   as   they   tilled    the 

earth, 
Heard   with   alarm  the   cawing  of   the 

crow, 
That  mingled  with  the  universal  mirth, 

Cassandra-like,  prognosticating  woe;  3<> 
They  shook  their  heads,  and  doomed  with 

dreadful  words 

To  swift   destruction  the  whole  race  of 
birds. 

And    a   town  -  meeting   was    convened 

straightway 

To  set  a  price  upon  the  guilty  heads 
Of  these  marauders,  who,  in  lieu  of  pay, 
Levied  black-mail  upon  the  garden  beds 
And  cornfields,   and   beheld   without   dis 
may 
The  awful  scarecrow,  with  its  fluttering 

shreds ; 

The  skeleton  that  waited  at  their  feast, 
Whereby    their    sinful    pleasure    was    in 
creased.  40 


The  robin  and  the  bluebird,  piping  loud, 
Filled  all  the  blossoming  orchards  with 
their  glee;  I0 

The  sparrows  chirped  as  if  they  still  were 

proud 

Their  race  in  Holy  Writ  should  men 
tioned  be ; 

And  hungry  crows,  assembled  in  a  crowd, 
.Clamored    their    piteous    prayer    inces 
santly, 

Knowing  who  hears  the  ravens  cry,  and 
said: 


Then   from  his  house,  a  temple   painted 

white, 

With  fluted  columns,  and  a  roof  of  red, 
The  Squire  came  forth,  august  and  splen 
did  sight ! 

Slowly  descending,  with  majestic  tread, 
Three  flights  of  steps,  nor  looking  left  nor 

right, 
Down  the  long  street  he  walked,  as  one 

who  said, 

"A  town  that  boasts  inhabitants  like  me 
Can  have  no  lack  of  good  society !" 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


413 


The  Parson,  too,  appeared,  a  man  austere, 

The   instinct   of   whose   nature   was   to 

kill;  so 

The  wrath  of  God  he  preached  from  year 

to  year, 
And  read,  with  fervor,  Edwards  on  the 

Will; 
His  favorite  pastime  was  to  slay  the  deer 

In  summer  on  some  Adirondac  hill; 
E'en  now,  while  walking  down  the  rural 

lane, 
He  lopped  the  wayside  lilies  with  his  cane. 

From  the  Academy,  whose  belfry  crowned 
The   hill  of   Science   with   its   vane   of 
brass, 

Came  the  Preceptor,  gazing  idly  round, 
Now    at    the   clouds,    and    now    at    the 
green  grass,  6° 

And  all  absorbed  in  reveries  profound 
Of  fair  Almira  in  the  upper  class, 

Who  was,  as  in  a  sonnet  he  had  said, 

As  pure  as  water,  and  as  good  as  bread. 

And    next    the    Deacon    issued    from    his 

door, 
In  his  voluminous  neck-cloth,  white  as 

snow ; 

A  suit  of  sable  bombazine  he  wore; 
His  form  was  ponderous,  and  his  step 

was  slow ; 

There  never  was  so  wise  a  man  before ; 
He  seemed  the  incarnate  "Well,  I  told 
you  so !"  TO 

And  to  perpetuate  his  great  renown 
There  was   a  street  named  after  him  in 
town. 

These  came  together  in  the  new  town-hall, 
With  sundry   farmers   from  the  region 

round. 

The  Squire  presided,  dignified  and  tall, 
His   air    impressive   and    his    reasoning 

sound ; 
111  fared  it  with  the  birds,  both  great  and 

small ; 
Hardly  a  friend  in  all  that  crowd  they 

found, 

But  enemies  enough,  who  every  one 
Charged  them  with  all  the  crimes  beneath 
the  sun.  80 

When    they   had    ended,    from    his    place 

apart 
Rose    the     Preceptor,    to    redress    the 

wrong, 
And,   trembling   like   a    steed   before   the 

start, 


Looked    round    bewildered    on   the   ex 
pectant  throng; 
Then  thought  of   fair  Almira,  and  took 

heart 
To  speak  out  what  was  in  him,  clear 

and  strong, 

Alike  regardless  of  their  smile  or  frown, 
And  quite  determined  not  to  be  laughed 
down. 

"Plato,  anticipating  the  Reviewers, 

From    his    Republic    banished    without 
pity  90 

The  Poets;  in  this  little  town  of  yours, 
You  put  to  death,  by  means  of  a  Com 
mittee, 

The  ballad-singers  and  the  Troubadours, 
The   street-musicians    of   the    heavenly 

city, 
The  birds,  who  make  sweet  music  for  us 

all 
In  our  dark  hours,  as  David  did  for  Saul. 

"The  thrush  that  carols  at  the  dawn  of 

day 
From   the   green    steeples    of   the   piny 

wood; 
The  oriole  in  the  elm ;  the  noisy  jay, 

Jargoning  like  a  foreigner  at  his  food; 

The  bluebird  balanced  on  some  topmost 

spray,  101 

Flooding  with  melody  the  neighborhood ; 

Linnet    and    meadow-lark,    and    all    the 

throng 

That  dwell  in  nests,  and  have  the  gift  of 
song. 

"You  slay  them  all!  and  wherefore?  for 

the  gain 
Of   a   scant   handful   more   or   less   of 

wheat, 

Or  rye,  or  barley,  or  some  other  grain, 
Scratched  up  at  random  by  industrious 

feet, 

Searching  for  worm  or  weevil  after  rain ! 

Or  a  few  cherries,  that  are  not  so  sweet 

As  are  the  songs  these  uninvited  guests  "' 

Sing    at    their    feast    with    comfortable 

breasts. 

"Do  you  ne'er  think  what  wondrous  be 
ings  these? 
Do  you  ne'er  think  who  made  them,  and 

who  taught 
The  dialect  they  speak,  where  melodies 

Alone  are  the  interpreters  of  thought? 
Whose    household    words    are    songs    in 

many  keys, 

Sweeter  than   instrument  of  man   e'er 
caught ! 


414 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Whose  habitations  in  the  tree-tops  even   ' 
Are    half-way    houses    on    the    road    to 
heaven !  120 

"Think,    every    morning    when    the    sun 

peeps  through 
The  dim,  leaf-latticed  windows  of  the 

grove, 
How  jubilant  the  happy  birds  renew 

Their  old,  melodious  madrigals  of  love ! 

And  when  you  think  of  this,  remember  too 

'Tis    always    morning    somewhere,    and 

above 
The  awakening  continents,  from  shore  to 

shore, 

Somewhere   the   birds   are   singing   ever 
more. 

"Think  of  your  woods  and  orchards  with 
out  birds ! 

Of  empty  nests  that  cling  to  boughs  and 

beams  '3° 

As  in  an  idiot's  brain  remembered  words 

Hang  empty  'mid  the  cobwebs   of   his 

dreams ! 

Will  bleat  of  flocks  or  bellowing  of  herds 
Make  up  for  the  lost  music,  when  your 

teams 
Drag   home   the   stingy   harvest,   and   no 

more 

The    feathered   gleaners    follow   to    your 
door? 

"What!  would  you  rather  see  the  inces 
sant  stir 

Of  insects  in  the  windrows  of  the  hay, 
And  hear  the  locust  and  the  grasshopper 

Their  melancholy  hurdy-gurdies  play? 
Is  this  more  pleasant  to  you  than  the  whir 
Of  meadow-lark,  and  her  sweet  rounde 
lay,  '4* 
Or  twitter  of  little  field-fares,  as  you  take 
Your  nooning  in  the  shade  of  bush  and 
brake  ? 

"You  call  them  thieves  and  pillagers;  but 

know, 
They  are  the  winged  wardens  of  your 

farms, 

Who  from  the  cornfields  drive  the  insidi 
ous  foe, 

And   from  your  harvests  keep  a  hun 
dred  harms ; 

Even  the  blackest  of  them  all,  the  crow, 
Renders  good  service  as  your  man-at- 
arms,  '5° 
Crushing  the  beetle  in  his  coat  of  mail, 
And  crying  havoc  on  the  slug  and  snail. 


"How  can  I  teach  your  children  gentle 
ness, 

And  mercy  to  the  weak,  and  reverence 

For  Life,  which,  in  its  weakness  or  excess, 

Is  still  a  gleam  of  God's  omnipotence, 

Or  Death,  which,  seeming  darkness,  is  no 

less 
The    selfsame    light,    although    averted 

hence, 

When   by   your   laws,  your   actions,   and 

your  speech,  J59 

You  contradict  the  very  things  I  teach?" 

With    this    he    closed;    and    through    the 

audience  went 
A    murmur,    like    the    rustle    of    dead 

leaves ; 
The    farmers   laughed   and   nodded,    and 

some  bent 
Their  yellow  heads  together  like  their 

sheaves ; 

Men  have  no  faith  in  fine-spun  sentiment 
Who   put   their   trust    in    bullocks    and 

in  beeves. 

The  birds  were  doomed;  and,  as  the  rec 
ord  shows, 
A  bounty  offered  for  the  heads  of  crows. 

There  was  another  audience  out  of  reach, 

Who  had  no  voice  nor  vote  in  making 

laws,  l~° 

But  in  the  papers  read  his  little  speech, 

And  crowned  his  modest  temples  with 

applause ; 
They  made  him  conscious,  each  one  more 

than  each, 
He  still  was  victor,  vanquished  in  their 

cause. 
Sweetest  of  all  the  applause  he  won  from 

thee, 
O  fair  Almira  at  the  Academy ! 

And  so  the  dreadful  massacre  began; 
O'er  fields  and  orchards,  and  o'er  wood 
land  crests, 

The  ceaseless  fusillade  of  terror  ran. 
Dead   fell  the   birds,   with   blood-stains 
on  their  breasts,  l8° 

Or   wounded   crept   away    from    sight  of 

man, 
While  the  young  died  of  famine  in  their 

nests ; 
A    slaughter   to    be    told    in    groans,    not 

words, 
The  very  St.  Bartholomew  of  Birds! 

The  summer  came,  and  all  the  birds  were 
dead; 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


415 


The  days  were  like  hot  coals ;  the  very 

ground 
Was  burned  to  ashes ;  in  the  orchards  fed 

Myriads  of  caterpillars,  and  around 
The  cultivated  fields  and  garden  beds 
Hosts  of  devouring  insects  crawled,  and 
found  J9° 

No  foe  to  check  their  march,  till  they  had 

made 
The  land  a  desert,  without  leaf  or  shade. 

Devoured  by  worms,  like  Herod,  was  the 

town, 

Because,  like  Herod,  it  had  ruthlessly 
Slaughtered    the     Innocents.      From    the 

trees  spun  down 

The  canker-worms  upon  the  passers-by, 
Upon   each   woman's   bonnet,   shawl,   and 

gown, 
Who  shook  them  off  with  just  a  little 

cry; 

They   were   the   terror    of    each    favorite 

walk,  '99 

The  endless  theme  of  all  the  village  talk. 

The  farmers  grew  impatient,  but  a  few 
Confessed  their  error,  and  would  not 

complain, 

For  after  all,  the  best  thing  one  can  do 
When  it  is  raining,  is  to  let  it  rain. 
Then    they    repealed    the    law,  .although 

they  knew 

It  would  not  call  the  dead  to  life  again; 
As  school-boys,  finding  their  mistake  too 

late, 

Draw  a  wet  sponge  across  the  accusing 
slate. 

That   year   in    Killingworth    the    Autumn 

came  2°9 

Without  the  light  of  his  majestic  look, 

The    wonder    of    the    falling   tongues    of 

flame, 
The  illumined  pages  of  his  Doom's-Day 

book. 
A  few  lost  leaves  blushed  crimson  with 

their  shame, 
And  drowned  themselves  despairing  in 

the  brook, 

While  the  wild  wind  went  moaning  every 
where, 
Lamenting  the  dead  children  of  the  air ! 

But  the  next  spring  a  stranger  sight  was 

seen, 
A  sight  that  never  yet  by  bard  was 

sung, 
As  great  a  wonder  as  it  would  have  been 


If    some    dumb    animal    had    found    a 
tongue !  22° 

A  wagon,  overarched  with  evergreen, 
Upon  whose  boughs  were  wicker  cages 

hung, 
All  full  of  singing  birds,  came  down  the 

street, 
Filling  the  air  with  music  wild  and  sweet. 

From  all  the  country  round  these  birds 

were  brought, 
By   order   of   the   town,   with   anxious 

quest, 
And,  loosened  from  their  wicker  prisons, 

sought 
In    woods    and    fields    the   places    they 

loved  best, 
Singing     loud     canticles,     which     many 

thought 

Were    satires    to    the    authorities    ad 
dressed,  23° 
While    others,    listening    in    green    lanes, 

averred 
Such  lovely  music  never  had  been  heard ! 

But  blither  still  and  louder  carolled  they 
Upon  the  morrow,  for  they  seemed  to 
know 

It  was  the  fair  Almira's  wedding-day, 
And  everywhere,  around,  above,  below, 

When  the  Preceptor  bore  his  bride  away, 
Their  songs  burst  forth  in  joyous  over 
flow, 

And  a  new  heaven  bent  over  a  new  earth 

Amid  the  sunny  farms  of  Killingworth.    240 

1863.       The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Dec.,  1863. 

THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 

Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour. 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight, 
Descending  the  broad  hall  stair,  I0 

Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence : 
Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 

They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 
To  take  me  by  surprise. 


416 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 
A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall ! 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded 
They  enter  my  castle  wall !  2° 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair; 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 

Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine! 

Do  you  think,  O  blue-eyed  banditti, 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall,       30 

Such  an  old  mustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all ! 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 

And  will  not  let  you  depart, 
But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon 

In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever, 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day, 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away !  4° 

1859.      The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Sept.,  1860. 


THE  CUMBERLAND 

At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 
On  board  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop-of- 

war; 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the 

bay 

The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 
Or  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our 

foes 

Was  steadily  steering  its  course      I0 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke   from  her 

guns, 

And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 


We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside !       «> 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

"Strike  your  flag !"  the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 
"Never !"  our  gallant  Morris  replies ; 
"It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield!" 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men.  30 

Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp ! 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a  wrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 
Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast 

head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  thy  day! 

Every  waft  of  the  air  4° 

Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho !  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the 

seas ! 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream; 
Ho !  brave  land !  with  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 
Shall  be  one  again, 
And  without  a  seam ! 

1862.       The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Dec.,  1862. 

WEARINESS 

O  little  feet !  that  such  long  years 
Must  wander  on  through  hopes  and  fears, 

Must  ache  and  bleed  beneath  your  load ; 
I,  nearer  to  the  wayside  inn 
Where  toil  shall  cease  and  rest  begin, 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  road ! 

O  little  hands !  that,  weak  or  strong, 
Have  still  to  serve  or  rule  so  long, 

Have  still  so  long  to  give  or  ask; 
I.  who  so  much  with  book  and  pen         I0 
Have  toiled  among  my  fellow-men, 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  task. 

O  little  hearts!  that  throb  and  beat 
With  such  impatient,  feverish  heat, 

Such  limitless  and  strong  desires ; 
Mine,  that  so  long  has  glowed  and  burned, 
With  passions  into  ashes  turned, 

Now  covers  and  conceals  its  fires. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


417 


O  little  souls !  as  pure  and  white 

And  crystalline  as  rays  of  light  M 

Direct  from  heaven,  their  source  divine; 
Refracted  through  the  mist  of  years, 
How  red  my  setting  sun  appears, 

How  lurid  looks  this  soul  of  mine ! 

1863?      The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Nov.,  1863. 


HAWTHORNE 

How   beautiful   it   was,   that    one   bright 

day1 

In  the  long  week  of  rain ! 
Though  all  its  splendor  could  not  chase 

away 
The  omnipresent  pain. 

The  lovely  town  was  white  with  apple- 
blooms, 

And  the  great  elms  o'erhead 
Dark  shadows  wove  on  their  aerial  looms 

Shot  through  with  golden  thread. 

Across  the  meadows,  by  the  gray  old 
manse, 

The  historic  river  flowed:  I0 

I  was  as  one  who  wanders  in  a  trance, 

Unconscious  of  his  road. 

The   faces  of   familiar   friends   seemed 

strange ; 

Their  voices  I  could  hear, 
And  yet  the  words  they  uttered  seemed 

to  change 
Their  meaning  to  my  ear. 

For  the  one  face  I  looked  for  was  not 
there, 

The  one  low  voice  was  mute; 
Only  an  unseen  presence  filled  the  air, 

And  baffled  my  pursuit.  » 

Now  I  look  back,  and  meadow,  manse, 
and  stream 

Dimly  my  thought  defines; 
I  only  see — a  dream  within  a  dream — 

The  hill-top  hearsed  with  pines. 

I  only  hear  above  his  place  of  rest 

Their  tender  undertone, 
The  infinite  longings  of  a  troubled  breast, 

The  voice  so  like  his  own. 

1  Hawthorne  was  buried  on  May  23,  1864. 


There  in  seclusion  and  remote  from  men 
The  wizard  hand  lies  cold,  3° 

Which  at  its  topmost  speed  let   fall  the 

pen, 
And  left  the  tale  half  told. 

Ah!   who  shall  lift  that  wand  of  magic 
power, 

And  the  lost  clew  regain? 
The  unfinished  window  in  Aladdin's  tower 

Unfinished  must  remain ! 


(As      "Concord.")       The 
Monthly,  Aug.,  4864. 


Atlantic 


THE  WIND  OVER  THE  CHIMNEY 

See,  the  fire  is  sinking  low, 
Dusky  red  the  embers  glow, 

While  above  them  still  I  cower, 
While  a  moment  more  I  linger, 
Though  the  clock,  with  lifted  finger, 

Points  beyond  the  midnight,  hour. 

Sings  the  blackened  log  a  tune 
Learned  in  some  forgotten  June 

From  a  school-boy  at  his  play, 
When  they,  both  were  young  together,     I0 
Heart  of  youth  and  summer  weather 

Making  all  their  holiday. 

And  the  night-wind  rising,  hark! 
How  above  there  in  the  dark, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow, 
Ever  wilder,  fiercer,  grander, 
Like  the  trumpets  of  Iskander, 

All  the  noisy  chimneys  blow! 

Every  quivering  tongue  of  flame, 

Seems  to  murmur  some  great  name,        *> 

Seems  to  say  to  me,  "Aspire !" 
But  the  night-wind  answers,  "Hollow 
Are  the  visions  that  you  follow, 

Into  darkness  sinks  your  fire!" 

Then  the  flicker  of  the  blaze 
Gleams  on  volumes  of  old  days, 

Written  by  masters  of  the  art, 
Loud  through  whose  majestic  pages 
Rolls  the  melody  of  ages,    . 

Throb  the  harp-strings  of  the  heart.   3° 

And  again  the  tongues  of  flame 
Start  exulting  and  exclaim : 

"These  are  prophets,  bards,  and  seers ; 
In  the  horoscope  of  nations, 
Like  ascendant  constellations, 

They  control  the  coming  years." 


418 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


But  the  night-wind  cries:   "Despair! 
Those  who  walk  with  feet  of  air 

Leave  no  long-enduring  marks ; 
At  God's  forges  incandescent  40 

Mighty  hammers  beat  incessant, 

These  are  but  the  flying  sparks. 

"Dust  are  all  the  hands  that  wrought; 
Books  are  sepulchres  of  thought; 

The  dead  laurels  of  the  dead 
Rustle  for  a  moment  only, 
Like  the  withered  leaves  in  lonely 

Churchyards  at  some  passing  tread." 

Suddenly  the  flame  sinks  down; 

Sink  the  rumors  of  renown ;  5° 

And  alone  the  night-wind  drear 
Clamors  louder,  wilder,  vaguer, — 
"  'Tis  the  brand  of  Meleager 

Dying  on  the  hearth-stone  here!" 

And  I  answer, — "Though  it  be, 
Why  should  that  discomfort  me? 

No  endeavor  is  in  vain; 
Its  reward  is.  in  the  doing, 
And  the  rapture  of  pursuing 

Is  the  prize  of  vanquished  gain."         6° 

The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Jan.,  1865. 


CHRISTMAS  BELLS 

I  heard  the  bells  on  Christmas  Day 
Their  old,  familiar  carols  play, 

And  wild  and  sweet 

The  words  repeat 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good- will  to  men! 

And  thought  how,  as  the  day  had  come, 
The  -belfries  of  all  Christendom 

Had  rolled  along 

The  unbroken  song 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men!     I0 

Till,  ringing,  singing  on  its  vray, 

The  world  revolved  from  night  to  day, 

A  voice,  a  chime, 

A  chant  sublime 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! 

Then  from  each  black,  accursed  mouth 
The  cannon  thundered  in  the  South, 

And  with  the  sound 

The  carols  drowned 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men !     20 


It  was  as  if  an  earthquake  rent 
The  hearth-stones  of  a  continent, 

And  made  forlorn. 

The  households  born 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to.  men! 

And  in  despair  I  bowed  my  head ; 
"There  is  no  peace  on  earth,"  I  said; 

"For  hate  is  strong, 

And  mocks  the  song 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men!"    3° 

Then  pealed  the  bells  more  loud  and  deep  : 
"God  is  not  dead ;  nor  doth  he  sleep ! 

The  Wrong  shall  fail, 

The  Right  prevail, 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men!" 

1864. 
DIVINA  COMMEDIAi 


Oft  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door 
A  laborer,  pausing  in  the  dust  and  heat, 
Lay  down  his  burden,  and  with  reverent 

feet 

Enter,  and  cross  himself,  and  on  the  floor 
Kneel  to  repeat  his  paternoster  o'er; 
Far  off  the  noises  of  the  world  retreat; 
The  loud  vociferations  of  the  street 
Become  an  undistinguishable  roar. 
So,  as  I  enter  here  from  day  to  day, 
And  leave  my  burden  at  this  minster  gate. 
Kneeling  in  prayer,  and  not  ashamed  to 

pray,  " 

The  tumult  of  the  time  disconsolate 
To  inarticulate  murmurs  dies  away, 
While  the  eternal  ages  watch  and  wait. 

1864.  Atlantic  Monthly,  Dec.,  1864. 


How    strange    the    sculptures    that    adorn 

these  towers ! 
This  crowd  of  statues,  in  whose   folded 

sleeves 
Birds    build    their   nests;    while   canopied 

with  leaves 
Parvis    and    portal    bloom    like    trellised 

bowers, 
And  the  vast  minster   seems   a  cross   of 

flowers ! 

1  After  the  tragic  death  of  Mrs.  Longfellow 
in  1861,  Longfellow  took  refuge  in  translating 
Dante's  Divine  Comedy.  He  wrote  but  little 
else  from  1861  to  1869.  Almost  the  only  allu 
sions  to  his  grief  are  found  in  the  first  of  these 
sonnets  and  in  The  Cross  of  Snow. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


419 


But  fiends  and  dragons  on  the  gargoyled 

eaves  20 

Watch  the  dead  Christ  between  the  living 

thieves, 

And,  underneath,  the  traitor  Judas  lowers ! 
Ah!  from  what  agonies  of  heart  and  brain, 
What  exultations  trampling  on  despair, 
What  tenderness,   what  tears,   what  hate 

of  wrong, 

What  passionate  outcry  of  a  soul  in  pain, 
Uprose  this  poem  of  the  earth  and  air, 
This  mediaeval  miracle  of  song! 

1864.  1866. 
4      in 

I  enter,  and  I  see  thee  in  the  gloom 

Of  the  long  aisles,  O  poet  saturnine !      30 

And  strive  to  make  my  steps  keep  pace 

with  thine. 

The  air  is  filled  with  some  unknown  per 
fume; 

The  congregation  of  the  dead  make  room 
For  thee  to  pass ;  the  votive  tapers  shine  ; 
Like  rooks  that  haunt  Ravenna's  groves 

of  pine 
The   hovering   echoes    fly    from   tomb   to 

tomb. 

From  the  confessionals  I  hear  arise 
Rehearsals  of  forgotten  tragedies, 
And  lamentations  from  the  crypts  below; 
And  then  a  voice  celestial  that  begins    4° 
With  the  pathetic  words,  "Although  your 

sins 

As    scarlet   be,"   and   ends   with   "as   the 
snow." 

1865.  1866. 

IV 

With  snow-white  veil  and  garments  as  of 

flame, 

She  stands  before  thee,  who  so  long  ago 
Filled  thy  young  heart  with  passion  and 

the  woe 
From  which  thy  song  and  all  its  splendors 

came ; 
And  while  with   stern  rebuke  she  speaks 

thy  name, 

The  ice  about  thy  heart  melts  as  the  snow 
On  mountain  heights,  and  in  swift  over 
flow 
Comes  gushing  from  thy  lips  in  sobs  of 

shame.  5° 

Thou  makest  full  confession;  and  a  gleam, 
As  of  the  dawn  on  some  dark  forest  cast, 
Seems  on  thy  lifted  forehead  to  increase; 
Lethe  and  Eunoe — the  remembered  dream 
And  the  forgotten  sorrow — bring  at  last 
That  perfect  pardon  which  is  perfect 

peace. 
1867.  1867. 


I  lift  mine  eyes,  and  all  the  windows  blaze 

With  forms  of  Saints  and  holy  men  who 
died, 

Here  martyred  and  hereafter  glorified; 

And  the  great  Rose  upon  its  leaves  dis 
plays  6° 

Christ's  Triumph,  and  the  angelic  rounde 
lays, 

With  splendor  upon  splendor  multiplied; 

And  Beatrice  again  at  Dante's  side 

No  more  rebukes,  but  smiles  her  words  of 
praise. 

And  then  the  organ  sounds,  and  unseen 
choirs 

Sing  the  old  Latin  hymns  of  peace  and 
love 

And  benedictions  of  the  Holy  Ghost; 

And  the  melodious  bells  among  the  spires 

O'er  all  the  house-tops  and  through  hea 
ven  above 

Proclaim  the  elevation  of  the  Host!      70 

1866.  1866. 

VI 

O  star  of  morning  and  of  liberty ! 

O   bringer  of   the   light,   whose   splendor 

shines 

Above  the  darkness  of  the  Apennines, 
Forerunner  of  the  day  that  is  to  be! 
The  voices  of  the  city  and  the  sea, 
The  voices  of  the  mountains  and  the  pines, 
Repeat  thy  song,  till  the  familiar  lines 
Are  footpaths  for  the  thought  of  Italy! 
Thy  flame  is  blown  abroad  from  all  the 

heights, 

Through  allVthe  nations,  and  a  sound  is 
heard,  80 

As  of  a  mighty  wind,  and  men  devout, 
Strangers   of   Rome,   and  the  new   pros 
elytes, 
In  their  own  language  hear  the  wondrous 

word, 

And  many  are  amazed  and  many  doubt. 
1866  1866. 

KILLED  AT  THE  FORD  1 

He  is  dead,  the  beautiful  youth, 
The  heart  of  honor,  the  tongue  of  truth, 
He,  the  life  and  light  of  us  all, 
Whose  voice  was  blithe  as  a  bugle-call. 
Whom  all  eyes  followed  with  one  consent. 
The   cheer   of   whose   laugh,    and    whose 

pleasant  word, 
Hushed  all  murmurs  of  discontent. 

1  In  a  letter  dated  March  23,  1866,  Longfellow 
states  that  this  poem  was  not  the  record  of  a 
particular  event. 


420 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Only  last  night,  as  we  rode  along, 
Down  the  dark  of  the  mountain  gap, 
To  visit  the  picket-guard  at  the  ford,      I0 
Little  dreaming  of  any  mishap, 
He  was  humming  the  words,  of  some  old 

song: 

"Two  red  roses  he  had  on  his  cap 
And  another  he  bore  at  the  point  of  his 

sword." 

Sudden  and  swift  a  whistling  ball 
Came  out  of  a  wood,  and  the  voice  was 

still ; 

Something  I  heard  in  the  darkness  fall, 
And  for  a  moment  my  blood  grew  chill ; 
I  spake  in  a  whisper,  as  he  who  speaks 
In  a  room  where  some  one  is  lying  dead; 
But  he  made  no  answer  to  what  I  said.  2I 

We  lifted  him  up  to  his  saddle  again, 
And  through  the  mire  and  the  mist  and 
the  rain 


Carried  him  back  to  the  silent  camp, 
And  laid  him  as  if  asleep  on  his  bed; 
And  I  saw  by  the  light  of  the  surgeon's 

lamp 

Two  white  roses  upon  his  cheeks, 
An3*  one,  just  over  his  heart,  blood-red! 

And  I  saw  in  a  vision  how  far  and  fleet 
That  fatal  bullet  went  speeding  forth,    3° 
Till    it    reached    a    town    in    the    distant 

North, 

Till  it  reached  a  house  in  a  sunny  street, 
Till  it  reached  a  heart  that  ceased  to  beat 
Without  a  murmur,  without  a  cry; 
And   a   bell   was    tolled,    in   that    far-off 

town, 
For  one  who  had  passed  from  cross  to 

crown, 
And    the    neighbors    wondered    that    she 

should  die. 

1866.      The  Atlantic  Monthly,  April,  1866. 


OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES 

(1809-1894) 


TO  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  "A  LADY" 
In  the  Athenaeum  Gallery 

Well,  Miss,  I  wonder  where  you  live, 

I  wonder  what's  your  name, 
I  wonder  how  you  came  to  be 

In  such  a  stylish  frame; 
Perhaps  you  were  a  favorite  child, 

Perhaps  an  only  one; 
Perhaps  your  friends  were  not  aware 

You  had  your  portrait  done ! 

Yet  you  must  be  a  harmless  soul; 

I  cannot  think  that  Sin  I0 

Would  care  to  throw  his  loaded  dice, 

With   such   a   stake  to  win; 
I  cannot  think  you  would  provoke 

The  poet's  wicked  pen, 
Or  make  young  women  bite  their  lips, 

Or  ruin  fine  young  men.        v 

Pray,  did  you  ever  hear,  my  love, 

Of  boys  that  go  about, 
Who,   for  a  very  trifling  sum, 

Will  snip  one's  picture  out?  2° 

I'm  not  averse  to  red  and  white, 

But  all  things  have  their  place, 
I  think  a  profile  cut  in  black 

Would  suit  your  style  of  face ! 

I  love  sweet  features ;  I  will  own 

That  I  should  like  myself 
To  see  my  portrait  on  a  wall, 

Or  bust  upon  a  shelf; 
But  nature  sometimes  makes  one  up 

Of  such  sad  odds  and  ends,  3° 

It  really  might  be  quite  as  well 

Hushed  up  among  one's   friends ! 

The  Amateur,  June  15,  1830. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  OYSTER- 
MAN 

It  was  a  tall  young  oysterman  lived  by  the 

river-side, 
His  shop  was  just  upon  the  bank,  his  boat 

was  on  the  tide; 


The  daughter  of  a  fisherman,  that  was  so 
straight  and  slim, 

Lived  over  on  the  other  bank,  right  oppo 
site  to  him. 

It  was  the  pensive  oysterman  that  saw  a 

lovely  maid, 
Upon  a  moonlight  evening,  a-sitting  in  the 

shade ; 
He  saw  her  wave  her  handkerchief,  as 

much  as  if  to  say, 
"I  'm  wide  awake,  young  oysterman,  and 

all  the  folks  away." 

Then    up    arose    the    oysterman,    and    to 

himself  said  he, 
"I  guess  I  '11  leave  the  skiff  at  home,  for 

fear  that  folks  should  see;  '° 

I   read  it  in  the  story-book,  that,   for  to 

kiss  his  dear, 
Leander  swam  the  Hellespont, — and  I  will 

swim  this  here." 

And  he  has  leaped  into  the  waves,  and 

crossed  the  shining  stream, 
And  he  has  clambered  up  the  bank,  all  in 

the  moonlight  gleam; 
Oh  there  were  kisses  sweet  as  dew,  and 

words  as  soft  as  rain, — 
But  they  have  heard  her  father's  Step,  and 

in  he  leaps  again ! 

Out   spoke   the   ancient   fisherman, — "Oh, 

what  was  that,  my  daughter?" 
"  'T  was  nothing  but  a  pebble,  sir,  I  threw 

into  the  water." 
"And  what  is  that,  pray  tell  me,  love,  that 

paddles  off  so  fast?" 
'  'T  is  nothing  but  a  porpoise,  sir,  that  's 

been  a-swimming  past."  2° 

Out  spoke  the  ancient  fisherman, — "Now 

bring  me  my  harpoon ! 
I  '11  get  into  my  fishing-boat,  and  fix  the 

fellow   soon." 
Down  fell  that  pretty  innocent,  as  falls  a 

snow-white  lamb, 
Her  hair  drooped  round  her  pallid  cheeks, 

like  seaweed  on  a  clam. 


421 


422 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Alas  for  those  two  loving  ones  !  she  waked 

not  from  her  swound, 
And  he  was  taken  with  the  cramp,  and  in 

the  waves  was  drowned ; 
But  Fate  has  metamorphosed  them,  in  pity 

of  their  woe, 
And   now   they   keep   an   oyster-shop    for 

mermaids  down  below. 

The  Amateur,  July  17,  1830. 


THE   MUSIC-GRINDERS 

There  are  three  ways  in  which  men  take 

One's  money  from  his  purse, 
And  very  hard  it  is  to  tell 

Which  of  the  three  is  worse; 
But  all  of  them  are  bad  enough 

To  make  a  body  curse. 

\ 

You  're  riding  out  some  pleasant  day, 

And  counting  up  your  gams; 
A  fellow  jumps  from  out  a  bush, 

And  takes  your  horse's  reins,  I0 

Another  hints  some  words  about x     f  ,   \ 

A  bullet  in   your  brains. 

It  's  hard  to  meet  such  pressing  friends 

In  such  a  lonely  spot; 
It  's  very  hard  to  lose  your  cash, 

But  harder  to  be  shot; 
And  so  you  take  your  wallet  out, 

Though  you  would  rather  not. 

Perhaps  you  're  going  out  to  dine, — 
Some  odious  creature  begs  *° 

You  '11  hear  about  the  cannon-ball 
That  carried  off  his  pegs, 

And  say*  it  is  a  dreadful  thing 
For  men  to  .lose  their  legs. 

He  tells  you  of  his  starving  wife, 

His  children  to  be  fed, 
Poor  little,  lovely  innocents, 

All  clamorous  for  bread, — 
And  so  you  kindly  help  to  put 

A  bachelor  to  bed.  3° 

You  're  sitting  on  your  window-seat, 

Beneath   a   cloudless   moon ; 
You  hear  a  sound,  that  seems  to  wear 

The  semblance  of  a  tune, 
As  if  a  broken  fife  should  strive 

To  drown  a  cracked  bassoon. 

And  nearer,  nearer  still,  the  tide 

Of  music  seems  to  come, 
There  's  something  like  a  human  voice, 

And  something  like  a  drum ;  4° 


You  sit  in  speechless  agony, 
Until  your  ear  is  numb. 

Poor  "home,  sweet  home"  should  seem  to 

be 

A  very  dismal  place; 
Your  "auld  acquaintance"  all  at  once 

Is  altered  in  the  face; 
Their  discords  sting  through   Burns  and 

Moore, 
Like  hedgehogs  dressed  in  lace. 

You  think  they  are  crusaders,  sent 

From  some  infernal  clime,  5° 

To  pluck  the  eyes  of  Sentiment, 
And  dock  the  tail  of  Rhyme, 

To  crack  the  voice  of  Melody, 
And  break  the  legs  of  Time. 

But  hark !  the  air  again  is  still, 

The  music  all  is  ground, 
And  silence,  like  a  poultice,  comes 

To  heal  the  blows  of  sound; 
It  cannot  be* — it  is, — it  is, — 

A  hat  is  going  round !  6° 

No !    Pay  the  dentist  when  he  leaves 

A ^fracture  m  your  jaw, 
And  pay  the, owner  of  the  bear 

That  stunned  you  with  his  paw, 
And  buy  the  lobster  that  has  had 

Your  knuckles  in  his  claw; 

But  if  you  are  a  portly  man, 

Put  on  your  fiercest  frown, 
And  talk  about  a  constable 

To  turn  them  out  of  town;  7° 

Then  close  your  sentence  with  an  oath, 

And  shut  the  window  down ! 

And  if  you  are  a  slender  man, 

Not  big  enough  for  that, 
Or,  if  you  cannot  make  a  speech, 

Because  you  are  a  flat, 
Go  very  quietly  and  drop 

A  button  in  the  hat ! 

New  England  Galaxy,  1830. 


OLD    IRONSIDES  i 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky; 

1  The  "Constitution"  was  launched  in  1797, 
served  against  the  pirates  in  the  Mediterranean, 
and  became  famous  for  her  exploits  in  the  War 
of  1812.  She  was  almost  entirely  rebuilt  in  1834 
and  continued  in  commission  until  1881.  See 
Freneau's  "Ode  on  the  Frigate  Constitution," 
p.  115. 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


423 


Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 
And  burst  the  cannon's  roar; — 

The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 
Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe,          I0 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee; — 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea ! 

Oh,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave;          2° 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale ! 

Boston  Daily  Advertiser,  Sept.  16,  1830. 


THE  LAST  LEAF* 

I  saw  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 

Not  a  better  man  was  found  10 

By  the  Crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

1  The  poem  was  suggested  by  the  sight  of  a 
figure  well  known  to  Bostonians  [in  1831  or 
1832],  that  of  Major  Thomas  Melville,  "the  last 
of  the  cocked  hats,"  as  he  was  sometimes  called. 
The  Major  had  been  a  personable  young  man, 
very  evidently,  and  retained  evidence  of  it  in 

The  monumental  pomp  of  age — 

which  had  something  imposing  and  something 
odd  about  it  for  youthful  eyes  like  mine.  He 
was  often  pointed  at  as  one  of  the  "Indians"  of 
the  famous  "Boston  Tea-Party"  of  1774.  His 
aspect  among  the  crowds  oj^a  later  generation 
reminded  me  of  a  withere^Tleaf  which  has  held 
to  its  stem  through  the  Morms  of  autumn  and 
winter,  and  finds  itself  still  clinging  to  its  bough 
while  the  new  growths  of  spring  are  bursting 
their  buds  and  spreading  their  foliage  all  around 
it.  (Author's  Note.) 


But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan, 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest  *» 

In  their  bloom, 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  .hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago — 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow;  3° 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff, 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat,  4° 

And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer ! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, 

Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 

The  Amateur,  March  26,  1831. 


MY  AUNT 

My  aunt !  my  dear  unmarried  aunt ! 

Long  years  have  o'er  her  flown ; 
Yet  still  she  strains  the  aching  clasp 

That  binds  her  virgin  zone; 
I  know  it  hurts  her, — though  she  looks 

As  cheerful  as  she  can ; 
Her  waist  is  ampler  than  her  life, 

For  life  is  but  a  span. 

My  aunt !  my  poor  deluded  aunt ! 

Her  hair  is  almost  gray; 
Why  will  she  train  that  winter  curl 

In  such  a  spring-like  way? 


424 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


How  can  she  lay  her  glasses  down, 

And  say  she  reads  as  well, 
When  through  a  double  convex  lens 

She  just  makes  out  to  spell? 

Her  father — grandpapa !  forgive 

This  erring  lip  its  smiles — 
Vowed  she  should  make  the  finest  girl 

Within  a  hundred  miles ;  2° 

He  sent  her  to  a  stylish  school ; 

'T  was  in  her  thirteenth  June ; 
And  with  her,  as  the  rules  required, 

"Two  towels  and  a  spoon." 

They  braced  my  aunt  against  a  board, 

To  make  her  straight  and  tall ; 
They  laced  her  up,  they  starved  her  down, 

To  make  her  light  and  small ; 
They  pinched  her   feet,   they   singed   her 
hair, 

They  screwed  it  up  with  pins ; —  3° 

Oh,  never  mortal  suffered  more 

In  penance  for  her  sins. 

So,  when  my  precious  aunt  was  done, 

My  grandsire  brought  her  back 
(By  daylight,  lest  some  rabid  youth 

Might   follow  on  the  track)  ; 
"Ah !"  said  my  grandsire,  as  he  shook 

Some  powder  in  his  pan, 
"What  could  this  lovely  creature  do 

Against  a  desperate  man !"  40 

Alas !  nor  chariot,  nor  barouche, 

Nor  bandit  cavalcade, 
Tore  from  the  trembling  father's  arms 

His  all-accomplished  maid. 
For  her  how  happy  had  it  been ! 

And  Heaven  had  spared  to  me 
To  see  one  sad,  ungathered  rose 

On  my  ancestral  tree. 

(Buckingham's)  New  England  Magazine, 
Oct.,  1831. 


THE   COMET 

The  Comet !    He  is  on  his  way, 

And  singing  as  he  flies; 
The  whizzing  planets  shrink  before 

The  spectre  of  the  skies; 
Ah !  well  may  regal  orbs  burn  blue, 

And  satellites  turn  pale, 
Ten  million  cubic  miles  of  head, 

Ten  billion  leagues  of  tail! 


On,  on  by  whistling  spheres  of  light 

He  flashes  and  he  flames;  I0 

He  turns  not  to  the  left  nor  right, 

He  asks  them  not  their  names ; 
One  spurn  from  his  demoniac  heel, — 

Away,  away  they  fly, 
Where  darkness  might  be  bottled  up 

And  sold  for  "Tyrian  dye." 

And  what  would  happen  to  the  land, 

And  how  would  look  the  sea, 
If  in  the  bearded  devil's  path 

Our  earth  should  chance  to  be?  20 

Full  hot  and  high  the  sea  would  boil, 

Full  red  the  forests  gleam; 
Methought  I  saw  and  heard  it  all 

In  a  dyspeptic  dream ! 

I  saw  a  tutor  take  his  tube 

The  Comet's  course  to  spy; 
I  heard  a  scream, — the  gathered  rays 

Had  stewed  the  tutor's  eye; 
I  saw  a  fort, — the  soldiers  all 

Were  armed  with  goggles  green;         3° 
Pop  cracked  the  guns  !  whiz  flew  the  balls  ! 

Bang  went  the  magazine ! 

I  saw  a  poet  dip  a  scroll 

Each  moment'  in  a  tub, 
I  read  upon  the  warping  back, 

"The  Dream  of  Beelzebub"; 
He  could  not  see  his  verses  burn, 

Although  his  brain  was  fried, 
And  ever  and  anon  he  bent 

To  wet  them  as  they  dried.  4° 

I  saw  the  scalding  pitch  roll  down 

The  crackling,  sweating  pines, 
And  streams  of  smoke,  like  water-spouts, 

Burst  through  the  rumbling  mines  ; 
I  asked  the  firemen  why  they  made 

Such  noise  about  the  town ; 
They  answered  not, — but  all  the  while 

The  brakes  went  up  and  down. 

I  saw  a  roasting  pullet  sit 

Upon  a  baking  egg;  s° 

I  saw  a  cripple  scorch  his  hand 

Extinguishing  his  leg; 
I  saw  nine  geese  upon  the  wing 

Towards  the  frozen  pole, 
And  every  mother's  gosling  fell 

Crisped  to  a  crackling  coal. 

I  saw  the  ox  that llrowsed  the  grass 

Writhe  in  the  blistering  rays, 
The  herbage  in  his  shrinking  jaws 

Was  all  a  fiery  blaze;  6° 


OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES 


425 


I  saw  huge  fishes,  boiled  to  rags, 
Bob  through  the  bubbling  brine; 

And    thoughts    of    supper    crossed    my 

soul ; 
I  had  been  rash  at  mine. 

Strange  sights !  strange  sounds !  Oh  fear 
ful  dream! 

Its  memory  haunts  me  still, 
The  steaming  sea,  the  crimson  glare, 

That  wreathed  each  wooded  hill ; 
Stranger!  if  through  thy  reeling  brain 

Such  midnight  visions  sweep,  70 

Spare,   spare,   oh,   spare  thine   evening 
meal, 

And  sweet  shall  be  thy  sleep! 

(Buckingham's)  New  England  Magazine. 
April,  1832. 


A  PORTRAIT 

A  still,  sweet,  placid,  moonlight  face, 

And  slightly  nonchalant, 
Which  seems  to  claim  a  middle  place 

Between  one's  love  and  aunt, 
Where  childhood's  star  has  left  a  ray 

In  woman's  sunniest  sky, 
As  morning  dew  and  blushing  day 

On  fruit  and  blossom  lie. 


And  yet, — and  yet  I  cannot  love 

Those  lovely  lines  on  steel;  I0 

They  beam  too  much  of  heaven  above, 

Earth's  darker  shades  to  feel; 
Perchance  some  early  weeds  of  care 

Around  my  heart  have  grown, 
And  brows  unfurrowed  seem  not  fair,1 

Because  they  mock  my  own. 

Alas !  when  Eden's  gates  were  sealed, 

How  oft  some  sheltered  flower 
Breathed    o'er    the    wanderers    of    the 
field, 

Like  their  own  bridal  bower;  2° 

Yet,  saddened  by  its  loveliness, 

And  humbled  by  its  pride, 
Earth's     fairest     child     they     could     not 
bless, — 

It  mocked  them  when  they  sighed. 

The  Token  and  Atlantic  Souvenir,  1833. 

1  For  a  characterization  of  the  Annuals  like 
The  Token  and  of  the  steel  engravings  in  them, 
see  the  Life  of  N.  P.  Willis  by  H.  A.  Beers,  pp. 
77-81. 


DAILY   TRIALS 
By  a  Sensitive  Man 

Oh,  there  are  times 

When  all  this  fret  and  tumult  that  we  hear 
Do  seem  more  stale  than  to  the  sexton's 
ear 

His  own  dull  chimes. 

Ding  dong !  ding  dong ! 
The  world  is  in  a  simmer  like  a  sea 
Over  a  pent  volcano, — woe  is  me 

All  the  day  long! 

From  crib  to  shroud !  9 

Nurse  o'er  our  cradles  screameth  lullaby, 
And  friends  in  boots  tramp  round  us  as 
we  die, 

Snuffling  aloud. 

At  morning's  call 
The    small-voiced    pug-dog    welcomes    in 

the  sun, 
And  flea-bit  mongrels,   wakening  one  by 

one, 
Give  answer  all. 

When  evening  dim 

Draws   round   us,  then   the   lonely   cater 
waul, 
Tart  solo,  sour  duet,  and  general  squall, — 

These  are  our  hymn. 

Women,  with  tongues 
Like  polar  needles,  ever  on  the  jar; 
Men,    plugless    word-spouts,   whose   deep 
fountains  are 

Within  their  lungs. 

Children,  with  drums 
Strapped  round  them  by  the  fond  paternal 

ass; 
Peripatetics  with  a  blade  of  grass 

Between  their  thumbs. 

Vagrants,  whose  arts 
Have  caged  some  devil  in  their  mad  ma 
chine,  3° 
Which     grinding,     squeaks,     with     husky 

groans  between, 
Come  out  by  starts. 

Cockneys  that  kill 
Thin    horses    of    a    Sunday, — men,    with 

clams, 
Hoarse  as  young  bisons  roaring  for  their 

dams 
From  hill  to  hill. 


426 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Soldiers,  with  guns, 
Making  a  nuisance  of  the  blessed  air, 
Child-crying  bellmen,  children  in  despair, 

Screeching  for  buns.  4° 

Storms,  thunders,  waves ! 
Howl,  crash,  and  bellow  till  ye  get  your 

fill; 
Ye   sometimes   rest;    men  never   can   be 

still 
But  in  their  graves. 

(Buckingham's)  New  England  Magazine, 
May  (?),  1833. 


FROM    POETRY: 

A  Metrical  Essay,  Read  before  the  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  Society,  Harvard  University,  August, 

1  To   Charles   Wentworth   Upham,  the   following 
Metrical  Essay  is  Affectionately  Inscribed. 

FROM  THE  INTRODUCTION. 

There  breathes  no  being  but  has  some 

pretence 

To  that  fine  instinct  called  poetic  sense; 
The  rudest  savage,  roaming  through  the 

wild; 
The    simplest    rustic,    bending    o  er    his 

child ; 

1  This  Academic  Poem  presents  the  simple  and 
partial  views  of  a  young  person  trained  after 
the  schools  of  classical  English  verse  as  repre 
sented  by  Pope,  Goldsmith,  and  Campbell,  with 
whose  lines  his  memory  was  early  stocked.  It 
will  be  observed  that  it  deals  chiefly  with  the 
constructive  side  of  the  poet's  function.  1  hat 
which  makes  him  a  poet  is  not  the  power,  ot 
writing  melodious  rhymes,  it  is  not  the  posses 
sion  of  ordinary  human  sensibilities  nor  even  of 
both  these  qualities  in  connection  with  each 
other.  I  should  rather  say,  if  I  were  now  called 
upon  to  define  it,  it  is  the  power  of  transfigur 
ing  the  experiences  and  shows  of  life  into  an 
aspect  which  comes  from  his  imagination  and 
kindles  that  of  others.  Emotion  is  its  stimulus 
and  language  furnishes  its  expression; , but  these 
are  not  all,  as  some  might  infer  was  the  doc 
trine  of  the  poem  before  the  reader. 

A  common  mistake  made  by  young  persons 
who  suppose  themselves  to  have  poetical  gift  is 
that  their  own  spiritual  exaltation  finds  a  true 
expression  in  the  conventional  phrases  which  are 
borrowed  from  the  voices  of  the  singers  whose 
inspiration  they  think  they  share. 

Looking  at  this  poem  as  an  expression  of  some 
aspects  of  the  ars  poetica,  with  some  passages 
which  I  can  read  even  at  this  mature  period  of 
life  without  blushing  for  them,  it  may  stand  as 
the  most  serious  representation  of  my  early  ef 
forts.  Intended  as  it  was  for  public  delivery, 
many  of  its  paragraphs  may  betray  the  fact  by 
their  somewhat  rhetorical  and  sonorous  charac 
ter.  (Author's  Note.) 


The  infant,  listening  to  the  warbling  bird; 
The   mother,    smiling   at   its    half-formed 

word; 
The  boy  uncaged,  who  tracks  the  fields  at 

large ; 
The  girl,  turned  matron  to  her  babe-like 

charge ; 
The    freeman,    casting   with   unpurchased 

hand 
The  vote  that   shakes  the   turret  of  the 

land ;  I0 

The  slave,  who,  slumbering  on  his  rusted 

chain, 
Dreams  of  the  palm-trees  on  his  burning 

plain ; 
The   hot-cheeked    reveller,    tossing    down 

the  wine, 
To   join    the   chorus   pealing   "Auld   lang 

syne" ; 
The  gentle  maid,  whose  azure  eye  grows 

dim, 

While  Heaven   is   listening  to  her  even 
ing  hymn; 
The  jewelled  beauty,  when  her  steps  draw 

near 

The  circling  dance  and  dazzling  chande 
lier; 

E'en  trembling  age,  when  Spring's  renew 
ing  air 
Waves   the   thin    ringlets   of   his   silvered 

hair ;—  20 

All,   all   are   glowing   with   the   inward 

flame, 
Whose    wider    halo    wreathes    the    poet's 

name, 
While,    unembalmed,    the    silent    dreamer 

dies, 
His  memory  passing  with  his  smiles  and 

sighs ! 

If  glorious  visions,  born  for  all  man 
kind, 

The  bright  auroras  of  our  twilight  mind; 

If  fancies,  varying  as  the  shapes  that  lie 

Stained  on  the  windows  of  the  sunset 
sky; 

If  hopes,  that  beckon  with  delusive  gleams, 

Till  the  eye  dances  in  the  void  of  dreams ; 

If  passions,  following  with  the  winds  that 
urge  3i 

Earth's  wildest  wanderer  to  her  farthest 
verge  ;— 

If  these  on  all  some  transient  hours  be 
stow 

Of  rapture  tingling  with  it's  hectic  glow, 

Then  all  are  poets;  and  if  earth  had 
rolled 

Her  myriad  centuries,  and  her  doom  were 
told, 


OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES 


427 


Each    moaning    billow    of    her    shoreless 

wave 

Would    wail    its    requiem    o'er    a    poet's 
.  grave ! 

If  to  embody  in  a  breathing  word 
Tones   that   the   spirit   trembled    when    it 

heard;  40 

To  fix  the  image  all  unveiled  and  warm, 
And  carve  in  language  its  ethereal  form, 
So  pure,  so  perfect,  that  the  lines  express 
No  meagre  shrinking,  no  unlaced  excess; 
To  feel  that  art,  in  living  truth,  has  taught 
Ourselves,  reflected  in  the  sculptured 

thought ; — 

If  this  alone  bestow  the  right  to  claim 
The    deathless    garland    and    the    sacred 

name, 
Then  none  are  poets  save  the  saints  on 

high, 
Whose  harps  can  murmur  all  that  words 

deny !  50 

But  though  to  none  is  granted  to  reveal 
In   perfect   semblance  all   that   each    may 

feel, 

As  withered  flowers  recall  forgotten  love, 
So,  warmed  to  life,  our  faded  passions 

move 

In  every  line,  where  kindling  fancy  throws 
The  gleam  of  pleasures  or  the  shade  of 

woes. 

When,    schooled    by    time,    the    stately 

queen  of  art 
Had    smoothed   the   pathways    leading   to 

the  heart, 
Assumed  her  measured  tread,  her  solemn 

tone, 
And  round  her  courts  the  clouds  of  fable 

thrown,  60 

The  wreaths  of  heaven  descended  on  her 

shrine, 
And     wondering     earth     proclaimed     the 

Muse  divine. 

Yet  if  her  votaries  had  but  dared  profane 
The  mystic  symbols  of  her  sacred  reign, 
How  had  they  smiled  beneath  the  veil  to 

find 
What    slender    threads    can     chain    the 

mighty  mind ! 

Poets,    like    painters,    their    machinery 

claim, 
And  verse  bestows   the  varnish   and   the 

frame  ; 

Our  grating  English,  whose  Teutonic  jar 
Shakes  the  racked  axle  of  Art's  rattling 

car,  70 


Fits  like  mosaic  in  the  lines  that  gird 
Fast  in  its  place  each  many-angled  word; 
From    Saxon    lips    Anacreon's    numbers 

glide, 

As  once  they  melted  on  the  Teian  tide, 
And,    fresh   transfused,   the   Iliad   thrills 

again 

From  Albion's  cliffs  as  o'er  Achaia's  plain  ! 
The  proud  heroic,  with  its  pulse-like  beat, 
Rings  like  the  cymbals  clashing  as  they 

meet; 

The  sweet  Spenserian,  gathering  as  it  flows, 
Sweeps  gently  onward  to  its  dying  close,  &> 
Where  waves  on  waves  in  long  succession 

pour, 
Till    the    ninth    billow    melts    along    the 

shore ; 

The  lonely  spirit  of  the  mournful  lay, 
Which    lives    immortal    as    the    verse    of 

Gray, 

In  sable  plumage  slowly  drifts  along, 
On  eagle  pinion,  through  the  air  of  song; 
The  glittering  lyric  bounds  elastic  by, 
With  flashing  ringlets  and  exulting  eye, 
While  every  image,  in  her  airy  whirl,    89 
Gleams  like  a  diamond  on  a  dancing  girl ! 

Born    with    mankind,    with    man's    ex 
panded  range 
And    varying    fates    the    poet's    numbers 

change ; 

Thus  in  his  history  may  we  hope  to  find 
Some  clearer  epochs  of  the  poet's  mind, 
As  from  the  cradle  of  its  birth  we  trace. 
Slow    wandering    forth,    the    patriarchal 
race. 

August,  1836. 

"QUI  VIVE?" 

"Qui  vive?"   The  sentry's  musket  rings, 

The  channelled  bayonet  gleams; 
High  o'er  him,  like  a  raven's  wings 
The  broad  tricolored  banner  flings 
Its  shadow,  rustling  as  it  swings 

Pale  in  the  moonlight  beams; 
Pass  on !  while  steel-clad  sentries  keep 
Their  vigil  o'er  the  monarch's  sleep, 

Thy  bare,  unguarded  breast 
Asks  not  the  unbroken,  bristling  tone     I0 
That  girds  yon  sceptred  trembler's  throne ; 

Pass  on,  and  take  thy  rest! 

"Qui  vive?"   How  oft  the  midnight  air 

That  startling  cry  has  borne ! 
How  oft  the  evening  breeze  has  fanned 
The  banner  of  this  haughty  land, 
O'er  mountain  snow  and  desert  land, 

Ere  yet  its  folds  were  torn ! 


428 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Through  Jena's  carnage  flying  red, 

Or  tossing  o'er  Marengo's  dead,  2° 

Or  curling  on  the  towers 
Where  Austria's  eagle  quivers  yet, 
And  suns  the  ruffled  plumage,  wet 

With  battle's  crimson  showers ! 

"Qui  vivef"   And  is  the  sentry's  cry, — 

The  sleepless  soldier's  hand, — 
Are  these — the  painted  folds  that  fly 
And  lift  their  emblems,  printed  high 
On  morning  mist  and  sunset  sky — 

The  guardians  of  a  land?  3f> 

No!   If  the  patriot's  pulses  sleep, 
How  vain  the  watch  that  hirelings  keep, — 

The  idle  flag  that  waves, 
When  Conquest,  with  his  iron  heel, 
Treads  down  the  standards  and  the  steel 

That  belt  the  soil  of  slaves ! 

American  Monthly  Magazine,  Nov.,  1836. 


(Urania.) 
INTRODUCTION. 

Yes,  dear  Enchantress, — wandering  far 

and  long, 
In  realms  unperfumed  by  the  breath  of 

song, 
Where     flowers     ill-flavored     shed     their 

sweets  around, 
And  bitterest  roots   invade   the   ungenial 

ground, 
Whose  gems  are  crystals  from  the  Epsom 

mine, 
Whose    vineyards    flow    with    antimonial 

wine, 

Whose  gates  admit  no  mirthful  feature  in, 
Save  one  gaunt  mocker,  the  Sardonic  grin, 
Whose  pangs  are  real,  not  the  woes  of 

rhyme 
That    blue-eyed    misses    warble    out    of 

time ;—  10 

Truant,  not  recreant  to  thy  sacred  claim, 
Older  by  reckoning,  but  in  heart  the  same, 
Freed  for  a  moment  from  the  chains  of 

toil, 

I  tread  once  more  thy  consecrated  soil; 
Here  at  thy  feet  my  old  allegiance  own, 
Thy  subject  still,  and  loyal  to  thy  throne! 

My  dazzled  glance  explores  the  crowded 

hall; 
Alas,  how  vain  to  hope  the  smiles  of  all! 

1  This   poem   was   delivered   before   the   Boston 
Mercantile  Library  Association,  October  14,  1846. 


I  know   my  audience.     All  the  gay  and 

young  '9 

Love  the  light  antics  of  a  playful  tongue; 
And  these,  remembering  some  expansive 

line 
My   lips   let   loose   among   the   nuts   and 

wine, 

Are  all  impatience  till  the  opening  pun 
Proclaims  the  witty  shamfight  is  begun. 
Two-fifths  at  least,  if  not  the  total  half, 
Have  come  infuriate   for  an   earthquake 

laugh ; 

I  know  full  well  what  alderman  has  tied 
His  red  bandanna  tight  about  his  side; 
1  see  the  mother,  who,  aware  that  boys 
Perform  their  laughter  with  superfluous 

noise,  3° 

Beside  her  kerchief  brought  an  extra  one 
To  stop  the  explosions  of  her  bursting  son ; 
I  know  a  tailor,  once  a  friend  of  mine 
Expects  great  doings  in  the  button  line, — 
For  mirth's  concussions  rip  the  outward 

case, 

And  plant  the  stitches  in  a  tenderer  place, 
I   know   my   audience, — these   shall    have 

their  due; 
A    smile    awaits    them    ere    my    song    is 

through ! 

I  know  myself.  Not  servile  for  ap 
plause,  39 

My  Muse  permits  no  deprecating  clause; 

Modest  or  vain,  she  will  not  be  denied 

One  bold  confession  due  to  honest  pride  ;• 

And  wdl  she  knows  the  drooping  veil  of 
song 

Shall  save  her  boldness  from  the  caviller's 
wrong. 

Her  sweeter  voice  the  Heavenly  Maid 
imparts 

To  tell  the  secrets  of  our  aching  hearts : 

For  this,  a  suppliant,  captive,  prostrate, 
bound, 

She  kneels  imploring  at  the  feet  of  sound; 

For  this,  convulsed  in  thought's  maternal 
pains, 

She  loads  her  arms  with  rhyme's  re 
sounding  chains ;  5° 

Faint  though  the  music  of  her  fetters  be, 

It  lends  one  charm, — her  lips  are  ever 
free! 

Think  not  I  come,  in  manhood's  fiery 
noon, 

To  steal  his  laurels  from  the  stage  buf 
foon; 

His  sword  of  lath  the  harlequin  may 
wield; 

Behold  the  star  upon  my  lifted  shield ! 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


429 


Though  the  just  critic  pass  my  humble 
name, 

And  sweeter  lips  have  drained  the  cup  of 
fame, 

While  my  gay  stanza  pleased  the  ban 
quet's  lords, 

The  soul  within  was  tuned  to  deeper 
chords !  6° 

Say,  shall  my  arms,  in  other  conflicts 
taught 

To  swing  aloft  the  ponderous  mace  of 
thought, 

Lift,  in  obedience  to  a  school-girl's  law, 

Mirth's  tinsel  wand  or  laughter's  tickling 
straw? 

Say,  shall  I  wound  with  satire's  rankling 
spear 

The  pure,  warm  hearts  that  bid  me  wel 
come  here? 

No !  while  I  wander  through  the  land  of 
dreams, 

To  strive  with  great  and  play  with  tri 
fling  themes, 

Let  some  kind  meaning  fill  the  varied  line. 

You  have  your  judgment;  will  you  trust 
to  mine?  7° 

1846. 


ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL  1 

This  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine,  it  tells 

of  good  old  times, 
Of    joyous    days    and    jolly    nights,    and 

merry  Christmas  chimes ; 
They  were   a    free    and   jovial   race,    but 

honest,  brave,  and  true, 
Who    dipped    their    ladle    in    the    punch 

when  this  old  bowl  was  new. 

A   Spanish   galleon  brought  the  bar, — so 

runs  the  ancient  tale; 
'T  was  hammered  by  an  Antwerp  smith, 

whose  arm  was  like  a  flail ; 
And  now  and  then  between  the  strokes, 

for  fear  his  strength  should  fail, 
He  wiped  his  brow  and  quaffed  a  cup  of 

good  old  Flemish  ale. 

'T  was  purchased  by  an  English  squire  to 

please  his  loving  dame, 
Who   saw   the  cherubs,   and  conceived   a 

longing  for  the  same ;  I0 

1  This  "punch-bowl"  was,  according  to  old 
family  tradition,  a  caudle-cup.  It  is  a  massive 
piece  of  silver,  with  cherubs  and  other  ornaments 
of  coarse  repousse  work,  and  has  two  handles 
like  a  loving-cup,  by  which  it  was  held,  or  passed 
from  guest  to  guest,  (Author's  Note.) 


And  oft  as  on  the  ancient  stock  another 

twig  was  found, 
'T  was  filled  with  caudle  spiced  and  hot, 

and  handed  smoking  round. 

But,  changing  hands,  it  reached  at  length 
a  Puritan  divine, 

Who  used  to  follow  Timothy,  and  take 
a  little  wine, 

But  hated  punch  and  prelacy;  and  so  it 
was,  perhaps, 

He  went  to  Leyden,  where  he  found  con 
venticles  and  schnapps. 

And  then,  of  course,  you  know  what  's 

next :  it  left  the  Dutchman's  shore 
With  those  that  in  the  Mayflower  came, — 

a  hundred  souls  and  more, — 
Along  with  all  the  furniture,  to  fill  their 

new  abodes, — 
To  judge  by  what  is  still  on  hand,  at  least 

a  hundred  loads.  2° 

'T  was  on  a  dreary  winter's  eve,  the  night 

was  closing  dim, 
When    brave    Miles    Standish    took    the 

bowl,  and  filled  it  to  the  brim; 
The  little   Captain  stood  and  stirred  tha 

posset  with  his  sword, 
And    all    his    sturdy    men-at-arms    were 

ranged  about  the  board. 

He    poured    the    fiery    Hollands    in, — the 

man  that  never  feared, — 
He  took  a  long  and  solemn  draught,  and 

wiped  his  yellow  beard; 
And  one  by  one  the  musketeers — the  men 

that  fought  and  prayed — 
All  drank  as  't  were  their  mother's  milk, 

and  not  a  man  afraid. 

That  night,  affrighted  from  his  nest,  the 

screaming  eagle  flew, 
He  heard  the  Pequot's  ringing  whoop,  the 

soldier's  wild  halloo;  3° 

And  there  the  sachem  learned  the  rule  he 

taught  to  kith  and  kin : 
"Run  from  the  white  man  when  you  find 

he  smells  of  Holland's  gin!" 

A    hundred    years,    and    fifty    more,    had 

spread  their  leaves  and  snows, 
A  thousand  rubs  had  flattened  down  each 

little  cherub's  nose, 
When  once  again  the  bowl  was  filled,  but 

not  in  mirth  or  joy, — 
'T   was   mingled  by  a  mother's   hand  to 

cheer  her  parting  boy. 


430 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Drink,  John,  she  said,  't  will  do  you  good, 

— poor  child,  you'll  never  bear 
This  working  in  the  dismal  trench,  out  in 

the  midnight  air ; 
And  if — God  bless  me! — you  were  hurt, 

't  would  keep  away  the  chill. 
So  John  did  drink, — and  well  he  wrought 

that  night  at  Bunker's  Hill!  4» 

I  tell  you,  there  was  generous  warmth  in 

good  old  English  cheer; 
I  tell  you,  't  was  a  pleasant  thought  to 

bring  its  symbol  here. 
'T  is  but  the  fool  that  loves  excess;  hast 

thou  a  drunken  soul? 
Thy  bane  is  in  thy  shallow  skull,  not  in 

my  silver  bowl! 

I    love    the    memory    of    the    past, — its 

pressed  yet  fragrant  flowers, — 
The  moss  that  clothes  its  broken  walls, 

the  ivy  on  its  towers; 
Nay,    this    poor    bauble    it    bequeathed, — 

my  eyes  grow  moist  and  dim, 
To   think  of    all   the   vanished   joys   that 

danced  around  its  brim. 

Then  fill  a  fair  and  honest  cup,  and  bear 

it  straight  to  me; 
The  goblet  hallows  all  it  holds,  whate'er 

the  liquid  be;  so 

And  may  the  cherubs  on  its  face  protect 

me  from  the  sin 
That  dooms  one  to  those  dreadful  words, 

— "My  dear,  where  have  you  been?" 

"Poems,"  1849. 


THE  STETHOSCOPE  SONG 

There  was  a  young  man  in  Boston  town, 
He  bought  him  a  stethoscope  nice  and 

new, 
All    mounted    and    finished    and    polished 

down, 
With  an  ivory  cap  and  a  stopper  too. 

It  happened  a  spider  within  did  crawl, 
And  spun  him  a  web  of  ample  size, 

Wherein  there  chanced  one  day  to  fall 
A  couple  of  very  imprudent  flies. 

The  first  was  a  bottle-fly,  big  and  blue, 
The  second  was  smaller,  and  thin  and 
long ;  io 

So  there  was  a  concert  between  the  two, 
Like  an  octave  flute  and  a  tavern  gong. 


Now  being  from  Paris  but  recently, 
This  fine  young  man   would  show  his 
skill; 

And  so  they  gave  him,  his  hand  to  try, 
A  hospital  patient  extremely  ill. 

Some  said  that  his  liver  was  short  of  bile, 

,  And  some  that  his  heart  was  over  size, 

While  some  kept  arguing,  all  the  while, 

He  was  crammed  with  tubercles  up  to 

his  eyes.  •  •  2° 

This  fine  young  man  then  up  stepped  he, 
And  all  the  doctors  made  a  pause; 

Said  he,  The  man  must  die,  you  see, 
By  the  fifty-seventh  of  Louis's  laws. 

But  since  the  case  is  a  desperate  one, 
To  explore  his  chest  it  may  be  well; 

For  if  he  should  die  and  it  were  not  done, 
You  know  the  autopsy  would  not  tell. 

Then  out  his  stethoscope  he  took, 

And  on  it  placed  his  curious  ear;       3° 

Man  Dieu!  said  he,  with  a  knowing  look, 
Why,    here    is    a    sound    that's    mighty 
queer ! 

The  bourdonnement  is  very  clear, — 
Amphoric  buzzing,  as  I'm  alive ! 

Five  doctors  took  their  turn  to  hear; 
Amphoric  buzzing,  -said  all  the  five. 

There's  empyema  beyond  a  doubt; 

We'll  plunge  a  trocar  in  his  side. 
The  diagnosis  was  made  out, — 

They  tapped  the  patient;  so  he  died.  4° 

Now  such  as  hate  new-fashioned  toys 

Began  to  look  extremely  glum ; 
They  said  that  rattles  were  made  for 

boys, 

And  vowed  that  his  buzzing  was  all  a 
hum. 

There   was,  an   old   lady   had   long   been 

sick, 
And    what    was    the    matter    none    did 

know : 
Her  pulse  was  slow,  though  her  tongue 

was  quick; 
To  her  this  knowing  youth  must  go. 

So  there  the  nice  old  lady  sat, 

With  phials  and  boxes  all  in  a  row ;  so 
She  asked  the  young  doctor  what  he  was 
at, 

To  thump  her  and  tumble  her  ruffles 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


431 


Now,  when  the  stethoscope  came  out, 
The  flies  began  to  buzz  and  whiz : 

Oh  ho!  the  matter  is  clear,  no  doubt; 
An  aneurism  there  plainly  is. 

The  bruit  de  rape  and  the  bruit  de  scie 
And  the   bruit  de  diable  are  all  com 
bined  ; 

How  happy  Bouillaud  would  be, 

If  he  a  case  like  this  could  find!          6° 

Now,  when  the  neighboring  doctors  found 
A  case  so  rare  had  been  descried, 

They  every  day  her  ribs  did  pound 
In  squads  of  twenty;  so  she  died. 

Then  six  young  damsels,  slight  and  frail, 
Received  this  kind  young  doctor's  cares; 

They  all  were  getting  slim  and  pale, 
And  short  of  breath  on  mounting  stairs. 

They  all  made  rhymes  with  "sighs"  and 

"skies," 

And    loathed    their   puddings    and   but 
tered  rolls,  7o 
And  dieted,  much  to  their   friends'   sur 
prise, 

On  pickles  and  pencils  and  chalk  and 
coals. 

So  fast  their  little  hearts  did  bound, 
The  frightened  insects  buzzed  the  more ; 

So  over  all  their  chests  he  found 
The  rale  sifflant  and  the  rale  sonore. 

He  shook  his  head.     There's  grave   dis 
ease, —        , 

I  greatly  fear  you  all  must  die; 
A  slight  post-mortem,  if  you  please, 

Surviving  friends  would  gratify.         8° 

The  six  young  damsels  wept  aloud, 
Which  so  prevailed  on  six  young  men 

That  each  his  honest  love  avowed, 
Whereat  they  all  got  well  again. 

This  poor  young  man  was  all  aghast ; 

The  price  of  stethoscopes  came  down; 
And  so  he  was  reduced  at  last 

To  practice  in  a  country  town. 

The  doctors  being  very  sore, 

A  stethoscope  they  did  devise  9° 

That  had  a  rammer  to  clear  the  bore. 

With  a  knob  at  the  end  to  kill  the  flies. 

Now  use  your  ears,  all  you  that  can, 

But  don't  forget  to  mind  your  eyes, 
Or  you  may  be  cheated,  like  this  young 

man, 
By  a  couple  of  silly,  abnormal  flies. 

1848. 


LEXINGTON 

Slowly  "the    mist   o'er   the    meadow    was 

creeping, 
Bright  on  the  dewy  buds  glistened  the 

sun, 
When  from  his  couch,  while  his  children 

were  sleeping, 
Rose  the  bold  rebel  and  shouldered  his 

gun. 

Waving  her  golden  veil 
Over  the  silent  dale, 
Blithe  looked  the  morning  on  cottage  and 

spire ; 

Hushed  was  his  parting  sigh, 
While  from  his  noble  eye 
Flashed  the  last  sparkle  of  liberty's  fire.  I0 

On  the  smooth  green  where  the  fresh  leaf 

is  springing 

Calmly  the  first-born  of  glory  have  met, 
Hark !    the    death-volley   around   them    is 

ringing ! 
Look!  with  their  life-blood  the  young 

grass  is  wet ! 

Faint  is  the  feeble  breath, 
Murmuring  low  in  death, 
"Tell  to  our  sons  how  their  fathers  have 

died" ; 

Nerveless  the  iron  hand, 
Raised  for  its  native  land, 
Lies   by   the   weapon   that   gleams   at   its 
side.  20 

Over  the  hillsides  the  wild  knell  is  tolling, 
From  their   far  hamlets  the  yeomanry 

come; 

As  through  the  storm-clouds  the  thunder- 
burst  rolling, 

Circles  the  beat  of  the  mustering  drum. 
Fast  on  the  soldier's  path 
Darken  the  waves  of  wrath, — 
Long  have  they  gathered  and  loud  shall 

they  fall; 

Red  glares  the  musket's  flash, 
Sharp  rings  the  rifle's  crash, 
Blazing   and    clanging    from    thicket   and 
wall.  3° 

Gayly   the   plume   of   the   horseman   was 

dancing, 

Never  to  shadow  his  cold  brow  again ; 
Proudly   at    morning   the   war-steed    was 

prancing, 
Reeking  and  panting  he  droops  on  the 

rein; 

Pale  is  the  lip  of  scorn, 
Voiceless  the  trumpet  horn, 


432 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Torn  is  the  silken- fringed  red  cross  on 

high; 

Many  a  belted  breast 
Low  on  the  turf  shall  rest 
Ere  the  dark  hunters  the  herd  have  passed 
by.  40 

Snow-girdled  crags  where  the  hoarse  wind 

is  raving, 
Rocks  where  the  weary  floods  murmur 

and  wail, 
Wilds  where  the  fern  by  the   furrow  is 

waving, 
Reeled  with  the  echoes  that  rode  on  the 

gale; 

Far  as  the  tempest  thrills 
Over  the  darkened  hills, 
Far  as  the  sunshine  streams  over  the  plain, 
Roused  by  the  tyrant  band, 
Woke  all  the  mighty  land,  49 

Girded  for  battle,  from  mountain  to  main. 

Green  be  the  graves  where  her  martyrs 

are  lying! 
Shroudless  and  tombless   they  sunk  to 

their  rest, 

While  o'er  their  ashes  the  starry  fold  flying 
Wraps    the    proud    eagle    they    roused 

from  his  nest. 

Borne  on  her  Northern  pine, 
Long  o'er  the  foaming  brine 
Spread  her  broad  banner  to  storm  and  to 

sun; 

Heaven  keep  her  ever  free, 
Wide  as  o'er  land  and  sea 
Floats  the   fair  emblem  her  heroes  have 
won!  6° 

"Poems,"   1849. 


LATTER-DAY   WARNINGS  1 

When  legislators  keep  the  law, 
When    banks    dispense    with    bolts    and 

locks, 

When  berries — whortle,  rasp  and  straw — 
Grow    bigger    downwards    through    the 
box, — 

1  From  the  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table, 
where  it  is  introduced  by: 

"I  should  have  felt  more  nervous  about  the 
late  comet,  if  I  had  thought  the  world  Wa's  ripe. 
But  it  is  very  green  yet,  if  I  am  not  mistaken. 
If  certain  things,  which  seem  to  me  es 
sential  to  a  millennium,  had  come  to  pass,  I 
should  have  been  frightened;  but  they  haven't." 
The  Second  Adventists  were  active  and  numer 
ous  in  Boston  in  the  middle  of  the  Nineteenth 
Century.  Their  prominent  church  building  has 
since  become  notorious  as  a  cheap  variety  show 
house. 


When  he  that  selleth  house  or  land 
Shows  leak  in  roof  or  flaw  in  right, 

Wrhen  haberdashers  choose  the  stand 
Whose     window     hath     the     broadest 
light,— 

When  preachers  tell  us  all  they  think, 
And  party  leaders  all  they  mean, —     I0 

When  what  we  pay  for,  that  we  drink, 
From  real  grape  and  coffee-bean, — 

When  lawyers  take  what  they  would  give, 
And    doctors    give    what    they    would 

take, — 
When  city  fathers  eat  to  live, 

Save    when    they    fast    for    conscience' 
sake, — 

When  one  that  hath  a  horse  on  sale 
Shall  bring  his  merit  to  the  proof, 

Without  a  lie  for  every  nail 

That  holds  the  iron  on  the  hoof, —     2° 

When  in  the  usual  place  for  rips 
Our  gloves  are  stitched  with  special  care, 

And  guarded  well  the  whalebone  tips 
Where  first  umbrellas  need  repair, — 

When  Cuba's  weeds  have  quite  forgot 
The  power  of  suction  to  resist, 

And  claret-bottles  harbor  not 

Such  dimples  as  would  hold  your  fist, — 

When  publishers  no  longer  steal, 
And  pay  for  what  they  stole  before, —  3° 

When  the  first  locomotive's  wheel 

Rolls    through     the     Hoosac     Tunnel's 
bore ; — 

Till  then  let  Gumming  blaze  away, 
And  Miller's  saints  blow  up  the  globe; 

But  when  you  see  that  blessed  day, 
Then  order  your  ascension  robe  ! 

Atlantic  Monthly,  Nov.,  1857. 

THE   CHAMBERED    NAUTILUS  * 

This   is   the   ship   of   pearl,    which,   poets 

feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main, — 
The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the   sweet   summer  wind   its   purpled 
wings 

1  From  the  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table. 

"If  you  will  look  into  Roget's  Bridgewater 
treatise  you  will  find  a  figure  of  one  of  these 
shells  and  a  section  of  it.  The  last  will  show 
you  the  series  of  enlarging  compartments  suc 
cessively  dwelt  in  by  the  animal  that  inhabits 
the  shell,  which  is  built  in  a  widening  spiral. 
Can  you  find  no  lesson  in  this?" 


OLIVER .  WENDELL   HOLMES 


433 


In    gulfs    enchanted,    where   the    Siren 

sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their 

streaming  hair. 


Its    webs    of   living   gauze   no    more   un 
furl; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 
And  every  chambered  cell,  "> 

Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to 

dwell, 
As   the    frail   tenant   shaped   his  growing 

shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed, — 
Its   irised   ceiling   rent,   its    sunless   crypt 
unsealed ! 


Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 
That  spread  his  lustrous  coil; 
Still,  as  the  spiral  grew. 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the 

new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway 

through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door,  2° 

Stretched    in_  his    last-found    home,    and 
knew  the  old  no  more. 


Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought 

by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 
Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn ! 
From   thy   dead  lips   a   clearer  note   is 

born 
Than    ever    Triton    blew    from    wreathed 

horn ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear 
a  voice  that  sings : — 


Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my 

soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll!  3° 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the 

last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more 

vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  un 
resting  sea! 

The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Feb.,  1858. 


^^   CONTENTMENT  * 

"Man  wants  but  little  here  below." 

Little  I  ask ;  my  wants  are  few ; 

I  only  wish  a  hut  of  stone 
(A  very  plain  brown  stone  will  do) 

That  I  may  call  my  own; — 
And  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one, 
In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun. 

Plain  food  is  quite  enough  for  me; 

Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten; — 
If  Nature  can  subsist  on  three, 

Thank  Heaven  for  three.     Amen !        '° 
I  always  thought  cold  victual  nice; — 
My  choice  would  be  vanilla-ice. 

I  care  not  much  for  gold  or  land ; — 
.   Give  me  a  mortgage  here  and  there, — 
Some   good   bank-stock,   some   note   of 

hand, 

Or  trifling  railroad  share, — 
I  only  aSk  that  Fortune  send 
A  little  more  than  I  shall  spend. 

Honors  are  silly  toys,  I  know, 

And  titles  are  but  empty  names ;  2° 
I  would,  perhaps,  be  Plenipo, — 

But  only  near  St.  James; 
I'm  very  sure  I  should  not  care 
To  fill  our  Gubernator's  chair. 

Jewels  are  baubles;  't  is  a  sin 

To  care  for  such  unfruitful  things; — 

One  good-sized  diamond  in  a  pin, — 
Some,  not  so  large,  in  rings, — 

A  ruby,  and  a  pearl,  or  so, 

Will  do  for  me; — I  laugh  at  show.         3° 

My  dame  should  dress  in  cheap  attire 
(Good,  heavy  silks  are  never  dear)  ; — 

I  own  perhaps  I  might  desire 

Some  shawls  of  true  Cashmere, — 

Some  marrowy  crapes  of  China  silk, 

Like  wrinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 

I  would  not  have  the  horse  I  drive 
So  fast  that  folks  must  stop  and  stare; 

An  easy  gait — two  forty-five — 
Suits  me ;  I  do  not  care ; —  4° 

Perhaps,  for  just  a  single  spurt, 

Some  seconds  less  would  do  no  hurt. 

1  From   the   Autocrat   of   the   Breakfast    Table. 

"I  think  you  will  be  willing  to  hear  some  lines 
which  embody  the  subdued  and  limited  desires 
of  maturity."  This  cannot  fail  to  be  associated 
with  Thoreau's  statement  of  his  "subdued  and 
limited  desires"  embodied  in  "Walden"  published 
four  years  earlier. 


434 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Of  pictures,  I  should  like  to  own 
Titians  and  Raphaels  three  or  four, — 

I  love  so  much  their  style  and  tone, 
One  Turner,  and  no  more 

(A  landscape, — foreground  golden  dirt, — 

The  sunshine  painted  with  a  squirt). 

Of  books  but  few, — some  fifty  score 
For  daily  use,  and  bound  for  wear;    5° 

The  rest  upon  an  upper  floor; — 
Some  little  luxury  there 

Of  red  morocco's  gilded  gleam 

And  vellum  rich  as  country  cream. 

Busts,     cameos,     gems, — such     things     as 
these, 

Which  others  often  show  for  pride, 
/  value  for  their  power  to  please, 

And  selfish  churls  deride; — 
One  Stradivarius,  I  confess,  59 

Two  Meerschaums,  I  would  fain  possess. 

Wealth's  wasteful  tricks  I  will  not  learn, 
Nor  ape  the  glittering  upstart  fool ; — 

Shall  not  carved  tables  serve  my  turn, 
But  all  must  be  of  buhl? 

Give  grasping  pomp  its  double  share, — 

I  ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 

Thus  humble  let  me  live  and  die, 
Nor  long  for  Midas'  golden  touch ; 

If  Heaven  more  generous  gifts  deny, 
I  shall  not  miss  them  much, —  7° 

Too  grateful  for  the  blessing  lent 

Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content! 

Atlantic  Monthly,  Sept.,  1858. 

THE 'DEACON'S    MASTERPIECE  1 
or,  The   Wonderful  "One-Hoss  Shay." 

A    LOGICAL    STORY 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one- 
boss  shay, 

That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 
It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 
And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it — ah,  but  stay, 
I  '11  tell  you  what  happened  without  de 
lay, 

Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 
Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits, — 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say? 

1  From  the  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table. 
In  connection  with  this  see  Holmes's  essay  on 
Jonathan  Edwards — particularly  the  latter  por 
tion — in  "Pages  from  an  Old  Volume  of  Life." 


Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 
Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive, —      10 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That   the    Deacon    finished    the    one-hoss 
shay. 

Now    in   building   of   chaises,    I   tell   you 

what, 
There    is    always    somewhere    a    weakest 

spot, — 

In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill,      2° 
In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 
In    screw,    bolt,    thoroughbrace, — lurking 

still, 

Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will, — 
Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without, — 
And  that's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 
That  a  chaise  breaks  down,  but  does  n't 

wear  out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore  (as  deacons  do, 
With  an  "I  dew  vum,"  or  an  "I  tell  yeou") 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'N'  the  keounty  'n'  all  the  kentry  raoun' ;  30 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  could  n'  break 

daown : 
"Fur,"    said    the    Deacon,    "  't    's    mighty 

plain 
Thut    the    weakes'    place    mus'    stan*    the 

strain ; 
'N'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So    the    Deacon    inquired    of    the  Village 

folk 

Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 
That    could    n't    be    split    nor    bent    nor 

broke, — 

That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills ;  4° 
He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills  ; 
The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the 

straightest  trees, 
The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like 

cheese, 

But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these ; 
The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  "Settler's  el- 

lum,"— 
Last   of    its   timber, — they    could   n't   sell 

'em, 

Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips, 
And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their 

lips, 
Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips; 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


435 


Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw,         so 
Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 
Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue; 
Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide; 
Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 
Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 
That  was  the  way  he  "put  her  through." 
"There !"  said  the  Deacon,  "naow  she  '11 
dew !" 

Do!    I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 
She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less ! 
Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray,   6° 
Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 
Children  and  grandchildren — where  were 

they  ? 
But   there   stood  the   stout  old   one-hoss 

shay 
As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 

EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED; — it  came  and  found 
The     Deacon's     masterpiece     strong    and 

sound. 

Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten ; — 
"Hahnsum  kerridge"  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came ; — 
Running  as  usual ;  much  the  same.          7° 
Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive, 
And  then  come  fifty,  and  FIFTY-FIVE. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 
Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 
Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 
In    fact,   there   's   nothing   that   keeps    its 

youth, 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 
(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large; 
Take    it. — You    're    welcome. — No    extra 

charge.) 

FIRST  OF  NOVEMBER, — the  earthquake- 
day, —  8° 

There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss 
shay, 

A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay, 

But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say. 

There  could  n't  be. — for  the  Deacon's  art 

Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 

That  there  was  n't  a  chance  for  one  to 
start. 

For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as 
the  thills, 

And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the 
sills, 

And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 

And  the  whipple-tree  neither  less  nor 
more,  90 

And  the  back  crossbar  as  strong  as  the 
fore, 

And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 


And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out! 

First  of  November,  'Fifty-five! 
This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 
Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way ! 
Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 
Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 
"Huddup !"    said    the    parson. — Off    went 

they.  I0° 

The    parson    was   working   his    Sunday's 

text,— 

Had  got  to  fifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 
At  what  the — Moses — was  coming  next. 
All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 
Close  by  the  meet'n'-house  on  the  hill. 
First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill, — 
And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon'  a  rock, 
At  half  past   nine   by   the   meet'n'-house 

clock, —  I09 

Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock! 
What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 
When  he  got  up  and  stared  around? 
The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound, 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground ! 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you  're  not  a  dunce, 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once, — 
All  at  once,  and  nothing  first, — 
Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay 
Logic  is  logic.    That  's  all  I  say.  I2° 

Atlantic  Monthly,  Sept.,  1858. 


THE   VOICELESS  i 

We  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 

Where  the  sweet  wailing  singers  slum 
ber, 
But  o'er  their  silent  sister's  breast 

The    wild-flowers    who    will    stoop    to 

number? 
A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string, 

And  noisy  Fame  is  proud  to  win  them  : — 
Alas  for  those  that  never  sing, 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them! 

1  From   the   Autocrat   of  the   Breakfast    Table. 

"Read  what  the  singing-women — one  to  ten 
thousand  of  the  suffering  women — tell  us,  and 
think  of  the  griefs  that  die  unspoken!  Nature 
is  in  earnest  when  she  makes  a  woman ;  and 
there  are  women  enough  lying  in  the  next  church 
yard  with  very  commonplace  blue  slate-stones  at 
their  head  and  feet,  for  whom  it  was  just  as 
true  that  'all  sounds  of  life  assumed  one  tone 
of  love*  as  for  Letitia  Landon,  of  whom  Eliza 
beth  Browning  said  it;  but  she  could  give  words 
to  her  grief,  and  they  could  not." 


436 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Nay,  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone 

Whose  song  has  told  their  hearts'  sad 

story, —  10 

Weep  for  the  voiceless,  who  have  known 

The  cross  without  the  crown  of  glory ! 
Not  where  Leucadian  breezes  sweep 

O'er  Sappho's  memory-haunted  billow, 
But  where  the  glistening  night-dews  weep 

On  nameless   sorrow's   churchyard  pil 
low. 

O  hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign 

Save  whitening  lip  and  fading  tresses, 
Till  Death  pours  out  his  longed-for  wine 

Slow-dropped    from   Misery's   crushing 
presses, —  2° 

If  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord 

To  every  hidden  pang  were  given, 
What  endless  melodies  were  poured, 

As  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven ! 

The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Oct.,  1858. 


THE  BOYS* 

Has  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with 
the  boys? 

If  there  has,  take  him  out,  without  mak 
ing  a  noise. 

Hang  the  Almanac's  cheat  and  the  Cata 
logue's  spite ! 

Old  Time  is  a  liar !  We  're  twenty  to 
night  ! 

We  're  twenty !  We  're  twenty !  Who  says 

we  are  more? 
He    's    tipsy, — young    jackanapes! — show 

him  the  door ! 
"Gray  temples   at   twenty?" — Yes!   white 

if  we  please; 
Where    the    snow  -  flakes    fall    thickest 

there  's  nothing  can  freeze ! 

Was  it  snowing  I  spoke  of?    Excuse  the 

mistake ! 
Look  close, — you  will  see  not  a  sign  of 

a  flake!    "  I0 

We  want  some  new  garlands  for  those  we 

have  shed, — 
And  these  are  white  roses  in  place  of  the 

red. 

We  've  a  trick,  we  young   fellows,  you 

may  have  been  told, 
Of   talking    (in    public)    as    if    we    were 

old:— 

1  For  the  reunion  of  the  famous  Harvard  class 
of  1829.  From  1851  to  1889  Holmes  brought  his 
annual  poem  to  the  reunion. 


That  boy  we  call  "Doctor,"  and  this  we 

call  "Judge" ; 2 
It 's  a  neat  little  fiction, — of  course  it  's  all 

fudge. 

That  fellow  's  the  "Speaker,"  3 — the  one 

on  the  right; 
"Mr.   Mayor," 4  my  young  one,   how   are 

you  to-night? 
That  's  our  "Member  of  Congress,"  5  we 

say  when  we  chaff; 
There   's   the   "Reverend" 6    What    's    his 

name? — don't  make  me  laugh.          2° 

That  boy  with  the  grave  mathematical 
look  7 

Made  believe  he  had  written  a  wonder 
ful  book, 

And  the  ROYAL  SOCIETY  thought  it  was 
true! 

So  they  chose  him  right  in;  a  good  joke 
it  was,  too ! 

There  's  a  boy,  we  pretend,  with  a  three- 
decker  brain,  8 

That  could  harness  a  team  with  a  logical 
chain; 

When  he  spoke  for  our  manhood  in  syl 
labled  fire, 

We  called  him  "The  Justice,"  but  now 
he  's  "The  Squire." 

And  there  's  a  nice  youngster  of  excellent 

pith,— 
Fate  tried  to  conceal  him  by  naming  him 

Smith ;  9  30 

But  he  shouted  a  song  for  the  brave  and 

the  free, — 
Just   read   on   his   medal,   "My   country," 

"of  thee!" 

You  hear  that  boy  laughing? — You  think 

he  's  all  fun; 
But  the  angels  laugh,  too,  at  the  good  he 

has  done ; 
The  children  laugh  loud  as  they  troop  to 

his  call, 
And  the  poor  man  that  knows  him  laughs 

loudest  of  all! 

3  George    T.    Bigelow,    Chief-justice   of    Massa 
chusetts. 

8  Hon.    Francis    B.    Crowninshield,    Speaker   of 
the   Massachusetts   House  of  Representatives. 

4  G.   W.   Richardson,   of   Worcester,   Mass. 

5  Hon.   George  L.   Davis. 

6  James  Freeman  Clarke. 

7  Prof.    Benjamin   Peirce. 

8  B.    R.    Curtis,   Justice   of  the   United    States 
Supreme  Court. 

•  S.   F.  Smith,  the  author  of  "America." 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


437 


Yes,  we  're  boys, — always  playing  with 
tongue  or  with  pen, — 

And  I  sometimes  have  asked, — Shall  we 
ever  be  men? 

Shall  we  always  be  youthful,  and  laugh 
ing,  and  gay, 

Till  the  last  dear  companion  drops  smiling 
away  ?  4° 

Then  here  's  to  our  boyhood,  its  gold  and 
its  gray! 

The  stars  of  its  winter,  the  dews  of  its 
May! 

And  when  we  have  done  with  our  life- 
lasting  toys, 

Dear  Father,  take  care  of  thy  children, 
THE  BOYS ! 


1859. 


Atlantic  Monthly,  Feb.,  1859. 


AT  A  MEETING  OF  FRIENDS 
August  29,  1859* 

I    remember — why,   yes !    God   bless    me ! 

and  wa.s  it  so  long  ago? 
I  fear  I'm  growing  forgetful,  as  old  folks 

do,  you  know ; 
It  must  have  been  in  'forty — I  would  say 

'thirty-nine — 
We  talked  this  matter  over,  I  and  a  friend 

of  mine. 

He   said,    "Well   now,   old    fellow,    I    'm 

thinking  that  you  and  I, 
If  we  act  like  other  people,  shall  be  older 

by  and  by; 
What    though    the    bright    blue   ocean    is 

smooth  as  a  pond  can  be, 
There   is    always    a    line   of   breakers    to 

fringe  the  broadest  sea. 

"We  're  taking  it  mighty  easy,  but  that  is 

nothing  strange, 
For  up  to  the  age  of  thirty  we  spend  our 

years  like  change;  i° 

But  creeping  up  towards  the   forties,  as 

fast  as  the  old  years  fill, 
And  Time  steps  in  for  payment,  we  seem 

to  change  a  bill." 

"I  know  it,"  I  said,  "old  fellow ;  you 
speak  the  solemn  truth; 

A  man  can't  live  to  a  hundred  and  like 
wise  keep  his  youth; 

1  Holmes's  fiftieth  birthday. 


But  what  if  the  ten  years  coming  shall 

silver-streak  my  hair, 
You  know  I  shall  then  be  forty;  of  course 

I  shall  not  care. 

"At  forty  a  man  grows  heavy  and  tired 

of  fun  and  noise ; 
Leaves  dress  to  the  five-and-twenties  and 

love  to  the  silly  boys; 
No  foppish  tricks  at  forty,  no  pinching  of 

waists  and  toes, 
But  high-low  shoes  and  flannels  and  good 

thick  worsted  hose."  2° 

But  one  fine  August  morning  I  found  my 
self  awake  : 

My  birthday : — By  Jove,  I  'm  forty !  Yes, 
forty  and  no  mistake ! 

Why,  this  is  the  very  milestone,  I  think  I 
used  to  hold, 

That  when  a  fellow  had  come  to,  a  fellow 
would  then  be  old ! 

But  that   is  the  young   folks'   nonsense; 

they  're  full  of  their  foolish  stuff; 
A  man  's  in  his  prime  at  forty, — I  see  that 

plain  enough ; 
At  fifty  a  man  is  wrinkled,  and  may  be 

bald  or  gray; 
I  call  men  old  at  fifty,  in  spite  of  all  they 

say. 

At  last  comes  another  August  with  mist 

and  rain  and  shine; 
Its  mornings  are  slowly  counted  and  creep 

to  twenty-nine,  3° 

And  when  on  the  western   summits  the 

fading  light  appears, 
It  touches  with  rosy  fingers  the  last  of  my 

fifty  years. 

There  have  been  both  men   and  women 

whose  hearts  were  firm  and  bold, 
But   there   never   was   one   of   fifty   that 

loved  to  say  "I  'm  old"; 
So    any    elderly    person    that    strives    to 

shirk  his  years, 
Makt  him   stand  up  at  a  table  and  try 

him  by  his  peers. 

Now  here  I  stand  at  fifty,  my  jury  gath 
ered  round; 

Sprinkled  with  dust  of  silver,  but  not  yet 
silver-crowned, 

Ready  to  meet  your  verdict,  waiting  to 
hear  it  told ; 

Guilty  of  fifty  summers ;  speak !  Is  the 
verdict  old?  4° 


438 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


No !  say  that  his  hearing  fails  him ;  say 

that  his  sight  grows  dim ; 
Say  that  he  's  getting  wrinkled  and  weak 

in  back  and  limb, 
Losing  his  wits  and  temper,  but  pleading, 

to  make  amends, 
The  youth  of  his  fifty  summers  he  finds 

in  his  twenty  friends. 

1859.       The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Aug.,  1859. 


HYMN  OF  TRUST 

O  Love  Divine,  that  stooped  to  share 
Our  sharpest  pang,  our  bitterest  tear, 

On  Thee  we  cast  each  earth-born  care, 
We  smile  at  pain  while  Thou  art  near ! 

Though  long  the  weary  way  we  tread, 
And  sorrow  crown  each  lingering  year, 

No  path  we  shun,  no  darkness  dread, 
Our  hearts   still   whispering,   Thou   art 
' near ! 

When  drooping  pleasure  turns  to  grief,  9 
And  trembling  faith  is  changed  to  fear, 

The  murmuring  wind,  the  quivering,  leaf, 
Shall  softly  tell  us,  Thou  art  near! 

On  Thee  we  fling  our  burdening  woe, 
O  Love  Divine,  forever  dear, 

Content  to  suffer  while  we  know, 
Living  and  dying,  Thou  art  near! 

Atlantic  Monthly,  Nov.,  1859. 


A    SUN-DAY   HYMN 


Lord  of  all  being!  throned  afar, 
Thy  glory  flames  from  sun  and  star; 
Centre  and  soul  of  every  sphere, 
Yet  to  each  loving  heart  how  near! 

Sun  of  our  life,  thy  quickening  ray 
Sheds  on  our  path  the  glow  of  day ; 
Star  of  our  hope,  thy  softened  light 
Cheers  the  long  watches  of  the  night. 

Our  midnight  is  thy  smile  withdrawn  ; 
Our  noontide  is  thy  gracious  dawn ;        I0 
Our  rainbow  arch  thy  mercy's  sign ; 
All,  save  the  clouds  of  sin,  are  thine ! 

Lord  of  all  life,  below,  above, 

Whose  light   is    truth,   whose   warmth   is 

love, 

Before  thy  ever-blazing  throne 
We  ask  no  lustre  of  our  own. 


Grant  us  thy  truth  to  make  U3  free, 
And  kindling  hearts  that  burn  for  thee, 
Till  all  thy  living  altars  claim 
One  holy  light,  one  heavenly  flame !        *> 

Atlantic  Monthly,  Dec.,  1859. 


I  thank  you,  Mr.  President,  you  've  kindly 

broke  the  ice; 
Virtue  should  always  be  the  first, — I  'm 

only  Second  Vice — 
(A  vice  is  something  with  a  screw  that  's 

made  to  hold  its  jaw 
Till  some  old  file  has  played  away  upon 

an  ancient  saw). 

Sweet  brothers  by  the  Mother's  side,  the 

babes  of  days  gone  by, 
All  nurslings  of  her  Juno  breasts  whose 

milk  is  never  dry, 
We  come  again,  like  half-grown  boys,  and 

gather  at  her  beck 
About   her   knees,    and   on    her   lap,    and 

clinging  round  her  neck.   . 

We  find  her  at  her  stately  door,  and  in 

her  Ancient  chair, 
Dressed  in  the   robes  of  red   and  green 

she  always  loved  to  wear.  I0 

Her   eye   has    all    its    radiant   youth,    her 

cheek  its  morning  flame; 
We  drop  our  roses  as  we  go,  hers  flourish 

still  the  same. 

We  have  been  playing  many  an  hour,  and 

far  away  we  've  strayed, 
Some  laughing  in  the  cheerful  sun,  some 

lingering  in  the  shade ; 
And  some  have  tired,  and  laid  them  down 

where  darker  shadows   fall, — 
Dear  as   her  loving  voice   may  be,   they 

cannot  hear  its  call. 

What    miles    we    've    travelled    since    we 

shook  the  dew-drops  from  our  shoes 
We    gathered    on    this    classic    green,    so 

famed  for  heavy  dues ! 
How  many  boys   have  joined  the  game, 

how  many  slipped  away, 
Since  we  've  been  running  up  and  down, 

and  having  out  our  play !  ^ 

One  boy  at  work  with  book  and  brief, 
and  one  with  gown  and  band, 

One  sailing  vessels  on  the  pool,  one  dig 
ging  in  the  sand, 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


439 


One   flying   paper   kites   on   change,    one 

planting  little  pills, — 
The  seeds  of  certain  annual  flowers  well 

known  as  little  bills. 

• 
What  maidens  met  us  on   our  way,  and 

clasped  us  hand  in  hand ! 
What  cherubs,— not  the  legless  kind,  that 

fly,  but  never  stand! 
How  many  a  youthful  head  we  've  seen 

put  on  its  silver  crown ! 
What     sudden     changes     back    again    to 

youth's  empurpled  brown ! 

But  fairer  sights  have  met  our  eyes,  and 

broader  lights  have  shone, 
Since    others    lit    their    midnight    lamps 

where  once  we  trimmed  our  own ;    3° 
A  thousand  trains  that  flap  the  sky  with 

flags  of  rushing  fire. 
And,  throbbing  in  the  Thunderer's  hand, 

Thought's   million-chorded   lyre. 

We  've  seen  the  sparks  of  Empire  fly  be 
yond  the  mountain  bars, 

Till,  glittering  o'er  the  Western  wave,  they 
joined  the  setting  stars; 

And  ocean  trodden  into  paths  that 
trampling  giants  ford, 

To  find  the  planet's  vertebrae  and  sink  its 
spinal  cord. 

We  've  tried  reform, — and  chloroform, — 

and  both  have  turned  our  brain ; 
When   France  called  up  the  photograph, 

we  roused  the  foe  to  pain ; 
Just    so    those    earlier    sages    shared    the 

chaplet  of  renown, — 
Hers  sent  a  bladder  to  the  clouds,  ours 

brought  their  lightning  down.  4° 

We  've  seen  the  little  tricks  of  life,  its 

varnish  and  veneer, 
Its   stucco- fronts   of   character   flake   off 

and  disappear, 
We    've    learned    that    oft    the    brownest 

hands  will  heap  the  biggest  pile. 
And    met    with    many   a    "perfect    brick" 

beneath  a  rimless  "tile." 

What    dreams    we    've    had    of    deathless 

name,  as  scholars,  statesmen,  bards, 
While    Fame,    the    lady    with    the   trump, 

held  up  her  picture  cards ! 
Till,  having  nearly  played  our  game,  she 

gayly  whispered,   "Ah! 
I  said  you  should  be  something  grand, — 

you  '11  soon  be  grandpa." 


Well,  well,  the  old  have  had  their  day, 

the  young  must  take  their  turn; 
There  's  something  always  to  forget,  and 

something  still  to  learn;  50 

But  how  to  tell  what  's  old  or  young,  the 

tap-root  from  the  sprigs, 
Since  Florida  revealed  her  fount  to  Ponce 

de  Leon  Twiggs? 


The  wisest   was   a   Freshman   once,   just 

freed  from  bar  and  bolt, 
As  noisy  as   a  kettle-drum,   as   leggy   as 

a  colt; 
Don't  be  too  savage  with  the  boys, — the 

Primer  does  not  say 
The  kitten  ought  to  go  to  church  because 

the  cat  doth  prey. 


The  law  of  merit  and  of  age  is  not  the 

rule  of  three; 
Non   Constat  that   A.M.    must   prove   as 

busy  as  A.B. 
When  Wise  the   father  tracked  the  son, 

ballooning  through  the  skies, 
He  taught  a  lesson  to  the  old,— go  thou 

and  do  like  Wise !  60 


Now  then,  old  boys,  and  reverend  youth, 

of  high  or  low  degree, 
Remember  how  we  only  get  one  annual 

out  of  three, 
And  such  as  dare  to  simmer  down  three 

dinners  into  one, 
Must  cut  their  salads  mighty  short,  and 

pepper  well  with  fun. 


I  've  passed  my  zenith  long  ago,  it  's  time 

for  me  to  set; 
A  dozen  planets  wait  to  shine,  and  I  am 

lingering  yet, 
As  sometimes  in  the  blaze  of  day  a  milk- 

and-watery  moon 
Stains   with   its   dim  and   fading  ray  the 

lustrous  blue  of  noon. 


Farewell!  yet  let  one  echo  rise  to  shake 

our  ancient  hall ; 
God   save   the    Queen, — whose    throne   is 

here, — the  Mother  of  us  all !  7° 

Till  dawns  the  great  commencement-day 

on  every  shore  and  sea, 
And  "Expectantur"  all  mankind,  to  take 

their  last  Degree! 


440 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


BROTHER    JONATHAN'S    LAMENT 
FOR  SISTER  CAROLINE 

March  25,  1861. 

She  has  gone, — she  has  left  us  in  passion 
and  pride, — 

Our  stormy-browed  sister,  so  long  at  our 
side ! 

She  has  torn  her  own  star  from  our  firma 
ment's  glow, 

And  turned  on  her  brother  the  face  of  a 
foe! 

Oh,  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 
We  can  never  forget  that  our  hearts  have 

been  one, — 
Our  foreheads  both  sprinkled  in  Liberty's 

name, 
From    the    fountain    of    blood    with    the 

finger  of  flame ! 

You  were  always  too  ready  to  fire  at  a 

touch ; 
But  we  said,  "She  is  hasty, — she  does  not 

mean  much."  I0 

We  have  scowled,  when  you  uttered  some 

turbulent  threat; 
But  Friendship  still  whispered,  "Forgive 

and  forget!" 

Has   our   love   all   died   out?     Have   its 

altars  grown  cold? 
Has   the   curse  come    at   last   which    the 

fathers  foretold? 
Then  Nature  must  teach  us  the  strength 

of  the  chain 
That  her  petulant  children  would  sever  in 

vain. 

They    may    fight    till    the    buzzards    are 

gorged  with  their  spoil, 
Till  the  harvest  grows  black  as  it  rots  in 

the  soil, 
Till  the  wolves  and  the  catamounts  troop 

from  their  caves, 
And  the  shark  tracks  the  pirate,  the  lord 

of  the  waves  :  M 

In  vain  is  the  strife !  When  its  fury  is 
past, 

Their  fortunes  must  flow  in  one  channel 
at  last, 

As  the  torrents  that  rush  from  the  moun 
tains  of  snow 

Roll  mingled  in  peace  through  the  valleys 
below. 


Our  Union  is  river,  lake,  ocean,  and  sky : 
Man  breaks  not  the  medal,  when  God  cuts 

the  die! 
Though    darkened    with    sulphur,    though 

cloven  with  steel, 
The  blue  arch  will  brighten,   the  waters 

will  heal ! 

Oh,  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 
There  are  battleg  with  Fate  that  can  never 

be  won !  -3° 

The  star-flowering  banner  must  never  be 

furled, 
For  its  blossoms  of  light  are  the  hope  of 

the  world! 

Go,  then,  our  rash  sister!  afar  and  aloof, 
Run  wild  in  the  sunshine  away  from  our 

roof; 
But  when  your  heart  aches  and  your  feet 

have  grown  sore, 
Remember  the  pathway  that  leads  to  our 

door! 


March,  1861. 


Atlantic  Monthly,  May,  1861. 


TO   MY  READERS 

Nay,  blame  me  not;  I  might  have  spared 
Your  patience  many  a  trivial  verse, 

Yet  these  my  earlier  welcome  shared, 
So,  let  the  better  shield  the  worse. 

And  some  might  say,  "Those  ruder  songs 
Had  freshness  which  the  new  have  lost ; 

To  spring  the  opening  leaf  belongs, 
The  chestnut-burs  await  the  frost." 

When  those  I  Wrote,  my  locks  were 
brown, 

When  these  I  write — ah,  well-a-day!  I0 
The  autumn  thistle's  silvery  down 

Is  not  the  purple  bloom  of  May! 

Go,  little  book,  whose  pages  hold 
Those  garnered  years  in  loving  trust ,' 

How  long  before  your  blue  and  gold 
Shall  fade  and  whiten  in  the  dust? 

0  sexton  of  the  alcoved  tomb, 

Where  souls  in  leathern  cerements  lie, 
Tell  me  each  living  poet's  doom ! 

How  long  before  his  book  shall  die?   *> 

It  matters  little,  soon  or  late, 

A  day,  a  month,  a  year,  an  age, — 

1  read  oblivion  in  its  date, 
And  Finis  on  its  title-page. 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


441 


Before  we  signed,  our  griefs  were  told ; 

Before  we  smiled,  our  joys  were  sung; 
And  all  our  passions  shaped  of  old 

In  accents  lost  to  mortal  tongue. 

In  vain  a  fresher  mould  we  seek, — 
Can  all  the  varied  phrases  tell  3<> 

That  Babel's  wandering  children  speak 
How  thrushes  sing  or  lilacs  smell? 

Caged  in  the  poet's  lonely  heart, 
Love  wastes  unheard  its  tenderest  tone ; 

The  soul  that  sings  must  dwell  apart, 
Its  inward  melodies  unknown. 

Deal  gently  with  us,  ye  who  read ! 

Our  largest  hope  is  unfulfilled, — 
The  promise  still  outruns  the  deed, —      39 

The  tower,  but  not  the  spire,  we  build. 

Our  whitest  pearl  we  never  find; 

Our  ripest  fruit  we  never  reach; 
The  flowering  moments  of  the  mind 

Drop  half  their  petals  in  our  speech. 

These  are  my  blossoms;  if  they  wear 
One  streak  of  morn  or  evening's  glow, 

Accept  them ;  but  to  me  more  fair 
The  buds  of  song  that  never  blow. 

April  8,  1862. 


TO  CANAAN!* 
A  Song  of  the  Six  Hundred  Thousand. 

Where  are  you  going,  soldiers, 

With  banner,  gun,  and  sword? 
We  're  marching  South  to  Canaan 

To  battle  for  the  Lord ! 
What  Captain  leads  your  armies 

Along  the  rebel  coasts? 
The  Mighty  One  of  Israel, 
His  name  is  Lord  of  Hosts ! 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth,  I0 

To  blow  before  the  heathen  walls 
The  trumpets  of  the  North ! 

What  flag  is  this  you  carry 

Along  the  sea  and  shore? 
The  same  our  grandsires  lifted  up, — 

The  same  our  father's  bore ! 

1  This  poem,  published  in  the  Boston  Evening 
Transcript,  was  claimed  by  several  persons,  three, 
if  I  remember  correctly,  whose  names  I  have 
had,  but  never  thought  it  worth  while  to  publish. 
(Author's  Note.) 


In  many  a  battle's  tempest 

It  shed  the  crimson  rain, — 
What  God  has  woven  in  His  loom 
Let  no  man  rend  in  twain !  M 

To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  plant  upon  the  rebel  towers 
The  banners  of  the  North ! 

What  troop  is  this  that  follows, 

All  armed  with  picks  and  spades? 
These  are  the  swarthy  bondsmen, — 

The  iron-skin  brigades ! 
They  '11  pile  up   Freedom's  breastwork, 

They  '11  scoop  out  rebels'  graves ;        3° 
Who  then  will  be  their  owner 
And  march  them  off  for  slaves? 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  strike  upon  the  captive's  chain 
The  hammers  of  the  North. 

What  song  is  this  you  're  singing? 

The  same  that  Israel  sung 
When  Moses  led  the  mighty  choir, 

And  Miriam's  timbrel  rung !  4° 

To  Canaan  !    To  Canaan  ! 

The  priest  and  maidens  cried; 
To  Canaan  !    To  Canaan  ! 
The  people's  voice  replied. 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  thunder  through  its  adder  dens 
The  anthems  of  the  North ! 

When  Canaan's  hosts  are  scattered, 

And  all  her  walls  lie  flat,  S<> 

What  follows  next  in  order? 

— The  Lord  will  see  to  that ! 
We  '11  break  the  tyrant's  sceptre, — 

We  '11  build  the   people's  throne, — 
When  half  the  world  is  Freedom's 
Then  all  the  world's  our  own ! 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  sweep  the  rebel  threshing-floors, 
A  whirlwind  from  the  North !  &> 

Boston  Evening  Transcript,  Aug.  2,  1862. 


NON-RESISTANCE 

Perhaps    too    far    in    these    considerate 

days 

Has  patience  carried  her  submissive  ways ; 
Wisdom   has   taught   us   to   be   calm   and 

meek, 
To    take    one   blow,    and    turn   the    other 

cheek ; 


442 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


It  is  not  written,  what  a  man  shall  do, 
If  the  rude  caitiff  smite  the  other  too! 


Land  of  our  fathers,  in  thine  hour  of 

need 
God   help   thee,   guarded   by   the   passive 

creed ! 
As  the  lone  pilgrim  trusts  to  beads  and 

cowl, 
When  through  the  forest  rings  the  gray 

wolf's  howl;  I0 

As   the    deep    galleon    trusts    her    gilded 

prow 
When   the    black   corsair   slants   athwart 

her  bow; 
As  the  poor  pheasant,  with  his  peaceful 

mien, 

Trusts   to    his    feathers,    shining   golden- 
green, 
When  the  dark  plumage  with  the  crimson 

beak 
Has  rustled  shadowy  from  its  splintered 

peak, — 
So    trust    thy     friends,    whose    babbling 

tongues  would  charm 
The  lifted  sabre  from  thy  foeman's  arm, 
Thy  torches  ready  for  the  answering  peal 
From     bellowing      fort     and     thunder - 

freighted  keel!  2° 


Yon  whey-faced  brother,  who  delights 

to  wear 

A  weedy  flux  of  ill-conditioned  hair, 
Seems  of  the  sort  that  in  a  crowded  place 
One  elbows  freely  into  smallest  space ; 
A  timid  creature,  lax  of  knee  and  hip, 
Whom   small   disturbance   whitens   round 

the  lip; 

One    of    those    harmless    spectacled    ma 
chines, 

The  Holy- Week  of  Protestants  convenes; 
Whom  school-boys  question  if  their  walk 

transcends 

The  last  advices  of  maternal  friends ;     I0 
Whom    John,    obedient    to    his    master's 

sign, 

Conducts,  laborious,  up  to  ninety-nine, 
While    Peter,    glistening    with    luxurious 

scorn, 
Husks  his   white   ivories   like   an   ear  of 

corn; 
Dark    in    the    brow    and    bilious    in    the 

cheek, 
Whose  yellowish  linen  flowers  but  once 

a  week, 


Conspicuous,  annual,   in  their  threadbare 

suits, 
And  the  laced  high-lows  which  they  call 

their  boots, 
Well   mayst  thou  shun  that  dingy   front 

severe, 
But  him,  O  stranger,  him  thou  canst  not 

fear!  *> 

Be  slow  to  judge,  and  slower  to  despise, 
Man  of  broad  shoulders  and  heroic  size ! 
The  tiger,  writhing  from  the  boa's  rings, 
Drops  at  the  fountain  where  the  cobra 

stings. 
In    that    lean   phantom,    whose    extended 

glove 

Points  to  the  text  of  universal  love, 
Behold    the   master    that   can   tame    thee 

down 
To    crouch,    the    vassal    of    his    Sunday 

frown ; 
His    velvet    throat     against    thy    corded 

wrist, 
His  loosened  tongue  against  thy  doubled 

fist !  30 

The    MORAL    BULLY,   though    he    never 

swears, 

Nor  kicks  intruders  down  his  entry  stairs, 
Though    meekness   plants   his   backward- 
sloping  hat, 

And  non-resistance  ties  his  white  cravat, 
Though  his  black  broadcloth  glories  to  be 

seen 

In  the  same  plight  with  Shylock's  gaber 
dine, 
Hugs    the    same    passion    to    his    narrow 

breast 
That  heaves  the  cuirass  on  the  trooper's 

chest, 
Hears  the  same  hell-hounds  yelling  in  his 

rear 

That  chase  from  port  the  maddened  buc 
caneer,  4<> 
Feels  the   same  comfort  while   his   acrid 

words 
Turn    the    sweet    milk    of    kindness    into 

curds, 

Or  with  grim  logic  prove,  beyond  debate, 
That  all  we  love  is  worthiest  of  our  hate, 
As  the  scarred  ruffian  of  the  pirate's  deck, 
When  his  long  swivel  rakes  the  stagger 
ing  wreck ! 

Heaven   keep  us   all !     Is   every   rascal 

clown 

Whose  arm  is  stronger  free  to  knock  us 
down? 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


443 


Has    every    scarecrow,    whose    cachectic 

soul  • 
Seems     fresh     from    Bedlam,   airing    on 

parole,  so 

Who,   though  he  carries   but  a   doubtful 

trace 

Of  angel  visits  on  his  hungry  face, 
From  lack  of  marrow  or  the  coins  to  pay, 
Had  dodged  some  vices  in  a  shabby  way, 
The  right  to  stick  us  with  his  cutthroat 

terms, 
And   bait   his   homilies   with   his   brother 

worms? 

"Songs  in  Many  Keys,"  1862. 

THE   STATESMAN'S    SECRET  1 

Who  of  all  statesmen  is  his  country's 
pride, 

Her  councils'  prompter  and  her  leaders' 
guide? 

He  speaks ;  the  nation  holds  its  breath  to 
hear; 

He    nods,    and    shakes    the    sunset    hemi 
sphere. 

Born  where  the  primal  fount  of  Nature 
springs 

By    the    rude   cradles    of   her   throneless 
kings, 

In  his  proud,  eye  her  royal  signet  flames, 

By  his  own  lips   her   Monarch   she   pro 
claims. 

Why     name     his     countless     triumphs, 
whom  to  meet 

Is  to  be  famous,  envied  in  defeat?          I0 

The  keen  debaters,  trained  to  brawls  and 
strife, 

Who   fire  one  shot,   and   finish   with   the 
knife, 

Tried  him  but  once,  and,  cowering  in  their 
shame, 

Ground  their  hacked  blades  to  strike  at 
meaner  game. 

The  lordly  chief,  his  party's  central  stay, 

Whose  lightest  word  a  hundred  votes  obey, 

Found  a  new  listener  seated  at  his  side, 

Looked  in  his  eye,  and  felt  himself  defied, 

Flung  his   rash  gauntlet  on  the  startled 
floor, 

Met  the  all-conquering,  fought, — and  ruled 
no  more.  2° 

See  where  he  moves,  what  eager  crowds 
attend ! 

What  shouts  of  thronging  multitudes  as 
cend! 

1  The  poem  was  originally  called  "The  Disap 
pointed  Statesman."  The  statesman  is,  of  course, 
Webster. 


If  this  is  life, — to  mark  with  every  hour 

The    purple    deepening    in    his    robes    of 
power, 

To  see  the  painted  fruits  of  honof  fall 

Thick  at  his  feet,  and  choose  among  them 
all, 

To  hear  the  sounds  that  shape  his  spread 
ing  name 

Peal  through  the  myriad  organ-stops  of 
fame, 

Stamp  the   lone  isle  that  spots  the   sea 
man's  chart,  29 

And  crown  the  pillared  glory  of  the  mart, 

To   count    as    peers    the    few    supremely 
wise 

Who    mark   their    planet    in    the    angels' 
eyes, — 

If  this  is  life — 

What  savage  man  is  he 

Who   strides   alone   beside   the   sounding 
sea? 

Alone  .  he    wanders    by    the    murmuring 
shore, 

His  thoughts  as  restless  as  the  waves  that 
roar; 

Looks  on  the  sullen  sky  as  stormy-browed 

As   on   the    waves   yon    tempest-brooding 
cloud, 

Heaves  from  his  aching  breast  a  wailing 
sigh, 

Sad  as  the  gust  that  sweeps  the  clouded 
sky.  4° 

Ask  him  his  griefs ;  what  midnight  demons 
plough 

The  lines  of  torture  on  his  lofty  brow; 

Unlock  those  marble  lips,  and  bid  them 
speak 

The    mystery    freezing    in    his    bloodless 

cheek. 
His  secret?  Hid  beneath  a  flimsy  word; 

One  foolish  whisper  that  ambition  heard ; 

And  thus  it  spake:   "Behold  yon  gilded 
chair, 

The  world's  one  vacant  throne, — thy  place 

is  there!" 

Ah,  fatal  dream !     What  warning  spec 
tres  meet  49 

In  ghastly  circle  round  its  shadowy  seat ! 

Yet  still  the  Tempter  murmurs   in  his 
ear 

The   maddening  taunt   he  cannot   choose 
but  hear : 

"Meanest  of  slaves,  by  gods  and  men  ac 
curst, 

He  who  is  second  when  he  might  be  first ! 

Climb  with  bold   front  the  ladder's   top 
most  round, 

Or   chain   thy   creeping    footsteps   to   the 
ground !" 


444 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Illustrious  Dupe!    Have  those  majestic 

eyes 
Lost  their  proud  fire  for  such  a  vulgar 

prize  ? 
Art  thou   the  last   of   all  mankind  to 

know 
That   party-fights    are   won   by   aiming 

low? 
Thou,  stamped  by  Nature  with  her  royal 

sign,  61 

That  party-hirelings  hate  a  look  like  thine? 
Shake   from  thy  sense  the  wild  delusive 

dream ! 

Without  the  purple,  art  thou  not  supreme? 
And  soothed  by  love  unbought,  thy  heart 

shall  own 
A  nation's  homage  nobler  than  its  throne ! 

1850.  "Songs  in  Many  Keys,"  1862. 


SHAKESPEARE 

Tercentennial   Celebration 
April  23,  1864. 

"Who  claims  our  Shakespeare  from  that 

realm  unknown, 
Beyond  the  storm-vexed  islands  of  the 

deep, 
Where     Genoa's     roving     mariner     was 

blown  ? 

Her  twofold   Saint's-day   let  our  Eng 
land  keep; 

Shall  warring  aliens  share  her  holy  task?" 
The  Old  World  echoes,  Ask. 

O  land  of  Shakespeare!  ours  with  all  thy 

past, 
Till  these  last  years  that  make  the  sea 

so  wide, 

Think  not  the  jar  of  battle's  trumpet-blast 

Has  dulled  our  aching  sense  to  joyous 

pride  10 

In  every  noble  word  thy  sons  bequeathed 

The  air  our  fathers  breathed! 

War-wasted,   haggard,   panting   from  the 

strife, 
We    turn    to    other    days    and    far  -  off 

lands, 
Live  o'er   in   dreams  the   Poet's    faded 

life, 
Come  with   fresh  lilies  in  our  fevered 

hands 

To  wreathe  his  bust,  and  scatter  purple 
flowers, — 
Not  his  the  need,  but  ours! 


We  call  those  poets  who  are  first  to  mark 

Through   earth's   dull   mist  the  coming 

of  the  dawn, —  20 

Who  see  in  twilight's  gloom  the  first  pale 

spark, 

While  others  only  note  that  day  is  gone ; 
For  him  the  Lord  of  light  the  curtain  rent 
That  veils  the  firmament. 

The    greatest    for    its    greatness    is    half 

known, 

Stretching  beyond  our  narrow  quadrant- 
lines, — 

As  in  that  world  of  Nature  all  outgrown 

Where  Calaveras  lifts  his  awful  pines, 

And  cast  from  Mariposa's  mountain-wall 

Nevada's  cataracts  fall.  3° 

Yet  heaven's  remotest  orb  is  partly  ours, 
Throbbing   its  radiance   like   a   beating 

heart ; 

In  the  wide  compass  of  angelic  powers 
The  instinct  of  the  blindworm  has  its 

part; 

So  in  God's  kingliest  creature  we  behold 
The  flower  our  buds  infold. 

With  no  vain  praise  we  mock  the  stone- 
carved  name 
Stamped  once  on  dust  that  moved  with 

pulse  and  breath, 

As  thinking  to  enlarge  that  amplest  fame 

Whose  undimmed  glories  gild  the  night 

of  death :  4° 

We  praise  not  star  or  sun ;  in  these  we  see 

Thee,  Father,  only  Thee! 

Thy  gifts  are  beauty,  wisdom,  power,  and 

love: 
We  read,  we  reverence  on  this  human 

soul, — 
Earth's     clearest     mirror     of     the     light 

above, — 
Plain   as   the    record   on   thy   prophet's 

scroll, 

When  o'er  his  page  the  effluent  splendors 
poured, 

Thine  own  "Thus  saith  the  Lord !" 

This  player  was  a  prophet  from  on  high, 

Thine   own   selected.     Statesman,   poet, 

sage,  so 

For    him   thy    sovereign    pleasure    passed 

them  by ; 

Sidney's   fair  youth,  and  Raleigh's  rip 
ened  age, 

Spenser's    chaste    soul,    and    his    imperial 
mind 
Who  taught  and  shamed  mankind. 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


445 


Therefore  we  bid  our  hearts'  Te  Deum 

rise, 
Nor    fear    to    make    thy    worship    less 

divine, 
And  hear  the  shouted  choral   shake  the 

skies, 
Counting  all  glory,  power,  and  wisdom 

thine; 

For  thy  great  gift  thy  greater  name  adore, 
And  praise  thee  evermore !  6° 

In   this   dread   hour   of   Nature's   utmost 

need, 
Thanks    for  these   unstained    drops    of 

freshening  dew ! 
Oh,   while   our   martyrs    fall,   our   heroes 

bleed, 
Keep   us   to   every   sweet   remembrance 

true, 

Till    from   this   blood-red   sunset   springs 
new-born 
Our  Nation's  second  morn ! 


BRYANT'S     SEVENTIETH     BIRTH 
DAY 

November  3,    1864 

O  even-handed  Nature!  we  confess 
This   life  that  men   so  honor,   love,   and 

bless 
Has  filled  thine  olden  measure.     Not  the 

less 

We  count  the  precious  seasons  that  re 
main; 

Strike  not  the  level  of  the  golden  grain, 
But  heap  it  high  with  years,  that  earth 
may  gain 

What  heaven  can  lose, — for  heaven  is  rich 

in  song: 

Do  not  all  poets,  dying,  still  prolong 
Their    broken    chants    amid    the    seraph 

throng, 

Where,  blind  no  more,  Ionia's  bard  is 
seen,  10 

And  England's  heavenly  minstrel  sits  be 
tween 

The  Mantuan  and  the  wan-cheeked  Flor 
entine? 

This  was  the  first  sweet  singer  in  the 

cage 
Of  our  close- woven  life.     A  new-born 

age 
Claims  in  his  vesper  song  its  heritage : 


Spare  us,   oh   spare  us  long  our  heart's 

desire ! 
Moloch,   who  calls  our  children  through 

the  fire, 
Leaves  us  the  gentle  master  of  the  lyre. 

We  count  not  on  the  dial  of  the  sun 
The   hours,    the   minutes,   that   his    sands 

have  run;  2° 

Rather,  as  on  those  flowers  that  one  by 

one 

From  earliest  dawn  their  ordered  bloom 

display 

Till  evening's  planet  with  her  guiding  ray 
Leads  in  the  blind  old  mother  of  the  day, 

We   reckon   by   his    songs,    each   song   a 

flower, 
The  long,  long  daylight,  numbering  hour 

by  hour, 
Each    breathing    sweetness    like    a   bridal 

bower. 

His  morning  glory  shall  we  e'er  forget? 
His  noontide's  full-blown  lily  coronet? 
His    evening    primrose    has    not    opened 
yet;  30 

Nay,  even  if  creeping  Time  should  hide 

the  skies 

In  midnight  from  his  century-laden  eyes, 
Darkened  like  his  who  sang  of  Paradise, 

Would   not    some  hidden   song-bud   open 

bright 

As  the  resplendent  cactus  of  the  night 
That  floods  the  gloom  with  fragrance  and 

with  light? 

How  can  we  praise  the  verse  whose  mu 
sic  flows 

With  solemn  cadence  and  majestic  close, 
Pure  as  the  dew  that  filters  through  the 
rose? 

How  shall  we  thank  him  that  in  evil 
days  40 

He  faltered  never, — nor  for  blame,  nor 
praise, 

Nor  hire,  nor  party,  shamed  his  earlier 
lays? 

But  as  his  boyhood  was  of  manliest  hue, 
So   to   his   youth   his    manly   years   were 

true, 
All    dyed    in   royal    purple    through    and 

through ! 

\ 


446 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


He  for  whose  touch  the  lyre  of  Heaven 

is  strung 
Needs    not   the    flattering   toil   of    mortal 

tongue : 
Let  not  the  singer  grieve  to  die  unsung! 

Marbles  forget  their  message  to  mankind  : 
In  his  own  verse  the  poet  still  we  find,    so 
In   his   own   page   his   memory  lives   en 
shrined, 

As  in  their  amber  sweets  the  smothered 
bees, — 

As  the  fair  cedar,  fallen  before  the 
breeze, 

Lies  self-embalmed  amidst  the  moulder 
ing  trees. 

Poets,  like  youngest  children,  never  grow 
Out  of  their  mother's  fondness.     Nature 

so 
Holds  their  soft  hands,  and  will  not  let 

them  go, 

Till  at  the  last  they  track  with  even  feet 
Her  rhythmic  footsteps,  and  their  pulses 

beat 
Twinned  with  her  pulses,  and  their  lips 

repeat  6° 

The  secrets  she  has  told  them,  as  their 

own : 

Thus  is  the  inmost  soul  of  Nature  known, 
And  the  rapt  minstrel  shares  her  awful 

throne ! 

O  lover  of  her  mountains  and  her  woods, 
Her  bridal  chamber's  leafy  solitudes, 
Where  Love  himself  with  tremulous  step 
intrudes, 

Her   snows   fall  harmless   on  thy  sacred 

fire: 
Far  be  the  day  that  claims  thy  sounding 

lyre 
To  join  the  music  of  the  angel  choir! 

Yet,  since  life's  amplest  measure  must  be 
filled,  70 

Since  throbbing  hearts  must  be  forever 
stilled, 

And  all  must  fade  that  evening  sunsets 
gild, 

Grant,   Father,   ere   he   close   the   mortal 

eyes 

That  see  a  Nation's  reeking  sacrifice, 
Its  smoke  may  vanish  from  these  black 
ened  skies ! 


Then,  when  his  summons  comes,  since 
come  it  must, 

And,  looking  heavenward  with  unfalter 
ing  trust, 

He  wraps  his  drapery  round  him  for  the 
dust, 

His  last  fond  glance  will  show  him  o'er 

his  head 
The    Northern    fires    beyond    the    zenith 

spread  &> 

In    lambent   glory,    blue   and    white    and 

red, — 

The  Southern  cross  without  its  bleeding 

load, 
The    milky    way    of    peace    all     freshly 

strewed, 
And  every  white-throned  star  fixed  in  its 

lost  abode ! 


1864. 


Atlantic  Monthly,  Dec.,  1864. 


A    FAREWELL   TO    AGASSIZ  • 

How  the  mountains  talked  together, 

Looking  down  upon  the  weather, 

When  they  heard  our  friend  had  planned 

his 

Little  trip  among  the  Andes ! 
How  they'll  bare  their  snowy  scalps 
To  the  climber  of  the  Alps 
When  the  cry  goes  through  their  passes, 
"Here  comes  the  great  Agassiz !" 
"Yes,  I'm  tall,"  says  Chimborazo, 
"But  I  wait  for  him  to  say  so, —  10 

That  's  the  only  thing  that  lacks, — he 
Must  see  me,  Cotopaxl !" 
"Ay !  ay !"  the  fire-peak  thunders, 
"And  he  must  view  my  wonders ! 
I'm  but  a  lonely  crater 
Till  I  have  him  for  spectator !" 
The  mountain  hearts  are  yearning, 
The  lava-torches  burning, 
The  rivers  bend  to  meet  him, 
The  forests  bow  to  greet  him,  2° 

It  thrills  the   spinal  column 
Of    fossil  fishes  solemn, 
And  glaciers  crawl  the   faster 
To  the  feet  of  their  old  master ! 
Heaven  keep  him  well  and  hearty ! 
Both  him  and  all  his  party! 
From  the  sun  that  broils  and  smites, 
From  the  centipede  that  bites, 
From  the  hail-storm  and  the  thunder, 
From  the  vampire  and  the  condor,          30 
From  the  gust  upon  the  river, 
From  the  sudden   earthquake   shiver, 
From  the  trip   of   mule   or   donkey, 
From  the  midnight    howling    monkey, 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


447 


From  the  stroke  of  knife   or  dagger, 

From  the  puma  and  the  jaguar, 

From  the  horrid   boa-constrictor 

That  has  scared  us  in  the  pictur', 

From  the  Indians    of    the    Pampas 

Who  would  dine  upon  their  grampas,    40 

From   every  beast  and  vermin 

That  to  think  of  sets  us  squirmin', 

From  every  snake  that  tries  on 

The  traveller  his   p'ison, 

From  every  pest  of  Natur', 

Likewise  the  alligator, 

And   from  two  things  left  behind  hfm, — 

(Be   sure  they'll   try   to   find   him,) 

The  tax-bill  and  assess'or, — 

Heaven  keep  the  great  Professor!  so 

May  he   find,   with  his  apostles, 

That  the  land  is  full  of  fossils, 

That  the  waters  swarm  with  fishes 

Shaped  according  to  his  wishes, 

That  every  pool  is  fertile 

In   fancy  kinds  of  turtlei 

New  birds  around  him  singing, 

New  insects,  never  stinging, 

With  a  million  novel  data 

About  the  articulata,  60 

And  facts  that  strip  off  all  husks 

From  the  history  of  mollusks. 

And  when,  with  loud  Te  Deum, 

He  returns  to  his  Museum, 

May  he  find  the  monstrous  reptile 

That  so  long  the  land  has  kept  ill 

By  Grant  and  Sherman  throttled, 

And  by  Father  Abraham  bottled, 

(All  specked  and  streaked  and  mottled 

With  the  scars  of  murderous  battles,     7o 

Where  he  clashed  the  iron  rattles 

That  gods  and  men  he  shook  at,)« 

For  all  the  world  to  look  at! 

God  bless  the  great  Professor! 

And  Madam,  too,  God  bless  her! 

Bless  him  and  all  his  band, 

On  the  sea  and  on  the  land, 

Bless  them  head  and  heart  and  hand, 

Till  their  glorious  raid  is  o'er, 

And  they  touch  our  ransomed  shore !    8° 

Then  the  welcome  of  a  nation, 

With  its  shout  of  exultation, 

Shall  awake  the  dumb  creation, 

And  the  shapes  of  buried  aeons    • 

Join   the  living  creatures'   paeans, 

Till  the  fossil  echoes  roar; 

While  the  mighty  megalosaurus 

Leads  the  palaeozoic  chorus, — 

God1  bless  the  great  Professor, 

And  the  land  his  proud  possessor, —       9° 

Bless  them  now  and  evermore! 

1865. 


ALL  HERE 

It  is  not  what  we  say  or  sing, 

That    keeps    our    charm    so    long    un 
broken, 
Though  every  lightest  leaf  we  bring 

May    touch    the    heart    as    friendship's 

token ; 
Not  what  we  sing  or  what  we  say 

Can  make  us  dearer  to  each  other; 
We  love  the  singer  and  his  lay, 

But  love  as  well  the  silent  brother. 

Yet  bring  whate'er  your  garden  grows, 
Thrice    welcome    to    our    smiles    and 
praises ;  10 

Thanks  for  the  myrtle  and  the  rose, 

Thanks  for  the  marigolds  and  daisies; 
One  flower  ere  long  we  all  shall  claim, 

^Alas!   unloved  of  Amaryllis — 
Nature's  last  blossom — need  I  name 
The  wreath  of  three-score's  silver  lilies? 

How  many,  brothers,  meet  to-night 

Around  our  boyhood's  covered  embers? 
Go  read  the  treasured  names  aright 

The  old  triennial  list  remembers;        2° 
Though  twenty  wear  the  starry  sign 

That  tells  a  life  has  broke  its  tether, 
The  fifty-eight  of  'twenty-nine — 

God   bless   THE   BOYS!— are   all   to 
gether  ! 

These  come  with  joyous  look  and  word, 

With  friendly  grasp  and  cheerful  greet 
ing, — 
Those  smile  unseen,  and  move  unheard, 

The  angel  guests  of  every  meeting; 
They  cast  no  shadow  in  the  flame 

That  flushes  from  the  gilded  lustre,    3° 
But  count  us — we  are  still  the  same ; 

One  earthly  band,  one  heavenly  cluster ! 

Love  dies  not  when  he  bows  his  head 

To  pass  beyond  the  narrow  portals, — 
The  light  these  glowing  moments  shed 
Wakes  from  their  sleep  our  lost  immor 
tals; 

They  come  as  in  their  joyous  prime, 
Before  their  morning  days  were  num 
bered, — 

Death  stays  the  envious  hand  of  Time, — 

The    eyes    have    not    grown    dim    that 

slumbered !  4» 

The  paths  that  loving  souls  have  trod 
Arch    o'er    the    dust    where    worldlings 
grovel 

High  as  the  zenith  o'er  the  sod, — 
The  cross  above  the  sexton's  shovel! 


448 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


We  rise  beyond  the  realms  of  day; 
They   seem   to   stoop    from    spheres   of 

glory 
With  us  one  happy  hour  to  stray, 

While  youth  comes   back   in  song  and 
story. 


Ah !  ours  is  friendship  true  as  steel         49 

That  war  has  tried  in  edge  and  tem 
per; 
It  writes  upon  its  sacred  seal 

The  priest's  ubique — omnes — semper! 
It  lends  the  sky  a   fairer  sun 

That    cheers    our    lives    with    rays    as 

steady 
As   if   our    footsteps   had   begun 

To  print  the  golden  streets  already ! 


The  tangling  years  have  clinched  its  knot 

Too  fast  for  mortal  strength  to  sunder; 
The  lightning  bolts  of  noon  are  shot; 

No  fear  of  evening's  idle  thunder !  6° 
Too  late !  too  late ! — no  graceless  hand 

Shall  stretch  its  cords  in  vain  endeavor 
To  rive  the  close  encircling  band 

That  made  and  keeps  us  one  forever ! 

So  when  upon  the  fated  scroll 

The  falling  stars  have  all  descended, 
And  blotted  from  the  breathing  roll, 

Our  little  page  of  life  is  ended, 
We  ask  but  one  memorial  line  fc 

Traced  on  thy  tablet,  Gracious  Mother : 
"My  children.  Boys  of  '29. 

In  pace.    How  they  loved  each  other!" 

1867. 


SIDNEY    LANIER 

(1842-1881) 


THE    DYING    WORDS    OF    STONE 
WALL  JACKSON 

"Order  A.  P.  Hill  to  prepare  for  battle." 

"Tell  Major  Hawks  to   advance  the  Commissary 

train." 
"Let  us  cross  the  river  and  rest  in  the  shade." 

The  stars  of  Night  contain  the  glittering 

Day 
And   rain    his   glory    down   with   sweeter 

grace 
Upon  the  dark  World's  grand,  enchanted 

face — 
All  loth  to  turn  away. 

And  so  the  Day,  about  to  yield  his  breath, 
Utters  the  stars  unto  the  listening  Night, 
To   stand   for  burning  fare-thee-wells  of 
light 

Said  on  the  verge  of  death. 

O  hero-life  that  lit  us  like  the  sun! 
O  hero-words  that  glittered  like  the  stars 
And  stood  and  shone  above  the  gloomy 
wars  « 

When  the  hero-life  was  done ! 

The  phantoms  of  a  battle  came  to  dwell 
I'  the  fitful  vision  of  his  dying  eyes — 
Yet  even  in  battle-dreams,  he  sends  sup 
plies 
To  those  he  loved  so  well. 

His  army  stands  in  battle-line  arrayed: 
His  couriers  fly :  all's  done :  now  God  de 
cide  ! 

— And  not  till  then  saw  he  the  Other  Side 
Or  would  accept  the  shade.  2° 

Thou  Land  whose  sun  is  gone,  thy  stars 

remain ! 
Still  shine  the  words  thai   miniature  his 

deeds. 
O  thrice-beloved,  where'er  thy  great  heart 

bleeds, 

Solace  hast  thou  for  pain ! 


1865. 


1884. 


NIGHT   AND   DAY 

The    innocent,    sweet    Day    is    dead. 
Dark  Night  hath  slain  her  in  her  bed. 
O,  Moors  are  as  fierce  to  kill  as  to  wed! 
— Put  out  the  light,  said  he. 

A  sweeter  light  than  ever  rayed 
From  star  of  heaven  or  eye  of  maid 
Has  vanished  in  the  unknown  Shade. 
— She's  dead,  she's  dead,  said  he. 

Now,  in  a  wild,  sad  after-mood 
The  tawny  Night  sits  still  to  brood          I0 
Upon  the  dawn-time  when  he  wooed. 
— I  would  she  lived,  said  he. 

Star-memories  of  happier  times,- 
Of  loving  deeds  and  lovers'  rhymes, 
Throng  forth  in  silvery  pantomimes. 
— Come  back,  O  Day !  said  he. 

1866.  The  Independent,  Aug.,   1884. 


CORN 

To-day  the  woods  are  trembling  through 

and  through 
With  shimmering  forms,  that  flash  before 

my  view, 
Then  melt  in  green  as  dawn-stars  melt  in 

blue. 
The  leaves  that  wave  against  my  cheek 

caress 
Like     women's     hands;     the     embracing 

boughs  express 

A  subtlety  of  mighty  tenderness ; 
The  copse-depths  into  little  noises  start, 
That  sound  anon  like  beatings  of  a  heart, 
Anon  like  talk  'twixt  lips  not  far  apart. 
The    beech    dreams    balm,    as   a    dreamer 

hums  a  song;  I0 

Through  that  vague  wafture,  expirations 

strong 
Throb    from    young    hickories    breathing 

deep  and  long 
With  stress  and  urgence  bold  of  prisoned 

spring 
And  ecstasy  of  burgeoning. 


449 


450 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Now,  since  the  dew-plashed  road  of  morn 

is  dry, 

Forth  venture  odors  of  more  quality 
And  heavenlier  giving.     Like  Jove's  locks 

awry, 

Long  muscadines 
Rich-wreathe   the   spacious    foreheads   of 

great  pines, 
And  breathe  ambrosial  passion  from  their 

vines.  2° 

I  pray  with  mosses,  ferns  and  flowers  shy 
That  hide  like  gentle  nuns  from  human 

eye 

To  lift  adoring  perfumes  to  the  sky. 
I  hear   faint  bridal  -  sighs  of  brown  and 

green 

Dying  to  silent  hints  of  kisses  keen 
As  far  lights  fringe  into  a. pleasant  sheen. 
I  start  at  fragmentary  whispers,  blown 
From  undertalks  of  leafy  souls  unknown, 
Vague  purports  sweet,  of  inarticulate  tone. 
Dreaming  of  gods,  men,  nuns  and  brides, 

between  3° 

Old  companies  of  oaks  that  inward  lean 
To  join  their  radiant  amplitudes  of  green 
I  slowly  move,  with  ranging  looks  that 

pass 

Up  from  the  matted  miracles  of  grass 
Into  yon  veined  complex  of  space 
Where  sky  and  leafage  interlace 
So  close,  the  heaven  of  blue  is  seen 
Interwoven  with  a  heaven  of  green. 

I  wander  to  the  zigzag-cornered  fence 
Where  sassafras,  intrenched  in  brambles 

dense,  4° 

Contests  with  stolid  vehemence 
The  march  of  culture,   setting  limb   and 

thorn 
As  pikes  against  the  army  of  the  corn. 

There,  while  I  pause,  my  fieldward-faring 
eyes 

Take   harvests,    where    the    stately   corn- 
ranks  rise, 

Of  inward  dignities 

And  large  benignities  and  insights  wise, 
Graces  and  modest  majesties. 

Thus,    without    theft,    I    reap    another's 
field; 

Thus,  without  tilth,  I  house  a  wondrous 
yield,  so 

And  heap  my  heart  with  quintuple  crops 
concealed. 

Look,    out   of   line   one   tall   corn-captain 

stands 
Advanced    beyond    the    foremost    of    his 

bands, 


And  waves  his  blades  upon  the  very  edge 

And  hottest  thicket  of  the  battling  hedge. 

Thou  lustrous  stalk,  that  ne'er  mayst  walk 
nor  talk, 

Still  shalt  thou  type  the  poet-soul  sublime 

That   leads   the  vanward   of   his   timid 
time 

And  sings  up  cowards  with  commanding 
rhyme — 

Soul  calm,  like  thee,  yet  fain,  like  thee, 
to  grow  6° 

By  double  increment,  above,  below; 

Soul    homely,    as    thou    art,    yet   rich    in 
grace  like  thee, 

Teaching  the  yeomen  selfless  chivalry 

That  moves  in  gentle  curves  of  courtesy: 

Soul  filled  like  thy  long  veins  with  sweet 
ness  tense, 

By  every  godlike  sense 

Transmuted  from  the  four  wild  elements. 
Drawn  to  high  plans, 

Thou  lift'st  more  stature  than  a  mortal 
man's, 

Yet  ever  piercest  downward  in  the  mould 
And  keepest  hold  7» 

Upon  the  reverend  and  steadfast  earth 
That  gave  thee  birth; 

Yea,  standest  smiling  in  thy  future  grave, 
Serene   and   brave, 

With   unremitting  breath 

Inhaling   life    from    death, 

Thine  epitaph  writ   fair  in    fruitage  elo 
quent, 

Thyself  thy  monument. 

As  poets  should,  8° 

Thou  hast  built  up  thy  hardihood 
With  universal  food, 
Drawn  in  select  proportion   fair 
From  honest  mould  and  vagabond  air; 
From  darkness  of  the  dreadful  night, 

And  joyful  light; 

From  antique  ashes,  whose  departed  flame 
In  thee  has  finer  life  and  longer  fame; 
From  wounds  and  balms, 
From  storms  and  calms,  9° 

From  potsherds  and  dry  bon.s 

And  ruin-stones. 
Into    thy    vigorous    substance    thou    hast 

wrought 
Whate'er  the  hand  of  Circumstance  hath 

brought ; 

Yea,  into  cool  solacing  green  hast  spun 
White  radiance  hot  from  out  the  sun. 
So  thou   dost  mutually  leaven 
Strength  of  earth  with  grace  of  heaven; 
So  thou  dost  marry  new  and  old 
Into  a  one  of  higher  mould ;  I0° 

So  thou  dost  reconcile  the  hot  and  cold, 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


451 


The  dark  and  bright, 
And  many  a  heart-perplexing  opposite, 

And  so, 

Akin  by  blood  to  high  and  low, 
Fitly  thou  playest  out  thy  poet's  part, 
Richly  expending  thy  much-bruised  heart 
In  equal  care  to  nourish  lord  in  hall 

Or  beast  in  stall: 

Thou  took'st  from  all  that  thou  might'st 
give  to  all.  II0 

O  steadfast  dweller  on  the  selfsame  spot 
Where  thou  wast  born,  that  still  repinest 

not — 
Type  of  the  home-fond  heart,  the  happy 

lot!— 
Deeply    thy    mild    content    rebukes    the 

land 
Whose  flimsy  homes,  built  on  the  shifting 

sand 

Of  trade,  for  ever  rise  and  fall 
With  alternation  whimsical, 
Enduring  scarce  a  day, 
Then  swept  away 
By     swift     engulf  ments     of     incalculable 

tides  I2° 

Whereon  capricious  Commerce  rides. 
Look,  thou  substantial  spirit  of  content ! 
Across  this  little  vale,  thy  continent, 
To  where,  beyond  the  mouldering  mill, 
Yon  old  deserted  Georgian  hill 
Bares  to  the  sun  his  piteous  aged  crest 

And  seamy  breast, 

By  restless-hearted  children  left  to  lie 
Untended  there  beneath  the  heedless  sky, 
As   barbarous    folk    expose   their   old   to 

die.  130 

Upon   that   generous-rounding   side, 

With  gullies  scarified 
Where  keen  Neglect  his  lash  hath  plied, 
Dwelt  one  I  knew  of  old,  who  played  at 

toil, 
And    gave   to    coquette    Cotton    soul   and 

soil. 
Scorning   the    slow    reward    of    patient 

grain, 
He  sowed  his  heart  with  hopes  of  swifter 

gain, 
Then   sat  him  down  and  waited   for  the 

rain. 

He  sailed  in  borrowed  ships  of  usury — 
A  foolish  Jason  on  a  treacherous  sea,    T4° 
Seeking  the  Fleece  and  finding  misery. 
Lulled  by  smooth-rippling  loans,    in   idle 

trance 

He    lay,    content    that    unthrift    Circum 
stance 
Should  plough  for  him  the  stony  field  of 

Chance, 


Yea,  gathering  crops  whose  worth  no  man 

might  tell, 
He  staked  his  life  on  games  of  Buy-and- 

Sell, 
And   turned   each    field    into   a  gambler's 

hell. 

Aye,   as  each  year  began,  , 
My  farmer  to  the  neighboring  city  ran; 
Passed  with  a  mournful  anxious  face    '5<> 
Into  the  banker's  inner  place ; 
Parleyed,    excused,    pleaded    for    longer 

grace ; 
Railed  at  the  drought,  the  worm,  the  rust, 

the  grass ; 
Protested    ne'er    again    'twould    come    to 

pass; 

With  many  an  oh  and  if  and  but  alas! 
Parried  or  swallowed  searching  questions 

rude, 
And    kissed    the    dust    to    soften    Dives's 

mood. 

At  last,  small  loans  by  pledges  great  re 
newed, 

He  issues  smiling  from  the  fatal  door, 
And    buys    with    lavish    hand    his    yearly 

store  i&> 

Till   his   small   borrowings   will   yield   no 

more. 

Aye,  as  each  year  declined, 
With  bitter  heart  and  ever-brooding  mind 
He  mourned  his  fate  unkind. 
In  dust,  in  rain,  with  might  and  main, 
He  nursed  his  cotton,  cursed  his  grain, 
Fretted    for   news    that    made    him    fret 

again, 

Snatched  at  each  telegram  of  Future  Sale, 
And  thrilled  with  Bulls'  or  Bears'  alter 
nate  wail — 

In  hope  or  fear  alike  for  ever  pale.       >7° 
And  thus  from  year  to  year,  through  hope 

*and  fear, 
With   many  a  curse   and  many  a  secret 

tear, 
Striving  in  vain  his  cloud  of  debt  to  clear, 

At  last 

He  woke  to  find  his  foolish  dreaming  past, 
And  all  his  best-of-life  the  easy  prey 
Of  squandering  scamps  and  quacks  that 

lined  his  way 

With  vile  array, 
From    rascal    statesman    down    to    petty 

knave; 
Himself,    at    best,    for    all    his    bragging 

brave,  l8° 

A  gamester's  catspaw  and  a  banker's  slave. 
Then,  worn  and  gray,  and  sick  with  deep 

unrest, 

He  fled  into  the  oblivious  West, 
Unmourned,   unblest, 


452 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Old  hill!  old  hill!  thou  gashed  and  hairy 

Lear 

Whom  the  divine  Cordelia  of  the  year, 
E'en  pitying  Spring,  will  vainly  strive  to 

cheer — 
King,  that  no  subject'  man  nor  beast  may 

own, 

Discrowned,  undaughtered  and  alone — 
Yet  shall  the  great  God  turn  thy  fate,    190 
And   bring  thee   back   into   thy   monarch 

state 

And  majesty  immaculate. 
Lo,  through  hot  waverings  of 'the  August 

morn, 

Thou  givest  from  thy  vasty   sides   fore- 
lorn 

Visions  of  golden  treasuries  of  corn — 
Ripe   largesse  lingering   for  some   bolder 

heart 

That  manfully  shall  take  thy  part, 
And  lend  thee, 
And  defend  thee, 
With    antique    sinew    and    with    modern 

art.  200 

1874-5.    Lippincott's  Magazine,  Feb.,  1875. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 


O  Age  that  half  believ'st  thou  half  be- 

liev'st, 
Half  doubt' st  the  substance  of  thine  own 

half    doubt, 
And,  half  perceiving  that  thou  half  per- 

ceiv'st, 
Stand'st  at  thy  temple  door,  heart  in, 

head  out ! 
Lo !  while  thy  heart's  within,  helping  the 

choir,  • 

Without,  thine  eyes  range  up  and  down 

the  time, 
Blinking  at  o'er-bright  science,  smit  with 

desire 
To  see  and  not  to  see.     Hence,  crime 

on  crime. 
Yea,    if    the    Christ    (called    thine)    now 

paced  yon  street, 
Thy  halfness  hot  with  His  rebuke  would 

swell ;  I0 

Legions  of  scribes  would  rise  and  run  and 

beat 
His  fair  intolerable  Wholeness  twice  to 

hell. 
Nay   (so,  dear  Heart,  thou  whisperest  in 

my  soul), 
'Tis  a  half  time,  yet  Time  zvill  make  it 

whole. 


Now  at  thy  soft  recalling  voice  I  rise 
Where  thought' is  lord  o'er  Time's  com 
plete  estate, 
Like  as  a  dove  from  out'  the  gray  sedge 

flies 
To    tree-tops    green    where    cooes    his 

heavenly  mate. 

From  these  clear  coverts  high  and  cool 
I  see  J9 

How  every  time  with  every  time  is  knit, 
And  each  to  all  is  mortised  cunningly, 

And  none  is  sole  or  whole,  yet  all  are  fit. 
Thus,  if  this  Age  but  as  a  comma  show 
'Twit  weightier   clauses   of  large-worded 

years, 
My  calmer  soul  scorns  not  the  mark :  I 

know 
This    crooked    point    Time's    complex 

sentence  clears. 
Yet  more  I  learn,  while,  Friend !  I  sit  by 

thee : 
Who  sees  all  time,  sees  all  eternity. 


If  I  do  ask,  How  God  can  dumbness  keep 

While  Sin  creeps  grinning  through  His 

house  of  Time,  30 

Stabbing   His  saintliest  children   in   their 

sleep, 
And  staining  holy  walls  with  clots  of 

crime? — 
Or,  How  may  He  whose  wish  but  names 

a  fact 

Refuse  what  miser's-scanting  of  supply 
Would  richly  glut  each  void  where  man 

hath   lacked 
Of    grace    or    bread? — or,    How    may 

Power   deny 
Wholeness    to    th'    almost- folk    that   hurt 

our  hope — 
These    heart-break     Hamlets     who     so 

barely  fail 

In  life  or  art  that  but  a  hair's  more  scope 
Had  set  them  fair  on  heights  they  ne'er 

may   scale? — 

Somehow  by  thee,  dear  Love,  I  win  con 
tent  :  40 
Thy   Perfect  stops  th'   Imperfect's  argu 
ment. 

IV 

By  the  more  height  of  thy  sweet  stature 

grown, 
Twice-eyed  with  thy  gray  vision  set  in 

mine, 

I  ken  far  lands  to  wifeless  men  unknown, 
I  compass  stars  for  one-sexed  eyes  tog 
fine, 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


453 


No  text  on  sea-horizons  cloudily  writ, 
No-  maxim  vaguely  starred  in  fields  or 

skies, 

But  this  wise  thou-in-me  deciphers  it: 
Oh,   thou'rt   the   Height   of   heights,   the 

Eye  of  eyes. 
Not   hardest   Fortune's    most   unbounded 

stress  so 

Can  blind  my  soul  nor  hurl  it  from  on 

high, 
Possessing  thee,  the  self  of  loftiness, 

And  very  light  that  Light  discovers  by. 
Howe'er  thou  turn'st,  wrong  Earth;  still 

Love's  in  sight : 
For   we   are   taller   than   the   breadth   of 

night. 

1874-75.  Lippincott's  Magazine,  Nov.,  1876. 


THE  SYMPHONY 

"O   Trade!    O   Trade!   would   thou   wert 

dead! 

The  Time  needs  heart — 'tis  tired  of  head: 
We're  all  for  love,"  the  violins  said. 
Of  what  avail  the  rigorous  tale 
Of  bill  for  coin  and  box  for  bale? 
Grant    thee,    O    Trade!    thine    uttermost 

hope : 

Level  red  gold  with  blue  sky-slope, 
And  base  it  deep  as  devils  grope : 
When  all's  done,  what  hast  thou  won 
Of  the  only  sweet  that's  under  the  sun?  I0 
Ay,  canst  thou  buy  a  single  sigh 
Of  true  love's  least,  least  ecstasy?" 
Then,    with    a    bridegroom's    heart  -  beats 

trembling, 

All  the  mightier  strings  assembling 
Ranged  them  on  the  violins'  side 
As  when  the  bridegroom  leads  the  bride, 
And,  heart  in  voice,  together  cried : 
"Yea,  what  avail  the  endless  tale 
Of  gain  by  cunning  and  plus  by  sale? 
Look  up  the  land,  look  down  the  land,    M 
The  poor,  the  poor,  the  poor,  they  stand 
Wedged  by  the  pressing  of  Trade's  hand 
Against  an  inward-opening  door 
That  pressure  tightens  evermore : 
They  sigh  a  monstrous  foul-air  sigh 
For  the  outside  leagues  of  liberty, 
Where  Art,  sweet  lark,  translates  the  sky 
Into  a  heavenly  melody. 
'Each  day,  all  day'  (these  poor  folks  say), 
'In  the  same  old  year  -  long,  drear  -  long 

way,  3° 

We  weave  in  the  mills  and  heave  in  the 

kilns, 
We  sieve  mine-meshes  under  the  hills, 


And  thieve  much  gold  from  the  Devil's 

bank  tills, 

To  relieve,  O  God,  what  manner  of  ills? — 
The   beasts,    they    hunger,    and    eat,    and 

die; 

And  so  do  we,  and  the  world's  a  sty; 
Hush,  fellow-swine:  why  nuzzle  and  cry? 
Swinehood  hath  no  remedy 
Say  many  men,   and  hasten  by, 
Clamping  the  nose  and  blinking  the  eye.  4" 
But  who  said  once,  in  the  lordly  tone, 
Man  shall  not  live  by  bread  alone 
But  all  that  cometh  from  the  Throne? 
Hath  God  said  so? 
But  Trade  saith  No: 
And  the  kilns  and  the  curt-tongued  mills 

say  Go! 
There's  plenty  that  can,  if  you  can't:  we 

know. 

Move  out,  if  you  think  you're  underpaid. 
The  poor  are  prolific;  we're  not  afraid; 
Trade  is  trade.'"  so 

Thereat  this  passionate  protesting 
Meekly  changed,  and  softened  till 
It  sank  to  sad  requesting 
And  suggesting  sadder  still : 
"And  oh,  if  men  might  sometime  see 
How  piteous- false  the  poor  decree 
That  trade  no  more  than  trade  must  be ! 
Does  business  mean,  Die,  you — live,  If 
Then  'Trade  is  trade'  but  sings  a  lie: 
'Tis  only  war  grown  miserly.  6° 

If  business  is  battle,  name  it  so: 
War-crimes  less  will  shame  it  so, 
And  widows  less  will  blame  it  so. 
Alas,  for  the  poor  to  have  some  part 
In  yon  sweet  living  lands  of  Art, 
Makes  problem  not  for  head,  but  heart. 
Vainly  might  Plato's  brain  revolve  it: 
Plainly  the  heart  of  a  child  could  solve 

it." 

And  then,  as  when  from  words  that  seem 

but  rude 

We  pass  to  silent  pain  that  sits  abrood   70 
Back  in  our  heart's  great  dark  and  soli 
tude, 

So  sank  the  strings  to  gentle  throbbing 
Of  long  chords  change-marked  with  sob 
bing- 
Motherly  sobbing,  not  distinctlier  heard 
Than  half  wing-openings  of  the  sleeping 

bird. 
Some  dream  of  danger  to  her  young  hath 

stirred. 
Then  stirring  and  demurring  ceased,  and 

lo! 

Every   least  ripple  of  the  strings'   song- 
flow 


454 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Died  to  a  level  with  each  level  bow 
And  made  a  great  chord  tranquil-surfaced 
so,  8° 

As  a  brook  beneath  his  curving  bank  doth 

go 

To  linger  in  the  sacred  dark  and  green 
Where  many  boughs  the  still  pool  over- 
lean 
And  many  leaves  make  shadow  with  their 

sheen. 

But  presently 

A  velvet  flute-note  fell  down  pleasantly  * 
Upon  the  bosom  of  that  harmony, 
And  sailed  and  sailed  incessantly, 
As  if  a  petal  from  a  wild-rose  blown 
Had    fluttered    down    upon    that   pool    of 
tone  90 

And  boatwise  dropped  o'  the  convex  side 
And  floated  down  the  glassy  tide 
And  clarified  and  glorified 
The   solemn    spaces    where   the   shadows 

bide. 
From   the   warm   concave  of   that   fluted 

note 
Somewhat,  half  song,  half  odor,  forth  did 

float, 
As    if   a   rose    might    somehow   be   a 

throat : 

"When  Nature  from  her  far-off  glen 
Flutes  her  soft  messages  to  men, 

The  flute  can  say  them  o'er  again ;       J°° 
Tea,  Nature,  singing  sweet  and  lone, 
Breathes  through  life's  strident  polyphone 
The  flute-voice  in  the  world  of  tone. 
Sweet  friends, 
Man's  love  ascends 
To  finer  and  diviner  ends 
Than   man's   mere  thought   e'er  compre 
hends 

For  I,  e'en  I, 
As  here  I  lie, 

A  petal  on  a  harmony,  II0 

Demand  of  Science  whence  and  why 
Man's  tender  pain,  man's  inward  cry, 
When  he  doth  gaze  on  earth  and  sky? 
I  am  not  overbold : 

I  hold 

Full  powers  from  Nature  manifold. 
I  speak  for  each  no-tongued  tree 
That,  spring  by  spring,  doth  nobler  be, 
And  dumbly  and  most  wistfully 
His  mighty  prayerful  arms  outspreads  I2° 
Above  men's  oft-unheeding  heads, 
And  his  big  blessing  downward  sheds. 
I  speak  for  all-shaped  blooms  and  leaves, 
Lichens  on  stones  and  moss  on  eaves, 
Grasses  and  grains  in  ranks  and  sheaves; 

1  Lanier    had    been    since    1873    first    flutist    in 
the  Peabody   Symphony   Orchestra. 


Broad  -  f ronded    ferns    and    keen  -  leaved 

canes, 

And  briery  mazes  bounding  lanes, 
And    marsh  -  plants,    thirsty  -  cupped    for 

rains, 

And  milky  stems  and  sugary  veins ; 
For  every  long-armed  woman-vine          J3° 
That  round  a  piteous  tree  doth  twine; 
For  passionate  odors,  and  divine 
Pistils,  and  petals  crystalline; 
All, purities  of  shady  springs, 
All  shynesses  of  film-winged  things 
That    fly    from    tree-trunks    and    bark- 
rings; 

All  modesties  of  mountain-fawns 
That  leap  to  covert  from  wild  lawns, 
And  tremble  if  the  day  but  dawns; 
All  sparklings  of  small  beady  eyes          '4° 
Of  birds,  and  sidelong  glances  wise 
Wherewith  the  jay  hints  tragedies; 
All  piquancies  of  prickly  burs, 
And  smoothnesses  of  downs  and  furs, 
Of  eiders  and  of  minevers; 
All  limpid  honeys  that  do  lie 
At  stamen-bases,  nor  deny 
The  humming-birds'  fine  roguery, 
Bee-thighs,  nor  any  butterfly ; 
All  gracious  curves  of  slender  wings,     '5° 
Bark-mottlings,  fibre-spiralings, 
Fern-wavings  and  leaf-flickerings ; 
Each  dial-marked  leaf  and  flower-bell 
Wherewith  in  every  lonesome  dell 
Time  to  himself  his  hours  doth  tell; 
All  tree-sounds,  rustlings  of  pine-cones, 
Wind-sighings,  doves'  melodious  moans, 
And  night's  unearthly  under-tones ; 
All  placid  lakes  and  waveless  deeps, 
All  cool  reposing  mountain-steeps,          l6° 
Vale-calms  and  tranquil  lotos-sleeps ; — 
Yea,    all    fair    forms,   and   sounds,   and 

lights, 

And  warmths,  and  mysteries,  and  mights, 
Of  Nature's  utmost  depths  and  heights, 
—These  doth  my  timid  tongue  present, 
Their  mouthpiece  and  leal  instrument 
And  servant,  all  love-eloquent. 
I  heard,  when  "All  for  love"  the  violins 

cried : 
So,  Nature  calls  through  all  her  system 

wide, 

Give  me   thy   love,   O   man,  so   long   de 
nied.  17° 
Much  time  is  run,  and  man  hath  changed 

his  ways, 

Since  Nature,  in  the  antique  fable-days, 
Was  hid  from  man's  true  love  by  proxy 

fays, 

False  fauns  and  rascal  gods  that  stole  her 
praise. 


SIDNEY    LANIER 


455 


The    nymphs,    cold    creatures    of    man's 
colder  brain; 

Chilled  Nature's  streams  till  man's  warm 
heart  was  fain 

Never  to  lave  its  love  in  them  again. 

Later,  a  sweet  Voice  Love  thy  neighbor 
said; 

Then    first   the    bounds    of   neighborhood 
outspread  J79 

Beyond  all  confines  of  old  ethnic  dread. 

Vainly  the  Jew  might  wag  his  covenant 
head : 

"All   men   are    neighbors,"   so    the    sweet 
Voice  said. 

So,  when  man's  arms  had  circled  all  man's 
race, 

The  liberal  compass  of  his  warm  embrace 

Stretched  bigger  yet  in  the  dark  bounds 
of  space; 

With  hands  a-grope  he  felt  smooth  Na 
ture's  grace, 

Drew  her  to  breast  and  kissed  her  sweet 
heart  face : 

Yea,  man  found  neighbors  in  great  hills 
and  trees 

And    streams    and    clouds    and    suns    and 
birds  and  bees, 

And  throbbed  with  neighbor-loves  in  lov 
ing  these.  '90 

But  oh,  the  poor !  the  poor !  the  poor ! 

That  stand  by  the  inward-opening  door 

Trade's  hand  doth  tighten  ever  more, 

And  sigh  their  monstrous  foul-air  sigh 

For  the  outside  hills  of  liberty, 

Where  Nature  spreads  her  wild  blue  sky 

For  Art  to  make  into  melody ! 

Thou  Trade !   thou   king  of   the   modern 

days ! 

Change  thy  ways, 
Change  thy  ways ;  20° 

Let  the  sweaty  laborers  file 
A  little  while, 
A  little  while, 

Where  Art  and  Nature  sing  and  smile. 

Trade!  is  thy  heart  all  dead,  all  dead? 

And  hast  thou  nothing  but  a  head? 

"I'm  all  for  heart,"  the  flute-voice  said, 

And  into  sudden  silence  fled. 

Like  as  a  blush  that  while  'tis  red 

Dies  to  a  still,  still  white  instead.  2I° 

Thereto  a  thrilling  calm  succeeds, 
Till  presently  the  silence  breeds 
A  little  breeze  among  the  reeds 
That  seems  to  blow  by  sea-marsh  weeds : 
Then  from  the  gentle  stir  and  fret 
Sings  out  the  melting  clarionet, 
Like  as  a  lady  sings  while  yet 
Her  eyes  with  salty  tears  are  wet. 


"O  Trade!  O  Trade!"  the  Lady  said, 
"I  too  will  wish  thee  utterly  dead          22° 
If  all  thy  heart  is  in  thy  head. 
For  O  my  God !  and  O  my  God ! 
What  shameful  ways  have  women  trod 
At  beckoning  of  Trade's  golden  rod ! 
Alas  when  sighs  are  traders'  lies, 
And  heart's-ease  eyes  and  violet  eyes 

Are  merchandise ! 

O  purchased  lips  that  kiss  with  pain ! 
O    cheeks   coin-spotted   with   smirch    and 
stain !  229 

0  trafficked  hearts  that  break  in  twain ! 
— And   yet    what    wonder   at   my   sisters' 

crime? 
So  hath  Trade  withered  up  Love's  sinewy 

prime, 

Men  love  not  women  as  in  olden  time. 
Ah,  not  in  these  cold  merchantable  days 
Deem  men  their  life  an  opal  gray,  where 

plays 
The   one   red   Sweet  of  gracious   ladies'- 

praise. 
Now,  comes  a  suitor  with   sharp  prying 

eye — 
Says,  Here,  you  Lady,  if  you'll  sell,  I'll 

buy: 
Come,  heart  for  heart — a  trade?     What! 

weeping?  why?  239 

Shame  on  such  wooers'  dapper  mercery ! 

1  would  my  lover  kneeling  at  my  feet 

In  humble  manliness  should  cry,  O  sweet  { 
I  know  not  if  thy  heart  my  heart  will 

greet: 

I  ask  not  if  thy  love  my  love  can  meet: 
Whate'er  thy  worshipful  soft  tongue  shall 

say, 

I'll  kiss  thine  answer,  be  it  yea  or  nay: 
I  do  but  know  I  love  thee,  and  I  pray 
To  be  thy  knight  until  my  dying  day. 
Woe  him   that  cunning  trades   in   hearts 

contrives ! 
Base   love   good   women   to   base   loving 

drives.  2s° 

If  men  loved  larger,  larger  were  our  lives  ; 
And  wooed  they  nobler,  won  they  nobler 

wives." 

There  thrust  the  bold  straightforward  horn 
To  battle  for  that  lady  lorn, 
With  heartsome  voice  of  mellow  scorn, 
Like  any  knight  in  knighthood's  morn. 

"Now  comfort  thee,"  said  he, 

"Fair  Lady. 

For  God  shall  right  thy  grievous  wrong, 
And  man  shall  sing  thee  a  true-love  song, 
Voiced  in  act  his  whole  life  long,  2(>l 

Yea,  all  thy  sweet  life  long, 
Fair  Lady. 


456 


AMERICAN   POETRY 


Where's  he  that  craftily  hath  said, 
The  day  of  chivalry  is  dead? 
I'll  prove  that  lie  upon  his  head, 
Or  I  will  die  instead, 

Fair  Lady. 

Is  Honor  gone  into  his  grave? 
Hath  Faith  become  a  caitiff  knave,        27° 
And  Selfhood  turned  into  a  slave 
To  work  in  Mammon's  cave, 

Fair  Lady? 
Will    Truth's    long   blade   ne'er    gleam 

again  ? 

Hath  Giant  Trade  in  dungeons  slain 
All  great  contempts  of  mean-got  gain 
And  hates  of  inward  stain, 

Fair  Lady? 

For  aye  shall  name  and  fame  be  sold, 
And  place  be  hugged  for  the  sake  of 

gold,  280 

And  smirch-robed  Justice  feebly  scold 
At  Crime  all  money-bold, 

Fair  Lady? 

Shall  self-wrapt  husbands  aye  forget 
Kiss-pardons  for  the  daily  fret 
Wherewith  sweet  wifely  eyes  are  wet — 
Blind  to  lips  kiss-wise  set — 

Fair  Lady? 

Shall  lovers  higgle,  heart  for  heart, 
Till  wooing  grows  a  trading  mart          29° 
Where  much  for  little,  and  all  for  part, 
Make  love  a  cheapening  art, 

Fair  Lady? 

Shall  woman  scorch  for  a  single  sin 
That  her  betrayer  may  revel  in, 
And  she  be  burnt,  and  he  but  grin 
When  that  the  flames  begin, 

Fair  Lady? 

Shall  ne'er  prevail  the  woman's  plea, 
We  maids  would  far,  far  whiter  be        3«> 
//  that  our  eyes  might  sometimes  see 
Men  maids  in  purity, 

Fair  Lady? 

Shall  Trade  aye  salve  his  conscience-aches 
With  gibes  at  Chivalry's  old  mistakes — 
The  wars  that  o'erhot  knighthood  makes 
For  Christ's  and  ladies'  sakes, 

Fair  Lady? 

Now  by  each  knight  that  e'er  hath  prayed 
To   fight   like   a   man   and    love   like   a 

maid,  3'° 

Since    Pembroke's    life,    as     Pembroke's 

blade, 
I'  the  scabbard,  death,  was  laid, 

Fair  Lady, 

I  dare  avouch  my  faith  is  bright 
That  God  doth  right  and  God  hath  might. 
Nor  time  hath  changed  His  hair  to  white, 
Nor  His  dear  love  to  spite, 
Fair  Lady. 


I  doubt  no  doubts :  I  strive,  and  shrive  my 

clay, 
And  fight  my  fight  in  the  patient  modern 

way  320 

For  true  love  and  for  thee — ah  me !  and 

pray 
To  be  thy  knight  until  my  dying  day, 

Fair  Lady." 
Made  end  that  knightly  horn,  and  spurred 

away 
Into  the  thick  of  the  melodious  fray. 

And  then  the  hautboy  played  and  smiled, 
And  sang  like  any  large-eyed  child, 
Cool-hearted  and  all  undented. 

"Huge  Trade  !"  he  said, 
"Would   thou   wouldst   lift   me   on  thy 

head  33<> 

And  run  where'er  my  finger  led ! 
Once  said  a  Man — and  wise  was  He — 
Never  shalt  thou  the  heavens  see, 
Save  as  a  little  child  thou  be." 
Then    o'er    sea-lashings    of    commingling 

tunes 
The  ancient  wise  bassoons, 

Like  weird 

Gray-beard 
Old  harpers  sitting  on  the  high  sea-dunes, 

Chanted  runes :  34» 

"Bright- waved  gain,  gray- waved  loss, 
The  sea  of  all  doth  lash  and  toss, 
One  wave  forward  and  one  across : 
But  now  'twas  trough,  now  'tis  crest, 
And  worst  doth  foam  and  flash  to  best, 

And  curst  to  blest. 

"Life!   Life!   thou   sea- fugue,  writ   from 

east  to  west, 

Love,  Love  alone  can  pore 
On  thy  dissolving  score 
Of  harsh  half-phrasings,  35° 

Blotted  ere  writ, 
And  double  erasings 

Of  chords  most  fit. 
Yea,  Love,  sole  music-master  blest, 
May  read  thy  weltering  palimpsest. 
To  follow  Time's  dying  melodies  through, 
And  never  to  lose  the  old  in  the  new, 
And  ever  to  solve  the  discords  true — 

Love  alone  can  do. 

And  ever  Love  hears  the  poor-folks'  cry 
ing,  360 
And  ever  Love  hears  the  women's  sigh 
ing, 

And  ever  sweet  knighthood's  death-defy 
ing, 

And'  ever   wise    childhood's    deep    imply 
ing, 
But  never  a  trader's  glozing  and  lying. 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


457 


"And  yet  shall  Love  himself  be  heard, 

Though  long  deferred,  though  long  de 
ferred  : 

O'er  the  modern  waste  a  dove  hath 
whirred : 

Music  is  Love  in  search  of  a  word." 

1875.      Lippincotfs  Magazine,  June,  1875. 


CLOVER 
Inscribed  to  the  Memory  of  John  Keats. 

Dear  uplands,  Chester's   favorable  fields, 

My  large  unjealous  Loves,  many  yet  one — 

A  grave  good-morrow  to  your  Graces,  all, 

Fair  tilth  and  fruitful  seasons ! 

Lo,  how  still ! 

The  midmorn  empties  you  of  men,  save 
me; 

Speak    to    your   lover,    meadows !     None 
can  hear. 

I  lie  as  lies  yon  placid  Brandywine, 

Holding  the  hills  and  heavens  in  my  heart 

For  contemplation. 

'Tis  a  perfect  hour 

From  founts  of  dawn  the  fluent  autumn 
day  I0 

Has  rippled  as  a  brook  right  pleasantly 

Half-way  to  noon ;  but  now  with  widen 
ing  turn 

Makes  pause,  in  lucent  meditation  locked, 

And  rounds  into  a  silver  pool  of  morn, 

Bottom'd     with     clover-fields.     My    heart 
just  hears 

Eight  lingering  strokes  of  some   far  vil 
lage-bell, 

That    speak   the   hour   so    inward-voiced, 
meseems 

Time's  conscience  has  but  whispered  him 
eight  hints 

Of  revolution.    Reigns  that  mild  surcease 

That    stills    the    middle    of    each    rural 
morn —  2° 

When  nimble  noises  that  with  sunrise  ran 

About  the  farms  have  sunk  again  to  rest; 

When  Tom  no  more  across  the  horse-lot 
calls 

To  sleepy  Dick,  nor  Dick  husk-voiced  up 
braids 

The   sway-back'd   roan    for   stamping   on 
his  foot 

With  sulphurous  oath  and  kick  in  flank, 
what  time 

The  cart-chain  clinks  across  the  slanting 
shaft, 

And,    kitchenward,    the    rattling    bucket 
plumps 


Souse   down    the    well,    where   quivering 

ducks  quack  aloud, 

And  Susan  Cook  is  singing.  *9 

Up  the  sky 

The  hesitating  moon  slow  trembles  on, 
Faint  as  a  new-washed  soul  but  lately  up 
From  out  a  buried  body.     Far  about, 
A  hundred  slopes  in  hundred  fantasies 
Most  ravishingly  run,  so  smooth  of  curve 
That  I  but  seem  to  see  the  fluent  plain 
Rise  toward  a  rain  of  clover-blooms,  as 

lakes 
Pout  gentle  mounds  of  plashment  up  to 

meet 
Big  shower-drops.     Now  the  little  winds, 

as  bees, 
Bowing  the  blooms  come  wandering  where 

I  lie  40 

Mixt  soul  and  body  with  the  clover-tufts. 
Light  on  my  spirit,  give  from  wing  and 

thigh 

Rich  pollens  and  divine  sweet  irritants 
To  every  nerve,  and  freshly  make  report 
Of  inmost  Nature's  secret  autumn-thought 
Unto  some  soul  of  sense  within  my  frame 
That  owns  each  cognizance  of  the  outly 
ing  five, 
And   sees,   hears,   tastes,   smells,   touches, 

all  in  one.  s<> 

Tell  me,  dear  Clover   (since  my  soul  is 

thine, 

Since  I  am  fain  give  study  all  the  day, 
To  make  thy  ways  my  ways,  thy  service 

mine, 

To  seek  me  out  thy  God,  my  God  to  be, 
And  die  from  out  myself  to  live  in  thee)  — 
Now,  Cousin  Clover,  tell  me  in  mine 

ear : 
Go'st  thou  to  market  with  thy  pink  and 

green  ? 

Of  what  avail,  this  color  and  this  grace? 
Wert  thou  but  squat  of  stem  and  brindle- 

brown, 
Still  careless  herds  would  feed.    A  poet, 

thou: 
What  worth,  what  worth,  the  whole  of  all 

thine  art? 
Three-Leaves,  instruct  me !  I  am  sick  of 

price. 

Framed    in    the   arching   of   two   clover- 
stems 
Where-through  I  gaze  from  off  my  hill, 

afar, 
The  spacious  fields   from  me  to  Heaven 

take  on 

Tremors  of  change  and  new  significance. 
To  th'  eye,  as  to  the  ear  a  simple  tale 
Begins  to  hint  a  parable's  sense  beneath. 


458 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


The  prospect  widens,  cuts  all  bounds  of 
blue  69 

Where  horizontal  limits  bend,  and  spreads 

Into  a  curious-hill'd  and  curious-valley'd 
Vast, 

Endless    before,    behind,    around;    which 
seems 

Th'  incalculable  Up-and-Down  of  Time 

Made  plain  before  mine  eyes.    The  clover- 
stems 

Still  cover  all  the  space;  but  now  they 
bear, 

For  clover-blooms,   fair,  stately  heads  of 
men 

With   poets'    faces   heartsome,    dear   and 
pale — 

Sweet  visages  of  all  the  souls  of  time 

Whose   loving  service '  to  the  world  has 
been 

In  the  artist's  way  expressed  and  bodied. 
Oh,  &> 

In   arms'    reach,   here   be    Dante,    Keats, 
Chopin, 

Raphael,  Lucretius,  Omar,  Angelo, 

Beethoven,     Chaucer,     Schubert,     Shake 
speare,  Bach, 

And  Buddha  (sweetest  masters!    Let  me 
lay 

These  arms  this  once,  this  humble  once, 
about 

Your  reverend  necks — the  most  contain 
ing  clasp, 

For  all  in  all,  this  world  e'er  saw!)  and 
there, 

Yet  further  on,  bright  throngs  unnamable 

Of  workers  worshipful,  nobilities 

In    the    Court    of    Gentle    Service,    silent 
men,  9° 

Dwellers  in  woods,  brooders  on  helpful  art, 

And  all  the  press  of  them,  the  fair,  the 
large, 

That  wrought  with  beauty. 

Lo,  what  bulk  is  here? 

Now  comes  the  Course-of-things,  shaped 
like  an  Ox, 

Slow  browsing,  o'er  my  hillside,  ponder 
ously — 

The    huge-brawned,    tame,    and    workful 
Course-qf-thmgs, 

That  hath  his  grass,  if  earth  be  round  or 
flat, 

And  hath  his  grass,  if  empires  plunge  in 
pain 

Of  faiths  flash  out.   This  cool,  unasking  Ox 

Comes  browsing  o'er  my  hills  and  vales 
of  Time,  I0° 

And  thrusts  me  out  his  tongue,  and  curls 
it,  sharp. 

And  sicklewise,  about  my  poets'  heads, 


And   twists   them   in,   all — Dante,    Keats, 
Chopin^ 

Raphael,  Lucretius,  Omar,  Angelo, 

Beethoven,     Chaucer,     Schubert,     Shake 
speare,  Bach, 

And  Buddha,   in  one  sheaf — and  champs 
and  chews, 

With  slantly-churning  jaws,  and  swallows 
down: 

Then  slowly  plants  a  mighty  forefoot  out, 

And  makes   advance  to    futureward,   one 
inch. 

So :  they  have  played  their  part.  I09 

And  to  this  end? 

This,    God?      This,    troublous-breeding 
Earth?    This,   Sun 

Of  hot,  quick  pains?    To  this  no-end  that 
ends, 

These   Masters   wrought,   and   wept,   and 
sweated  blood, 

And  burned,   and  loved,  and  ached  with 
public  shame, 

And    found   no    friends   to   breathe   their 
loves  to,  save 

WToods  and  wet  pillows?     This  was  all? 
This  Ox? 

"Nay,"  quoth  a  sum  of  voices  in  mine  ear, 

"God's  clover,  we,  and  feed  His  Course- 
of-things  ; 

The    pasture    is    God's    pasture,    systems 
strange  IJ9 

Of  food  and  fiberment  He  hath,  whereby 

The  general  brawn  is  built  for  plans  of 
His 

To  quality  precise.     Kinsman,  learn  this : 

The  artist's  market  is  the  heart  of  man; 

The  artist's  price,  some  little  good  of  man. 

Tease  not  thy  vision  with  vain  search  for 
ends. 

The  End  of  Means  is  art  that  works  by 
love. 

The  End  of  Ends  ...   in  God's  Begin 
ning's  lost." 

1876.  The  Independent,  1876. 

SONNETS   ON   COLUMBUS 
From  the  Psalm  of  the  West. 


Columbus  stands  in  the  night  alone,  and, 

passing  grave, 
Yearns  o'er  the  sea  as  tones  o'er  under- 

silence  yearn. 
Heartens  his  heart  as  friend  befriends  his 

friend  less  brave, 

Makes   burn   the    faiths   that   cool,   and 
cools  the  doubts  that  burn : — 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


459 


"'Twixt  this  and  dawn,  three  hours  my 

soul  will  smite 

With  prickly  seconds,  or  less  tolerably 
With  dull-blade  minutes  flatwise  slapping 

me. 
Wait,   Heart !    Time   moves. — Thou   lithe 

young  Western  Night, 
Just-crowned    king,    slow    riding    to    thy 

right,  9 

Would  God  that  I  might  straddle  mutiny 
Calm  as  thou  sitt'st  yon  never-managed 

sea, 
Balk'st   with   his   balking,   fliest   with   his 

flight, 

Giv'st  supple  to  his  rearings  and  his  falls, 
Nor  dropp'st  one  coronal  star  about  thy 

brow 
Whilst  ever  dayward  thou  art  steadfast 

drawn ! 
Yea,  would  I  rode  these  mad  contentious 

brawls 

No  damage  taking  from  their  If  and  How, 
Nor    no    result    save    galloping   to    my 

Dawn ! 


"My  Dawn?  my  Dawn?   How  if  it  never 
break? 

How    if    this    West    by    other    Wests    is 
pieced,  2° 

And  these  by  vacant  Wests  on  Wests  in 
creased — 

One  Pain  of  Space,  with  hollow  ache  on 
ache 

Throbbing   and   ceasing   not   for   Christ's 
own  sake? — 

Big  perilous  theorem,  hard  for  king  and 

priest : 

Pursue  the  West  but  long  enough,  'tis 
East! 

Oh,  if  this  watery  world  no  turning  take ! 

Oh,  if  for  all  my  logic,  all  my  dreams, 

Provings  of  that  which  is  by  that  which 
seems, 

Fears,    hopes,    chills,    heats,    hastes,    pa 
tiences,  droughts,  tears, 

Wife-grievings,  slights  on  love,  embezzled 
years,  3° 

Hates,  treaties,  scorns,  upliftings,  loss  and 
•  gain, — 

This  earth,  no  sphere,  be  all  one  sicken 
ing  plane! 

in 

"Or,  haply,  how  if  this  contrarious  West, 
That  me  by  turns  hath  starved,  by  turns 

hath  fed, 
Embraced,  disgraced,  beat  back,  solicited, 


Have  no  fixed  heart  of  Law  within  his 

breast, 
Or  with  some  different  rhythm  doth  e'er 

contest 
Nature  in  the  East?     Why,  'tis  but  three 

weeks  fled 

I  saw  my  Judas  needle  shake  his  head 
And   flout   the   Pole  that,   east,  he   Lord 

confessed !  40 

God !  if  this  West  should  own  some  other 

Pole, 

And  with  his  tangled  way  perplex  my  soul 
Until  the  maze  grow  mortal,  and  I  die 
Where  distraught  Nature  clean  hath  gone 

astray, 
On  earth  some  other  wit  than  Time's  at 

play, 
Some  other  God  than  mine  above  the  sky ! 

IV 

"Now  speaks  mine  other  heart  with  cheer 
ier  seeming: 

Ho,  Admiral!  o'er-defalking  to  thy  crew 

Against  thyself,  thyself  far  overfew 

To  front  yon  multitudes  of  rebel  schem 
ing?  5° 

Come,  ye  wild  twenty  years  of  heavenly 
dreaming ! 

Come,  ye  wild  weeks  since  first  this  can 
vas  drew 

Out  of  vexed  Palos  ere  the  dawn  was 
blue, 

O'er  milky  waves  about  the  bows  full- 
creaming  ! 

Come  set  me  round  with  many  faithful 
spears 

Of  confident  remembrance — how  I  crushed 

Cat-lived  rebellions,  pitfalled  treasons, 
hushed 

Scared  husbands'  heart-break  cries  on 
distant  wives. 

Made  cowards  blush  at  whining  for  their 
lives, 

Watered  my  parching  souls,  and  dried 
their  tears.  &> 


"Ere  we  Gomera  cleared,  a  coward  cried, 
Turn,  turn:  here  be  three  caravels  ahead, 
From  Portugal,  to  take  us:  we  are  dead! 
Hold  Westward,  pilot,  calmly  I  replied. 
So  when  the  last  land  down  the  horizon 

died, 
Go  back,  go  back!  they  prayed :  our  hearts 

are  lead. — 
Friends,  we  are  bound  into  the   West,  I 

said. 
Then  passed  the  wreck  of  a  mast  upon 

our  side. 


460 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


See  (so  they  wept)  God's  Warning!  Ad 
miral,  turn! — 

Steersman,  I  said,  hold  straight  into  the 
West.  70 

Then  down  the  night  we  saw  the  meteor 
burn. 

So  do  the  very  heavens  in  fire  protest: 

Good  Admiral,  put  about!  O  Spain,  dear 
Spain ! — 

Hold  straight  into  the  West,  I  said  again. 

VI 

"Next    drive    we   o'er    the    slimy-weeded 

sea. 

Lo!  herebeneath  (another  coward  cries) 
The  cursed  land  of  sunk  Atlantis  lies: 
This  slime  will  suck  us  down — turn  while 

thou'rt  free! — 
But  no!  I  said,  Freedom  bears  West  for 

me! 
Yet  when   the  long-time   stagnant  winds 

arise,  8° 

And   day   by   day  the   keel   to   westward 

flies, 
My  Good  my  people's  111  doth  come  to 

be: 

Ever  the  winds  into  the  West  do  blow; 
Never  a  ship,  once  turned,  might  home 
ward  go; 
Meanwhile  we  speed  into   the   lonesome 

main. 
For  Christ's  sake,  parley,  Admiral!   Turn, 

before 
We  sail  outside  all  bounds  of  help  from 

pain ! — 
Our  help  is  in  the  West,  I  said  once  more. 

VII 

"So   when  there  came  a  mighty   cry  of 

Land! 
And  we  clomb  up  and  saw,  and  shouted 

strong  90 

Salve  Regina!  all  the  ropes  along, 
But  knew  at  morn  how  that  a  counterfeit 

band 

Of  level  clouds  had  aped  a  silver  strand; 
So  when  we  heard  the  orchard-bird's 

small  song, 

And  all  the  people  cried,  A  hellish  throng 
To  tempt  us  onward  by  the  Devil  planned, 
Yea,  all  from  hell — keen  heron,  fresh 

green  weeds, 

Pelican,  tunny-fish,  fair  tapering  reeds, 
Lie-telling  lands  that  ever  shine  and  die, 
In  clouds  of  nothing  round  the  empty  sky. 
Tired  Admiral,  get  thee  from   this  hell, 

and  rest! —  I01 

Steersman,  I  said,  hold  straight  into  the 

West. 


VIII 

"I    marvel    how    mine   eye,    ranging   the 

Night, 

From  its  big  circling  ever  absently 
Returns,  thou   large  low  Star,  to  fix  on 

thee. 

Maria!   Star?   No  star:  a  Light,  a  Light! 
Would'st    leap    ashore,    Heart?     Yonder 

burns — a  Light. 

Pedro  Gutierrez,  wake !  come  up  to  me. 
I  prithee  stand  and  gaze  about  the  sea : 
What    seest?    Admiral,   like   as   Land — a 

Light!  no 

Well !    Sanchez   of    Segovia,   come   and 

try: 
What  seest?  Admiral,  naught  but  sea  and 

sky! 
Well!    But  /  saw  It.    Wait!  the  Pinta's 

gun! 
Why,  look,  'tis  dawn,  the  land  is  clear : 

'tis  done ! 
Two  dawns  do  break  at  once  from  Time's 

full  hand — 
God,    East — mine,    West :    good    friends, 

behold  my  Land !" 

1876.      Lippincott's  Magazine,  June,  1876. 


HEARTSTRONG  SOUTH  AND 
HEADSTRONG  NORTH 

From  the  Psalm  of  the  West. 


"Lists  all  white  and  blue  in  the  skies ; 

And  the  people  hurried  amain 
To  the  Tournament  under  the  ladies'  eyes 

Where  jousted  Heart  and  Brain. 


"Blow,  herald,  blow!  There  entered  Heart, 
A  youth  in  crimson  and  gold. 

Blow,  herald,  blow!    Brain  stood  apart, 
Steel-armored,  glittering,  cold. 

in 

"Heart's  palfrey  caracoled  gayly  round, 
Heart  tra-li-raed  merrily;  I0 

But  Brain  sat  still,  with  never  a  sound — 
Full  cynical-calm  was  he. 


"Heart's  helmet-crest  bore  favors  three 
From  his  lady's  white  hand  caught ; 

Brain's  casque  was  bare  as  Fact — not  he 
Or  favor  gave  or  sought. 


SIDNEY    LANIER 


461 


"Blow,  herald,  blow!   Heart  shot  a  glance 

To  catch  his  lady's  eye; 
But    Brain    looked    straight    a-front,    his 
lance 

To  aim  more  faithfully.  2° 


VI 


"They  charged,  they  struck ;  both  fell,  both 
bled ; 

Brain  rose  again,  ungloved ; 
Heart  fainting  smiled,  and  softly  said, 

My  love  to  my  Beloved." 


Heart  and  Brain !  no  more  be  twain ; 
Throb  and  think,  one  flesh  again ! 
Lo !  they  weep,  they  turn,  they  run ; 
Lo  !  they  kiss  :    Love,  thou  art  one ! 


1876.       Lippincotfs  Magazine,  June,  1876. 


SONG  OF  THE  CHATTAHOOCHEE 


Out  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Down  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
I  hurry  amain  to  reach  the  plain, 
Run  the  rapid  and  leap  the  fall, 
Split  at  the  rock  and  together  again, 
Accept  my  bed,  or  narrow  or  wide, 
And  flee  from  folly  on  every  side 
With  a  lover's  pain  to  attain  the  plain 

Far  from  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Far  from  the  valleys  of  Hall.  I0 

All  down  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
All  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  rushes  cried  Abide,  abide, 
The  wilful  waterweeds  held  me  thrall, 
The  laving  laurel  turned  my  tide, 
The    ferns    and    the    fondling   grass    said 

Stay, 

The  dewberry  dipped  for  to  work  delay, 
And  the  little  reeds  sighed  Abide,  abide, 
Here  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Here  in  the  valleys  of  Hall.  M 

High  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Veiling  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  hickory  told  me  manifold 
Fair  tales  of  shade,  the  poplar  tall 
Wrought  me  her  shadowy  self  to  hold, 
The  chestnut,  the  oak,  the  walnut,  the  pine, 
Overleaning,  with  flickering  meaning  and 

sign, 
Said,  Pass  not,  so  cold,  these  manifold 

Deep  shades  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

These  glades  in  the  valleys  of  Hall    30 


And  oft  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
And  oft  in  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  white  quartz  shone,  and  the  smooth 

brook-stone 
Did  bar   me   of  passage   with    friendly 

brawl, 

And  many  a  luminous  jewel  lone 
— Crystals  clear  or  a-cloud  with  mist, 
Ruby,  garnet  and  amethyst — 
Made  lures  with  the  lights  of  streaming 

stone 

In  the  clefts  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
In  the  beds  of  the  valleys  of  Hall.    40 

But  oh,  not  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
And  oh,  not  the  valleys  of  Hall 
Avail :    I  am  fain  for  to  water  the  plain. 
Downward  the  voices  of  Duty  call — 
Downward,  to  toil  and  be  mixed  with  the 

main, 
The  dry  fields  burn,  and  the  mills  are  to 

turn, 

And  a  myriad  flowers  mortally  yearn, 
And    the    lordly    main    from    beyond    the 

plain 

Calls  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Calls  through  the  valleys  of  Hall.        so 


1877. 


Scott's  Magazine,  1877. 


THE   STIRRUP-CUP 

Death,  thou'rt  a  cordial  old  and  rare: 
Look  how  compounded,  with  what  care! 
Time  got  his  wrinkles  reaping  thee 
Sweet  herbs  from  all  antiquity. 

David  to  thy  distillage  went, 
Keats,  and  Gotama  excellent, 
Omar  Khayyam,  and  Chaucer  bright, 
And  Shakspere  for  a  king-delight. 

Then,  Time,  let  not  a  drop  be  spilt : 
Hand  me  the  cup  whene'er  thou  wilt;     I0 
'Tis  thy  rich  stirrup-cup  to  me; 
I'll  drink  it  down  right  smilingly. 

1877.  Scribner's  Monthly,  May,  1877. 


THE   MOCKING  BIRD 


Superb  and  sole,  upon  a  plumed  spray 
That  o'er  the  general  leafage  boldly  grew, 
He  summ'd  the  woods  in  song;  or  typic 

drew 
The   watch   of   hungry   hawks,   the   lone 

dismay 


462 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Of  languid  doves  when  long  their  lovers 

stray, 
And  all  birds'  passion-plays  that  sprinkle 

dew 

At  morn  in  brake  or  bosky  avenue. 
Whate'er  birds  did  or  dreamed,  this  bird 

could   say. 

Then  down  he  shot,  bounced  airily  along 
The    sward,    twitched    in    a   grasshopper, 

made  song  I0 

Midflight,  perched,  prinked,  and  to  his  art 

again. 
Sweet  Science,  this  large  riddle  read  me 

plain : 

How  may  the  death  of  that  dull  insect  be 
The  life  of  yon   trim   Shakspere  on  the 

tree? 

The  Galaxy,  Aug.,  1877. 


THE   BEE 

What  time  I  paced,  at  pleasant  morn, 

A  deep  and  dewy  wood, 
I  heard  a  mellow  hunting-horn 

Make  dim  report  of  Dian's  lustihood 
Far   down   a  heavenly  hollow. 
Mine  ear,  though  fain,  had  pain  to  follow : 
Tara!   it  twanged,  tara-tara!  it  blew 
Yet  wavered  oft,  and  flew 
Most  ficklewise  about,  or  here,  or  there, 
A  music  now  from  earth  and  now  from 
air.  I0 

But  on  a  sudden,  lo! 
I  marked  a  blossom  shiver  to  and  fro 
With    dainty    inward    storm;    and    there 

within 

A    down-drawn    trump    of    yellow    jessa 
mine 

A  bee 

Thrust  up  its  sad-gold  body  lustily, 
All  in  a  honey  madness  hotly  bound 
On  blissful  burglary. 

A  cunning  sound  '9 

In  that  wing-music  held  me :  down  I  lay 
In  amber  shades  of  many  a  golden  spray, 
Where  looping  low  with  languid  arms  the 

Vine 

In  wreaths  of  ravishment  did  overtwine 
Her  kneeling  Live-Oak,  thousand-fold  to 

plight 
Herself  unto  her  own  true  stalwart  knight. 

As  some  dim  blur  of  distant  music  nears 
The  long-desiring  sense,  and'slowly  clears 

To  forms  of  time  and  apprehensive 
tune, 

So,  as  I  lay,  full  soon 


Interpretation  throve:  the  bee's  fanJare 
Through  sequent  films  of  discourse  vague 
as  air,  3° 

Passed    to    plain    words,    while,    fanning 

faint  perfume, 

The  bee  o'erhung  a  rich,  unrifled  bloom : 
"O    Earth,    fair    lordly    Blossom,    soft 

a-shine 

Upon   the  star-pranked  universal   vine, 
Hast  nought   for   me? 

To  thee 

Come  I,  a  poet,  hereward  haply  blown, 
From    out    another    worldflower    lately 

flown. 

Wilt  ask,  What  profit  e'er  a  poet  brings? 
He  beareth  starry  stuff  about  his  wings  40 
To  pollen  thee  and  sting  the  fertile :  nay, 
If  still  thou  narrow  thy  contracted  way, 
— Worldflower,   if  thou   refuse  me — 
— Worldflower,  if  thou  abuse  me, 
And  hoist  thy  stamen's  spear-point  high 
To  wound  my  wing  and  mar  mine  eye — 
Nathless    I'll    drive    me    to    thy    deepest 

sweet,  v 

Yea,  richlier  shall  that  pain  the  pollen  beat 
From  me  to  thee,  for  oft  these  pollens  be 
Fine  dust  from  wars  that  poets  wage  for 
thee.  so 

But,  O  beloved  Earthbloom  soft  a-shine 
Upon  the  universal  Jessamine, 
Prithee,  abuse  me  not, 
Prithee,  refuse  me  not, 
Yield,  yield  the  heartsome  honey  love  to 

me 

Hid  in  thy  nectary !" 
And  as  I  sank  into  a  dimmer  dream 
The  pleading  bee's  song-burthen  sole  did 

seem : 

"Hast  ne'er  a  honey-drop  of  love   for 
me 

In  thy  huge  nectary?"  6° 

1877.        Lippincott's  Magazine,  Oct.,  1877. 

UNDER  THE  CEDARCROFT 
CHESTNUT  i 

Trim    set    in    ancient    sward,    his    manful 

bole 
Upbore  his  frontage  largely  toward  the 

sky. 
We  could  not  dream  .but  that  he  had  a 

soul : 

What    virtue    breathed    from    out    his 
bravery ! 

1  "This  chestnut  tree  (at  Cedarcroft,  the  estate 
of  Mr.  Bayard  Taylor,  in  Pennsylvania),  is  es 
timated  to  be  more  than  eight  hundred  years 
old."  (Author's  Note.) 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


463 


We  gazed  o'erhead :  far  down  our  deep 
ening  eyes 

Rained  glamours   from  his  green  -mid 
summer  mass. 

The  worth  and  sun  of  all  his  centuries 
Suffused    his    mighty    shadow    on    the 
grass. 

A  Presence  large,  a  grave  and  steadfast 

Form  9 

Amid  the  leaves'  light  play  and  fantasy, 

A    calmness    conquered   out   of    many    a 

storm, 

A    Manhood   mastered   by   a   chestnut- 
tret! 

Then,   while   his   monarch   fingers   down 
ward  held 
The  rugged  burrs  wherewith  his  state 

was  rife, 
A  voice  of  large  authoritative  Eld 

Seemed    uttering    quickly    parables    of 
life: 

How  Life  in  truth  was  sharply  set  with 

ills; 
A    kernel    cased    in    quarrels;    yea,    a 

sphere 
Of  stings,  and  hedge-hog-round  of  mortal 

quills: 

How  most  men  itched  to  eat  too  soon 
i'  the  year,  2° 

And   took   but   wounds  and  worries  for 

their  pains, 
Whereas  the  wise  withheld  their  patient 

hands, 
Nor  plucked  green  pleasures  till  the  sun 

and  rains 

And     seasonable     ripenings     burst     all 
bands 

And  opened  wide  the  liberal  burrs  of  life. 
There,  O  my  Friend,  beneath  the  chest 
nut  bough1, 
Gazing    on    thee    immerged    in    modern 

strife, 

I    framed    a   prayer    of    fervency — that 
thou, 

In  soul  and  stature  larger  than  thy  kind, 
Still  more  to  this  strong  Form  might'st 
liken  thee,  3° 

Till  thy  whole  Self  in  every  fibre  find 
The  tranquil   lordship   of  thy   chestnut 
tree. 


A  SONG  OF  THE  FUTURE 

Sail  fast,  sail  fast, 

Ark  of  my  hopes,  Ark  of  my  dreams; 
Sweep  lordly  o'er  the  drowned  Past, 
Fly  glittering  through  the  sun's  strange 
beams ; 

Sail  fast,  sail  fast. 

Breaths  of  new  buds  from  off  some  dry 
ing  lea 

With  news  about  the  Future  scent  the  sea : 
My   brain    is   beating   like   the   heart    of 

Haste : 

I'll   loose   me   a  bird  upon   this   Present 
waste ; 

Go,  trembling  song,  I0 

And  stay  not  long;  oh,  stay  not  long: 
Thou'rt  only  a  gray  and  sober  dove, 
But  thine  eye  is  faith  and  thy  wing  is 
love. 


1878. 


Scribner's  Monthly,  1878. 


1877. 


Scribner's  Monthly,  Jan.,  1878. 


THE  REVENGE  OF  HAMISH 

It  was  three  slim  does   and  a  ten-tined 

buck  in  the  bracken  lay; 
And  all  of  a  sudden  the  sinister  smell 

of  a  man, 

Awaft  on  a  wind-shift,  wavered  and  ran 
Down  the  hillside  and  sifted  along  through 
the  bracken  and  passed  that  way. 

Then  Nan  got  a-tremble  at  nostril;  she 

was  the  daintiest  doe ; 
In  the  print  of  her  velvet  flank  on  the 

velvet  fern 
She   reared,   and   rounded   her   ears   in 

turn. 

Then  the  buck  leapt  up,  and  .his  head  as 
a  king's  to  a  crown  did  go 

Full  high  in  the  breeze,  and  he  stood  as 

if  Death  had  the  form  of  a  deer; 
And    the    two    slim    does    long    lazily 
stretching  arose,  10 

For  their  day-dream  slowlier  came  to 

a  close, 

Till  they  woke  and  were  still,  breath- 
bound  with  waiting  and  wonder  and 
fear. 

Then  Alan  the  huntsman  sprang  over  the 

hillock,  the  hounds  shot  by, 
The  does  and  the  ten-tined  buck  made 

a  marvellous  bound, 
The  hounds  swept  after  with  never  a 

sound, 

But  Alan  loud  winded  his  horn  in  sign 
that  the  quarry  was  nigh. 


464 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


For  at  dawn  of  that  day  proud  Maclean 
of   Lochbuy  to  the  hunt  had  waxed 
wild, 
And    he   cursed   at   old   Alan   till   Alan 

fared  off  with  the  hounds 
For  to  drive  him  the  deer  to  the  lower 
glen-grounds : 

"I  will  kill  a  red  deer,"  quoth  Maclean, 
"in  the  sight  of  the  wife  and  the 
child."  2° 

So  gayly  he  paced  with  the  wife  and  the 

child  to  his  chosen  stand; 
But  he  hurried  tall  Hamish  the  hench 
man  ahead :    "Go  turn," — 
Cried    Maclean, — "if    the    deer    seek    to 

cross  to  the  burn, 

Do  thou  turn  them  to  me :  nor  fail,  lest 
thy  back  be  red  as  thy  hand." 

Now  hard-fortuned   Hamish,  half  blown 

of  his  breath  with  the  height  of  the 

hill, 
Was  white  in  the   face  when  the  ten- 

tined  buck  and  the  does 
Drew    leaping    to    burn-ward;    huskily 

rose 
His   shouts,   and   his   nether  lip   twitched 

and  his  legs  were  o'er-weak   for  his 

will. 

So  the  deer  darted  lightly  by  Hamish  and 

bounded  away  to  the  burn. 
But    Maclean    never    bating    his    watch 
tarried  waiting  below;  30 

Still  Hamish  hung  heavy  with  fear  for 

to  go 

All  the  space  of  an  hour;  then  he  went, 
and  his  face  was  greenish  and  stern, 

And  his  eye  sat  back  in  the  socket,  and 

shrunken  the  eye-balls  shone, 
As  withdrawn  from  a  vision  of  deeds 

it  were  shame  to  see. 
"Now,  now,  grim  henchman,  what  is  't 

with  thee?" 

Brake  Maclean,  and  his  wrath  rose  red  as 
a  beacon  the  wind  hath  upblown. 


I  had  killed  if  the  gluttonous  kern  had 
not    wrought    me    a    snail's    own 
wrong!" 

Then  he  sounded,  and  down  came  kins 
men  and  clansmen  all : 
"Ten  blows,   for  ten  tine,   on  his  back 

let  fall, 

And  reckon  no  stroke  if  the  blood  follow 
not  at  the  bite  of  thong!" 

So  Hamish  made  bare,  and  took  him  his 

strokes ;  at  the  last  he  smiled. 
"Now  I'll  to  the  burn,"  quoth  Maclean, 

"for  it  still  may  be, 
If  a  slimmer-paunched   henchman   will 

hurry  with  me, 

I  shall  kill  me  the  ten-tined  buck   for  a 
gift  to  the  wife  and  the  child!" 

Then  the  clansmen  departed,  by  this  path 

and  that;  and  over  the  hill 
Sped  Maclean  with  an  outward  wrath 
for  an  inward  shame;  5° 

And  that  place  of  the  lashing  full  quiet 

became ; 

And  the   wife   and  the  child   stood   sad; 
and  bloody-backed  Hamish  sat  still. 

But  look !   red   Hamish  has  risen ;   quick 

about  and  about  turns  he. 
"There    is    none    betwixt    me    and    the 

crag-top !"  he  screams  under  breath. 
Then,    livid    as    Lazarus    lately    from 

death, 

He  snatches  the  child   from  the  mother, 
and  clambers  the  crag  toward  the 
sea. 

Now    the    mother    drops    breath;    she    is 
dumb,   and  her  heart  goes  dead   for 
a  space, 
Till  the  motherhood,  mistress  of  death, 

shrieks,  shrieks  through  the  glen, 
And   that   place  of   the   lashing   is  live 

with  men, 

And  Maclean,  and  the  gillie  that  told  him, 
dash  up  in  a  desperate  race.  6° 


"Three  does  and  a  ten-tined  buck  made 

out,"  spoke  Hamish,  full  mild, 
"And  I  ran  for  to  turn,  but  my  breath 

it  was  blown,  and  they  passed ; 
I  was  weak,  for  ye  called  ere  I  broke 

me  my  fast." 

Cried  Maclean :   "Now  a  ten-tined  buck  in 
the  sight  of  the  wife  and  the  child  4° 


Not  a  breath's  time  for  asking;  an  eye- 
glance  reveals  all  the  tale  untold. 
They  follow  mad  Hamish  afar  up  the 

crag  toward  the  sea, 
And    the    lady    cries :     "Clansmen,    run 

for  a  fee ! 

Yon    castle    and    lands    to    the    two    first 
hands  that  shall  hook  him  and  hold 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


465 


"Fast  Hamish  back  from  the  brink !" — and 

ever  she  flies  up  the  steep, 
And  the  clansmen  pant,  and  they  sweat, 

and  they  jostle  and  strain. 
But,  mother,  'tis  vain;  but,  father,  'tis 

vain; 

Stern  Hamish  stands  bold  on  the  brink, 
and  dangles  the  child  o'er  the  deep. 

Now   a   faintness    falls   on   the   men  that 

run,  and  they  all  stand  still. 
And  the   wife  prays   Hamish  as   if  he 
were  God,  on  her  knees,  7° 

Crying:     "Hamish!     O     Hamish!     but 

please,  but  please 

For  to  spare  him !"  and  Hamish  still 
dangles  the  child,  with  a  wavering 
will. 

On  a  sudden  he  turns;  with  a  sea-hawk 

scream,  and  a  gibe,  and  a  song, 
Cries:    "So;  I  will  spare  ye  the  child 

if,  in  sight  of  ye  all, 
Ten  blows  on  Maclean's  bare  back  shall 

fall, 

And  ye  reckon  no  stroke  if  the  blood  fol 
low  not  at  the  bite  of  the  thong!" 

Then  Maclean  he  set  hardly  his  tooth  to 

his  lip  that  his  tooth  was  red, 
Breathed  short  for  a  space,  said :  "Nay, 

but  it  never  shall  be ! 
Let  me  hurl  off  the  damnable  hound  in 

the  sea!" 

But  the  wife:  "Can  Hamish  go  fish  us 
the  child  from  the  .sea,  if  dead?  8° 

"Say  yea! — Let  them  lash  me,  Hamish?" — 

"Nay  !" — "Husband,    the   lashing   will 

heal; 
But,   oh,   who  will  heal  me  the  bonny 

sweet  bairn  in  his  grave? 
Could  ye  cure   me  my  heart   with  the 

death  of  a  knave? 
Quick !     Love !    I    will    bare    thee — so — 

kneel!"     Then    Maclean    'gan    slowly 

to  kneel. 

With  never  a  word,  till  presently  down 
ward  he  jerked  to  the  earth. 
Then    the    henchman — he    that     smote 

Hamish — would  tremble  and  lag; 
"Strike,     hard!"     quoth     Hamish,     full 

stern,  from  the  crag; 
Then    he    struck    him,    and    "One"    sang 
Hamish,   and   danced   with   the  child 
in  his  mirth. 


And   no   man   spake    beside    Hamish ;    he 

counted  each  stroke  with  a  song. 
When    the    last    stroke    fell,    then    he 
moved  him  a  pace  down  the  height,  9° 
And   he    held    forth    the    child    in   the 

heart-aching  sight 

Of    the    mother,    and    looked    all    pitiful 
grave,  as  repenting  a  wrong. 

And  there  as  the  motherly  arms  stretched 

out  with  the  thanksgiving  prayer — 
And  there  as  the  mother  crept  up  with 

a  fearful  swift  pace, 
Till  her  finger  nigh  felt  of  the  bairnie's 

face — 

In   a   flash    fierce    Hamish   turned   round 
and  lifted  the  child  in  the  air, 

And   sprang  with   the  child   in  his  arms 

from  the  horrible  height  in  the  sea, 
Shrill    screeching,    "Revenge !"    in    the 

wind-rush;   and   pallid  Maclean, 
Age-feeble    with    anger    and    impotent 

pain, 

Crawled  up  on  the  crag,  and  lay  flat,  and 
locked  hold  of  dead  roots  of  a  tree. 

And   gazed  hungrily  o'er,  and  the  blood 

from    his    back    drip-dripped    in    the 

brine,  «>i 

And  a  sea-hawk  flung  down  a  skeleton 

fish  as  he  flew, 
And  the   mother   stared   white   on   the 

waste  of  blue, 

And  the  wind  drove  a  cloud  to  -seaward, 
and  the  sun  began  to  .shine. 

1878.  Appleton's  Magazine,  1878. 

7> 

THE  MARSHES  OF  GLYNN * 

Glooms  of  the  live-oaks,  beautiful-braided 

and  woven 
With   intricate   shades   of   the   vines   that 

myriad-cloven 

Clamber    the    forks   of   the    multiform 
boughs, — 

Emerald  twilights, — 
Virginal  shy  lights, 

Wrought  of  the  leaves  to  allure  to  the 
whisper  of  vows, 

1  The  salt  marshes  of  Glynn  County,  Georgia, 
immediately  around  the  sea-coast  city  of  Bruns 
wick. 

The  three  "Hymns  of  the  Marshes"  .  .  _  . 
are  the  only  written  portions  of  a  series  of  six 
"Marsh  Hymns"  that  were  designed  by  the  au 
thor  to  form  a  separate  volume.  (Mrs.  LAMER.) 


466 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


When  lovers  pace  timidly  down  through 

the  green  colonnades 
Of   the    dim   sweet   woods,   of   the    dear 

dark  woods, 

Of  the  heavenly  woods  and  glades, 
That  run  to  the  radiant  marginal  sand- 
beach  within  I0 
The  wide  sea-marshes  of  Glynn; — 

Beautiful  glooms,  soft  dusks  in  the  noon 
day  fire, — 

Wildwood  privacies,  closets  of  lone  de 
sire, 

Chamber  from  chamber  parted  with  wav 
ering  arras  of  leaves, — 

Cells  for  the  passionate  pleasure  of  prayer 
to  the  soul  that  grieves, 

Pure  with  a  sense  of  the  passing  of  saints 
through  the  wood, 

Cool  for  the  dutiful  weighing  of  ill  with 
good; — 

O  braided  dusks  of  the  oak  and  woven 

shades  of  the  vine, 
While  the   riotous  noon-day   sun  of  the 

June-day  .long  did  shine 
Ye  held  me  fast  in  your  heart  and  I  held 

you  fast  in  mine;  2° 

But  now  when  the  noon  is  no  more,  and 

riot  is  rest, 
And  the  sun  is  a-wait  at  the  ponderous 

gate  of  the  West, 
And    the    slant    yellow    beam    down    the 

wood-aisle  doth  seem 
Like  a  lane  into  heaven  that  leads  from 

a  dream, — 
Ay,    now,    when    my    soul    all    day   hath 

drunken  the  soul  of  the  oak, 
And  my  heart  is  at  ease  from  men,  and 

the  wearisome  sound  of  the  stroke 
Of  the  scythe  of  time  and  the  trowel 

of  trade  is  low, 
And   belief    overmasters    doubt,    and    I 

know  that  I  know, 
And    my    spirit    is    grown   to    a    lordly 

great  compass  within, 
That  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the 

sweep  of  the  Marshes  of  Glynn       3° 
Will  work  me  no  fear  like  the  fear  they 

have  wrought  me  of  yore 
When    length    was     fatigue,     and    when 

breadth  was  but  bitterness  sore, 
"And    when    terror     and     shrinking    and 

dreary  unnamable  pain 
Drew  over  me  out  of  the  merciless  miles 

of  the  plain, — 

Oh,  now,  unafraid,  I  am  fain  to  face 
The  vast  sweet  visage  of  space. 


To  the  edge  of  the  wood  I  am  drawn,  I 

am  drawn, 
Where  the  gray  beach  glimmering  runs, 

as  a  belt  of  the  dawn, 
For  a  mete  and  a  mark 

To  the  forest-dark  : —  4° 

So: 

Affable  live-oak,  leaning  low, — 
Thus — with  your  favor — soft,  with  a  rev 
erent  hand 
(Not  lightly  touching  your  person,  Lord 

of  the  land!), 
Bending  your  beauty   aside,  with  a  step 

I  stand 
On  the  firm-packed  sand, 

Free 
By    a    world    of    marsh    that    borders    a 

world  of  sea. 

Sinuous  southward  and  sinuous  north 
ward  the  shimmering  band 
Of  the  sand-beach  fastens  the  fringe  of 

the  marsh  to  the  folds  of  the  land,  so 
Inward   and   outward   to   northward   and 

southward  the  beach-lines  linger  and 

curl 
As  a  silver-wrought  garment  that  clings 

to  and  follows  the  firm  sweet  limbs 

of  a  girl. 
Vanishing,    swerving,    evermore    curving 

again  into  sight, 
Softly  the  sand-beach  wavers  away  to  a 

dim  gray  looping  of  light. 
And  what  if  behind  me  to  westward  the 

wall  of  the  woods  stands  high? 
The    world    lies    east :    how    ample,    the 

marsh  and  the  sea  and  the  sky ! 
A   league   and   a   league   of   marsh-grass, 

waist-high,  broad  in  the  blade, 
Green,  and  all  of  a  height,  and  unflecked 

with  a  light  or  a  shade, 
Stretch  leisurely  off,  in  a  pleasant  plain, 
To  the  terminal  blue  of  the  main.  6° 

Oh,  what  is  abroad  in  the  marsh  and  the 

terminal  sea? 

Somehow  my  soul  seems  suddenly  free 
From  the  weighing  of   fate  and  the  sad 

discussion  of  sin, 
By  the  length   and  the  breadth   and  the 

sweep  of  the  marshes  of  Glynn. 

Ye  marshes,  how  candid  and  simple  and 

nothing-withholding  and  free 
Ye  publish  yourselves  to  the  sky  and  offer 

yourselves  to  the  sea ! 
Tolerant  plains,   that   suffer  the   sea  and 

the  rains  and  the  sun, 
Ye  spread  and  span  like  the  catholic  man 

who  hath  mightily  won 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


467 


God  out  of  knowledge  and  good  out  of 

infinite  pain 
And  sight  out  of  blindness  and  purity  out 

of  a  stain.  7° 

As  the  marsh-hen  secretly  builds  on  the 

watery  sod, 
Behold    I    will    build    me   a    nest    on    the 

greatness  of  God : 
I  will  fly  in  the  greatness  of  God  as  the 

marsh-hen  flies 
In    the    freedom    that   fills    all    the    space 

'twixt  the  marsh  and  the  skies : 
By    so   many    roots    as   the    marsh-grass 

sends  in  the  sod 

I  will  heartily  lay  me  a-hold  on  the  great 
ness  of  God : 
Oh,  like  to  the  greatness  of  God  is  the 

greatness  within 
The    range    of   the    marshes,   the    liberal 

marshes  of  Glynn. 
And  the  sea  lends  large,  as  the  marsh : 

lo,  out  of  his  plenty  the  sea 
Pours    fast :    full    soon   the    time   of    the 

flood-tide  must  be :  8° 

Look  how  the  grace  of  the  sea  doth  go 
About   and    about   through   the    intricate 

channels  that  flow 
Here  and  there, 

Everywhere, 
Till  his  waters  have  flooded  the  uttermost 

creeks  and  the  low-lying  lanes, 
And  the  marsh  is  meshed  with  a  million 

veins, 
That  like  as  with  rosy  and  silvery  essences 

flow 
In  the  rose-and-silver  evening  glow. 

Farewell,  my  lord  Sun ! 
The  creeks  overflow :  a  thousand  rivulets 

run  90 

'Twixt  the  roots  of  the  sod;  the  blades 

of  the  marsh-grass  stir; 
Passeth  a  hurrying  sound  of  wings  that 

westward  whirr; 
Passeth,  and  all  is  still;  and  the  currents 

cease  to  run ; 
And  the  sea  and  the  marsh  are  one. 

How  still  the  plains  of  the  waters  be! 
The  tide  is  in  his  ecstasy. 
The  tide  is  at  his  highest  height : 
And  it  is  night. 

And  now  from  the  Vast  of  the  Lord  will 

the  waters  of  sleep 

Roll  in  on  the  souls  of  men,  '«> 

But  who  will  reveal  to  our  waking  ken 
The  forms  that  swim  and  the  shapes  that 

creep 

Under  the  waters  of  sleep? 


And  I  would  I  could  know  what  swim- 
meth  below  when  the  tide  comes  in 

On  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  the 
marvellous  marshes  of  Glynn. 


1878. 


"The  Masque  of  Poets,"  1879 


MARSH  SONG—  AT  SUNSE 


Over  the  monstrous  shambling  sea, 

Over  the  Caliban  sea, 
Bright  Ariel-cloud,  thou  lingerest: 
Oh  wait,  oh  wait,  in  the  warm  red  West,  — 

Thy  Prosperp  I'll  be. 

Over  the  humped  and  fishy  sea, 

Over  the  Caliban  sea 
O  cloud  in  the  West,  like  a  thought  in 

the  heart 
Of  pardon,  loose  thy  wing,  and  start, 

And  do  a  grace  for  me.  «> 

Over  the  huge  and  huddling  sea, 

Over  the  Caliban  sea, 
Bring  hither  my  brother  Antonio,  —  Man,  — 
My  injurer:  night  breaks  the  ban: 

Brother,  I  pardon  thee. 

1879-80.  The  Continent,  Feb.,  1882. 


REMONSTRANCE 

"Opinion,  let  me  alone :   I  am  not  thine. 

Prim  Creed,  with  categoric  point,  forbear 

To   feature   me   my  Lord   by  rule  and 

line. 
Thou  canst  not  measure  Mistress  Nature's 

hair, 
Not  one  sweet  inch :  nay,  if  thy  sight 

is  sharp, 

Would'st  count  the  strings  upon  an  angel's 
harp? 

Forbear,  forbear. 

"Oh  let  me  love  my  Lord  more  fathom 

deep 
Than  there  is  line  to  sound  with :  let  me 

love 

My    fellow  not  as   men   that   mandates 
keep :  "> 

Yea,  all  that's  lovable,  below,  above, 
That  let  me  love  by  heart,  by  heart,  be 
cause 

(Free  from  the  penal  pressure  of  the 
laws) 

I  find  it  fair. 


46$ 


AMERICAN   POETRY 


"The  tears   I   weep  by  day  and  bitter 

night, 

Opinion !  for  thy  sole  salt  vintage  fall. 
— As  morn  by  morn  I  rise  with  fresh 

delight, 
Time  through  my  casement  cheerily  doth 

call 

'Nature  is  new,'  'tis  birthday  every  day, 
Come  feast  with  me,   let   no  man  say 
me  nay,  2° 

Whate'er  befall." 

"Sp  fare  I  forth  to  feast :  I  sit  beside 
Some  brother  bright:  but,  ere  good-mor 
row's  passed, 

Burly  Opinion  wedging  in  hath  cried 
Thou   shalt  not  sit  by  us,  to  break  thy 

fast, 
Save  to  our  Rubric  thou  subscribe  and 

swear — 

Religion  hath  blue  eyes  and  yellow  hair : 
She's  Saxon,  all." 

"Then,  hard  a-hungered  for  my  brother's 

grace 

Till   well-nigh    fain   to    swear   his    folly's 
true,  30 

In  sad  dissent  I  turn  my  longing  face 
To  him  that  sits  on  the  left:  'Brother, — 

with  you?' 

— 'Nay,    not   with    me,    save   thou    sub 
scribe  and  swear 

Religion    hath    black    eyes    and    raven 
hair: 

Nought  else  is  true.' 

"Debarred  of   banquets   that  my  heart 

could  make 

With  every  man  on  every  day  of  life, 
I  homeward  turn,  my  fires  of  pain  to 

slake 
In    deep    endearments    of    a    worshipped 

wife. 

'I  love  thee  well,  dear  Love,'  quoth  she, 
'and  yet  4° 

Would  that  thy  creed  with  mine  com 
pletely  met, 

As  one,  not  two.' 

"Assassin !     Thief !     Opinion,    'tis    thy 

work. 
By  Church,  by  throne,  by  hearth,  by  every 

good 
That's    in   the   Town   of   Time,    I    see 

thee  lurk, 

And  e'er  some  shadow  stays  where  thou 
hast  stood. 


Thou  hand'st  sweet  Socrates  his  hem 
lock  sour; 

Thou   sav'st  Barabbas   in  that  hideous 
hour, 

And  stabb'st  the  good 

"Deliverer  Christ ;  thou  rack'st  the  souls 

of  men ;  5° 

Thou  tossest  girls   to  lions   and  boys   to 

flames ; 

Thou  hew'st  Crusader  down  by  Sara 
cen; 
Thou     buildest     closets     full     of     secret 

shames ; 
Indifferent    cruel,    thou    dost    blow    the 

blaze 

Round  Ridley  or  Servetus ;  all  thy  days 
Smell  scorched ;  I  would 

" — Thou    base-born    Accident    of    time 

and  place — 

Bigot  Pretender  unto  Judgment's  throne — 
Bastard,  that   claimest  with   a  cunning 

face 

Those  rights  the  true,  true  Son  of  Man 
doth  own  6° 

By  Love's  authority — thou  Rebel  cold 
At    head    of    civil    wars    and    quarrels 
old— 

Thou  Knife  on  a  throne — 

"I  would  thou  left'st  me  free,  to  live 

with  love, 
And  faith,  that  through  the  love  of  love 

doth  find 
My  Lord's   dear  presence  in  the   stars 

above, 
The   clods  below,   the   flesh   without,   the 

mind 

Within,  the  bread,  the  tear,  the  smile. 
Opinion,    damned   Intriguer,   gray   with 
guile, 

Let  me  alone."  7° 

1878.      The  Century  Magazine,  Apr.,  1883. 


HOW  LOVE  LOOKED  FOR  HELL 

To  heal  his  heart  of  long-time  pain 
One  day  Prince  Love  for  to  travel  was 
fain 

With  Ministers  Mind  and  Sense. 
"Now  what  to  thee  most  strange  may  be?" 
Quoth  Mind  and  Sense.   "All  things  above, 
One  curious  thing  I  first  would  see — 

Hell,"  quoth  Love. 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


469 


Then  Mind  rode  in  and  Sense  rode  out : 
They  searched  the  ways  of  man  about. 

First   frightfully  groaneth   Sense.     I0 

"  'Tis  here,  'tis  here,"  and  spurreth  in  fear 

To  the  top  of  the  hill  that  hangeth  above 

And  plucketh  the  Prince :    "Come,  come, 

'tis  here — " 

"Where?"  quoth  Love — 

"Not  far,  not  far,"  said  shivering  Sense 
As  they  rode  on.  "A  short  way  hence, 

— But  seventy  paces  hence : 
Look,  King,  dost  see  where  suddenly 
This    road    doth   dip    from   the   height 

above  ? 
Cold  blew  a  mouldy  wind  by  me."  *> 

("Cold?"   quoth   Love.) 

"As  I  rode  down,  and  the  River  was  black, 
And  yon-side,  lo !  an  endless  wrack 

And  rabble  of  souls,"  sighed  Sense, 
"Their    eyes    upturned    and    begged    and 

burned 

In  brimstone  lakes,  and  a  Hand  above 
Beat    back    the    hands    that    upward 

yearned — " 
"Nay!"  quoth  Love — 

"Yea,  yea,  sweet  Prince;  thyself  shalt  see, 
Wilt  thou  but  down  this  slope  with  me;  30 

'Tis   palpable,"   whispered   Sense. 
At  the  foot  of  the  hill  a  living  rill 
Shone,  and  the  lilies  shone  white  above ; 
"But  now  'twas  black,  'twas  a  river,  this 
rill," 

("Black?"  quoth  Love.) 

"Ay,  black,  but  lo !  the  lilies  grow, 

And  yon-side  where  was  woe,  was  woe, — 

Where  the  rabble  of  souls,"  cried 

Sense, 

"Did  shrivel  and  turn  and  beg  and  burn, 
Thrust  back  in  the  brimstone  from  above — 
Is  banked  of  violet,  rose,  and  fern:"  41 

"How?"  quoth  Love: 

"For  lakes  of  pain,  yon  pleasant  plain 
Of  woods  and  grass  and  yellow  grain 

Doth  ravish  the  soul  and  sense: 
And  never  a  sigh  beneath  the  sky, 
And  folk  that  smile  and  gaze  above" — 
"But  saw'st  thou  here,  with  thine  own  eye, 

Hell?"  quoth  Love. 

"I  saw  true  hell  with  mine  own  eye,  5° 
True  hell,  or  light  hath  told  a  lie, 

True,  verily,"  quoth  stout  Sense.    . 
Then  Love  rode  round  and  searched  the 

ground, 

The  caves  below,  the  hills  above; 
"But  I  cannot  find  where  thou  hast  found 

Hell,"  quoth  Love. 


There,  while  they  stood  in  a  green  wood 
And  marvelled  still  on  111  and  Good, 

Came  suddenly  Minister  Mind. 
"In  the  heart  of  sin  doth  hell  begin :      6° 
'Tis  not  below,  'tis  not  above, 
It  lieth  within,  it  lieth  within :" 

("Where?"  quoth  Love.) 

"I  saw  a  man  sit  by  a  corse; 

Hell's  in  the  murderer's  breast:  remorse! 

Thus  clamored  his  mind  to  his  mind : 
Not  fleshly  dole  is  the  sinner's  goal, 
Hell's  not  below,  nor  yet  above, 
'Tis  fixed  in  the  ever-damned  soul" — 

"Fixed?"  quoth  Love —  7° 

"Fixed  :  follow  me,  would' st  thou  but  see : 
He  weepeth  under  yon  willow  tree, 

Fast  chained  to  his  corse,"  quoth  Mind. 
Full  soon  they  passed,  for  they  rode  fast, 
Where  the  piteous  willow  bent  above. 
"Now  shall  I  see  at  last,  at  last, 

Hell,"  quoth  Love. 

There    when    they    came    Mind    suffered 

shame : 
"These  be  the  same  and  not  the  same," 

A-wondering   whispered   Mind.         80 
Lo,  face  by  face  two  spirits  pace 
Where  the  blissful  willow  waves  above: 
One  saith :  "Do  me  a  friendly  grace" — 

("Grace!"  quoth  Love.) 

"Read  me  two  Dreams  that  linger  long, 
Dim  as  returns  of  old-time  song 

That  flicker  about  the  mind. 
I  dreamed  (how  deep  in  mortal  sleep!) 
I  struck  thee  dead,  then  stood  above, 
With  tears  that  none  but  dreamers  weep ;" 

"Dreams,"  quoth  Love.  91 

"In  dreams,  again,  I  plucked  a  flower 
That    clung    with    pain    and    stung    with 
power, 

Yea,  nettled  me,  body  and   mind." 
"'Twas  the  nettle  of  sin,  'twas  medicine; 
No  need  nor  seed  of  it  here  Above; 
In  dreams  of  hate  true  loves  begin." 

"True,"  quoth  Love. 

"Now    strange,"    quoth    Sense,    and 

"Strange,"  quoth  Mind, 
"We  saw  it,  and  yet  'tis  hard  to  find,     I0° 
— But  we  saw   it,"  quoth   Sense  and 

Mind. 
Stretched    on    the    ground,    beautifully 

crowned 

Of  the  piteous  willow  that  wreathed  above, 
"But  I  cannot  find  where  ye  have  found 
Hell,"  quoth  Love. 

1878.     The  Century  Magazine,  Mar.,  1884. 


470 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


SUNRISE  i 

In  my  sleep  I  was  fain  of  their  fellow 
ship,  fain 
Of   the    live-oak,   the   marsh,    and    the 

main. 
The  little  green  leaves  would  not  let  me 

alone  in  my  sleep; 
Up-breathed  from  the  marshes,  a  message 

of  range  and  of  sweep, 
Interwoven   with   waftures   of   wild   sea- 
liberties,  drifting, 
Came  through  the  lapped  leaves  sifting, 

sifting, 

Came  to  the  gates  of  sleep. 
Then   my  thoughts,   in   the   dark   of   the 

dungeon-keep 
Of  the  Castle  of  Captives  hid  in  the  City 

of  Sleep, 

Upstarted,  by  twos  and  by  threes  assem 
bling  :  10 
The  gates  of  sleep  fell  a-trembling 
Like  as  the  lips  of  a  lady  that  forth  falter 

yes, 

Shaken  with  happiness : 
The  gates  of  sleep  stood  wide. 

I  have  waked,  I  have  come,  my  beloved ! 

I  might  not  abide : 
I   have  come   ere  the   dawn,   O   beloved, 

my  live-oaks,  to  hide 
In  your  gospelling  glooms, — to  be 
As  a  lover  in  heaven,  the  marsh  my  marsh 

and  the  sea  my  sea. 

Tell  me,  sweet  burly-bark'd,   man-bodied 
Tree 

That  mine  arms  in  the  dark  are  embrac 
ing,  dost  know  2° 

From  what  fount  are  these  tears  at  thy 
feet  which  flow? 

They  rise  not  from  reason,  but  deeper  in 
consequent  deeps. 

Reason's  not  one  that  weeps. 
What  logic  of  greeting  lies 

Betwixt  dear  over-beautiful  trees  and  the 
rain  of  the  eyes? 

1  "Sunrise,"  Mr.  Lanier's  latest  completed 
poem,  was  written  while  his  sun  of  life  seemed 
fairly  at  the  setting,  and  the  hand  which  first 
pencilled  its  lines  had  not  strength  to  carry 
nourishment  to  the  lips.  .  .  . 

"Sunrise,"  the  culminating  poem,  the  highest 
vision  of  Sidney  Lanier,  was  dedicated  through 
his  latest  request  to  that  friend  who  indeed  came 
into  his  life  only  near  its  close,  yet  was  at  first 
meeting  recognized  by  the  poet  as  "the  father 
of  his  spirit,"  George  Westfeldt.  When  words 
were  very  few  and  the  poem  was  unread,  even 
by  any  friend,  the  earnest  bidding  came:  "Send 
him  my  'Sunrise,'  that  he  may  know  how  en 
tirely  we  are  one  in  thought."  (Poems,  1884.) 


O   cunning   green   leaves,   little   masters! 

like  as  ye  gloss 

All  the  dull-tissued  dark  with  your  lumi 
nous  darks  that  emboss 
The  vague  blackness  of  night  into  pattern 
and  plan, 

So 

(But  would  I  could  know,  but  would  I 

could  know),  30 

With  your  question  embroid'ring  the  dark 

of  the  question  of  man, — 
So,  with  your  silences  purfling  this  silence 

of  man 

While  his  cry  to  the  dead  for  some  knowl 
edge  is  under  the  ban, 

Under  the  ban, — 
So,  ye  have  wrought  me 
Designs  on  the  night  of  our  knowledge, — 
yea,  ye  have  taught  me, 

So, 

That   haply   we  know   somewhat   more 
than  we  know. 


Ye     lispers,     whisperers,     singers     in 

storms, 

Ye  consciences  murmuring  faith  un 
der  forms,  40 
Ye  ministers  meet   for   each   passion 

that  grieves, 

Friendly,  sisterly,  sweetheart  leaves, 
Oh,  rain  me  down  from  your  darks  that 

contain  me 
Wisdoms    ye    winnow    from    winds    that 

pain  me, — 

Sift  down  tremors  of  sweet-within-sweet 
That  advise  me  of  more  than  they  bring, — 

repeat 
Me  the  woods-smell  that  swiftly  but  now 

brought  breath 
From  the  heaven-side  bank  of  the  river 

of  death, — 
Teach' me  the  terms  of  silence, — preach 

me 

The  passion  of  patience, — sift  me, — im 
peach  me, —  so 

And  there,  oh  there 

As  ye  hang  with  your  myriad  palms  up 
turned  in  the  air, 

Pray  me  a  myriad  prayer. 


My  gossip,  the  owl, — is  it  thou 
That  out  of  the  leaves  of  the  low-hang 
ing  bough, 

As  I  pass  to  the  beach,  art  stirred? 
Dumb  woods,  have  ye  uttered  a  bird? 


SIDNEY   LANIER 


471 


Reverend   Marsh,   low-couched  along  the 

sea, 
Old  chemist,  rapt  in  alchemy, 

Distilling  silence, — lo,  6° 

That  which   our   father-age  had   died  to 

know — 
The  menstruum  that  dissolves  all  matter 

— thou 

Hast  found  it :  for  this  silence,  filling  now 
The  globed  clarity  of  receiving  space, 
This   solves   us   all :    man,   matter,   doubt, 

disgrace, 

Death,  love,  sin,  sanity, 
Must  in  yon  silence'  clear  solution  lie. 
Too   clear !     That   crystal   nothing  who'll 

peruse? 
The  blackest  night  could  bring  us  brighter 

news. 

Yet  precious  qualities  of  silence  haunt    7° 
Round  these  vast  margins,  ministrant. 
Oh,  if  thy  soul's  at  latter  gasp  for  space, 
With  trying  to  breathe  no  bigger  than  thy 

race 
Just  to  be  follow'd,  when  that  thou  hast 

found 
No  man  with  room,  or  grace  enough  of 

bound 
To  entertain  that  New  thou  tell'st,  thou 

art,— 
'T  is  here,  't  is  here  thou  canst  unhand 

thy  heart 

And  breathe  it  free,  and  breathe  it  free, 
By  rangy  marsh,  in  lone  sea-liberty. 

The  tide  's  at  full :  the  marsh  with  flooded 
streams  8° 

Glimmers,  a  limpid  labyrinth  of  dreams. 
Each  winding  creek  in  grave  entrancement 

lies 

A  rhapsody  of  morning-stars.    The  skies 
Shine  scant  with  one  forked  galaxy, — 
The  marsh  brags  ten :  looped  on  his  breast 
they  lie 

Oh,  what  if  a  sound  should  be  made! 

Oh,  what  if  a  bound  should  be  laid 

To  this  bow-and-string  tension  of  beauty 
and  silence  a-spring, — 

To  the  bend  of  beauty  the  bow,  or  the 
hold  of  silence  the  string! 

I  fear  me,  I  fear  me  yon  dome  of  diapha 
nous  gleam  9° 

Will  break  as  a  bubble  o'er-blown  in  a 
dream, — 

Yon  dome  of  too-tenuous  tissues  of  space 
and  of  night, 

Over-weighted  with  stars,  over-freighted 
with  light, 


Over-sated  with  beauty  and  silence,  will 

seem 

But  a  bubble  that  broke  in  a  dream, 
If  a   bound  of   degree  to  this   grace  be 

laid, 
Or  a  sound  or  a  motion  made. 

But  no:   it  is   made:   list!   somewhere, — 
mystery,  where? 

In  the  leaves?  in  the  air 
In  my  heart?  is  a  motion  made;  I(x> 

'T  is  a  motion  of  dawn,  like  a  flicker  of 

shade  on  shade. 

In  the  leaves  't  is  palpable :  low  multitu 
dinous  stirring 
Upwinds   through   the   woods;    the   little 

ones,  softly  conferring, 
Have  settled  my  lord's  to  be  looked  for; 

so;  they  are  still; 
But  the  air  and  my  heart  and  the  earth 

are  a-thrill, — 
And  look  where  the  wild  duck  sails  round 

the  bend  of  the  river, — 
And  look  where  a  passionate  shiver 
Expectant  is  bending  the  blades 
Of    the    marsh-grass    in    serial    shimmers 

and  shades, — 

And    invisible    wings,    fast    fleeting,    fast 
fleeting,  no 

Are  beating 
The  dark  overhead  as  my  heart  beats, — 

and  steady  and  free 

Is  the  ebb-tide  flowing  from  marsh  to  sea 
(Run  home,  little  streams, 
With  your  lapfuls  of  stars  and  dreams), 
And  a  sailor  unseen  is  hoisting  a-peak, 
For  list,  down  the  inshore  curve  of  the 

creek 
How  merrily  flutters  the  sail, — 

And  lo,  in  the  East!  Will  the  East  un 
veil? 

The  East  is  unveiled,  the  East  hath  con 
fessed  120 

A  flush :  't  is  dead ;  't  is  alive :  't  is  dead, 
ere  the  West 

Was  aware  of  it:  nay,  't  is  abiding,  't  is 

unwithdrawn : 
Have  a  care,  sweet  Heaven !  'T  is  Dawn. 

Now  a   dream  of  a  flame   through   that 

dream  of  a  flush  is  uprolled 
To   the   zenith    ascending,   a    dome   of 

undazzling  gold 
Is  builded,  in  shape  as  a  bee-hive,   from 

out  of  the  sea :  , 

The  hive  is  of  gold  undazzling,  but  oh, 

the  Bee, 


472 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


The  star-fed  Bee,  the  build-fire  Bee, 
Of  dazzling  gold  is  the  great  Sun-Bee 
That  shall  flash  from  the  hive-hole  over 
the  sea.  J3° 

Yet  now  the  dew-drop,  now  the  morn 
ing  gray, 

Shall  live  their  little  lucid  sober  day 
Ere  with  the  sun  their  souls  exhale 

away. 

Now  in  each  pettiest  personal  sphere  of  dew 
The  summ'd  morn  shines  complete  as  in 

the  blue 
Big  dew-drop  of  all  heaven:  with  these 

lit  shrines 

O'er-silvered  to  the  farthest  sea-confines, 
The  sacramental  marsh  one  pious  plain 
Of  worship  lies.     Peace  to  the  ante-reign 
Of  Mary  Morning,  blissful  mother  mild, 
Minded  of  nought  but  peace,   and  of  a 
child.  14* 

Not   slower  than   Majesty  moves,   for  a 
mean  and  a  measure 

Of     motion, — not     faster     than     dateless 
Olympian  leisure 

Might  pace  with  unblown  ample  garments 
from  pleasure  to  pleasure, — 

The  wave-serrate  sea-rim  sinks  un jarring, 

unreeling, 

Forever   revealing,   revealing,   reveal 
ing, 

Edgewise,  bladewise,  halfwise,  wholewise, 
— 't  is  done ! 

Good-morrow,  lord  Sun ! 

With  several  voice,  with  ascription  one, 

The  woods   and   the   marsh   and   the   sea 
and  my  soul  '5° 

Unto  thee,  whence  the  glittering  stream  of 
all  morrows  doth  roll, 

Cry  good  and  past-good  and  most  heav 
enly  morrow,  lord  Sun. 

O  Artisan  born  in  the  purple, — Workman 

Heat,— 
Parter  of  passionate  atoms  that  travail  to 

meet 
And  be  mixed  in  the  death-cold  oneness, — 

innermost  Guest 
At  the  marriage  of  elements, — fellow  of 

publicans, — blest 
King  in  the  blouse  of  flame,  that  loiterest 

o'er 

The    idle   skies,    yet   laborest    fast    ever 
more, — 
Thou,  in  the  fine  forge-thunder,  thou,  in 

the  beat 
Of  the  heart  of  a  man,  thou   Motive, — 

Laborer  Heat:  I<5° 


Yea,  Artist,  thou,  of  whose  art  yon  sea  's 

all  news, 
With    his    inshore    greens    and    manifold 

mid-sea  blues, 
Pearl-glint,  shell-tint,  ancientest  perfectest 

hues 

Ever  shaming  the  maidens, — lily  and  rose 
Confess  thee,   and  each   mild  flame  that 

glows 
In  the  clarified  virginal  bosoms  of  stones 

that  shine, 

It  is  thine,  it  is  thine: 

Thou  chemist  of  storms,  whether  driving 

the  winds  a-swirl 
Or   a-flicker   the   subtiler   essences   polar 

that  whirl 
In   the   magnet   earth, — yea,   thou  with   a 

storm  for  a  heart,  17° 

Rent     with     debate,     many-spotted     with 

question,  part 
From  part  oft  sundered,  yet  ever  a  globed 

light, 
Yet  ever  the  artist,  ever  more  large  and 

bright 
Than  the  eye  of  a  man  may  avail  of: — 

manifold  One, 
I  must  pass   from  thy  face,  I  must  pass 

from  the  face  of  the  Sun: 
Old    Want    is    awake    and    agog,    every 

wrinkle  a- frown; 
The   worker   must   pass    to   his   work   in 

the  terrible  town : 
But  I  fear  not,  nay,  and  I   fear  not  the 

thing  to  be  done; 
I   am  strong  with  the  strength  of  my 

lord  the  Sun: 
How  dark,  how  dark  soever  the  race  that 

must  needs  be  run,  '80 

I  am  lit  with  the  Sun. 

Oh,  never  the  mast-high  run  of  the  seas 

Of  traffic  shall  hide  thee, 
Never  the  hell-colored  smoke  of  the  fac 
tories 

Hide  thee, 
Never  the  reek  of  the  time's  fen-politics 

Hide  thee, 
And  ever  my  heart  through  the  night  shall 

with  knowledge  abide  thee, 
And  ever  by  day  shall  my  spirit,  as  one 

that  hath  tried  thee, 
Labor,    at    leisure,    in    art, — till    yonder 
beside  thee  190 

My  soul  shall  float,  friend  Sun, 
The  day  being  done. 

1880.  The  Independent,  Dec.,  1882. 


WALT    WHITMAN 
(1819-1892) 

THERE  WAS  A  CHILD  WENT  tfORTH* 

There  was  a  child  went  forth  every  day; 
And  the  first  object  he  look'd  upon,  that  object  he  became; 
And  that  object  became  part  of  him  for  the  day,  or  a  certain  part  of  the  day,  or 
for  many  years,  or  stretching  cycles  of  years. 

The  early  lilacs  became  part  of  this  child, 

And  grass,  and  white  and  red  morning-glories,  and  white  and   red  clover,  and  the 

song  of  the  phoebe-bird, 
And  the  Third-month   lambs,  and  the  sow's  pink-faint  litter,   and  the   mare's   foal, 

and  the  cow's  calf, 

And  the  noisy  brood  of  the  barn-yard,  or  by  the  mire  of  the  pond-side, 
And   the    fish    suspending   themselves    so   curiously   below   there — and   the   beautiful 

curious  liquid, 
And  the  water-plants  with  their  graceful  flat  heads — all  became  part  of  him. 

The  field-sprouts  of  Fourth-month  and  Fifth-month  became  part  of  him;  1° 

Winter-grain  sprouts,  and  those  of  the  light-yellow  corn,  and  the  esculent  roots  of 
the  garden, 

And  the  apple-trees  cover'd  with  blossoms,  and  the  fruit  afterward,  and  wood- 
berries,  and  the  commonest  weeds  by  the  road ; 

And  the  old  drunkard  staggering  home  from  the  out-house  of  the  tavern,  whence 
he  had  lately  risen, 

And  the  school-mistress  that  pass'd  on  her  way  to  the  school, 

And  the  friendly  boys  that  pass'd — and  the  quarrelsome  boys, 

And  the  tidy  and  fresh-cheek'd  girls — and  the  barefoot  negro  boy  and  girl, 

And  all  the  changes  of  city  and  country,  wherever  he  went. 

His  own  parents, 

He  that  had  father'd  him,  and  she  that  had  conceiv'd  him  in  her  womb,  and  birth'd 

him, 

They  gave  this  child  more  of  themselves  than  that;  x 

They  gave  him  afterward  every  day — they  became  part  of  him. 

The  mother  at  home,  quietly  placing  the  dishes  on  the  supper-table; 

The  mother- with  mild  words — clean  her  cap  and  gown,  a  wholesome  odor  falling  off 
her  person  and  clothes  as  she  walks  by; 

The  father,  strong,  self-sufficient,  manly,  mean,  anger'd,  unjust; 

The  blow,  the  quick  loud  word,  the  tight  bargain,  the  crafty  lure, 

The  family  usages,  the  language,  the  company,  the  furniture — the  yearning  and  swell 
ing  heart, 

Affection  that  will  not  be  gainsay'd — the  sense  of  what  is  real — the  thought  if,  after 
all,  it  should  prove  unreal, 

The  doubts  of  day-time  and  the  doubts  of  night-time — the  curious  whether  and  how, 

Whether  that  which  appears  so  is  so,  or  is  it  all  flashes  and  specks? 

Men  and  women  crowding  fast  in  the  streets — if  they  are  not  flashes  and  specks, 
what  are  they?  3° 

1  This  is  a  record  of  his  recollections  from  childhood  country  life  on  Long  Island. 

473 


474  AMERICAN    POETRY 

The  streets  themselves,  and  the  facades  of  houses,  and  goods  in  the  windows, 
Vehicles,  teams,  the  heavy-plank'd  wharves  —  the  huge  crossing  at  the   ferries, 
The  village  on  the  highland,  seen  from  afar  at  sunset  —  the  river  between, 
Shadows,  aureola  and  mist,  the  light  falling  on  roofs  and  gables  of  white  or  brown, 

three  miles  off, 
The  schooner  near  by,   sleepily  dropping  down  the  tide  —  the  little  boat   slack-tow'd 

astern, 

The  hurrying  tumbling  waves,  quick-broken  crests,  slapping, 
The  strata  of  color'd  clouds,  the  long  bar  of  maroon-tint,  away  solitary  by  itself  — 

the  spread  of  purity  it  lies  motionless  in, 

The  horizon's  edge,  the  flying  sea-crow,  the  fragrance  of  salt  marsh  and  shore  mud; 
These  became  part  of  that  child  who  went  forth  every  day,  and  who  now  goes,  and 

will  always  go  forth  every  day. 

First   published    in    1855.      In   edition   of   1856   under  title   of  "Poem   of   the   Child   That  Went 
Forth  and  Always  Goes  Forth,  Forever  and  Forever." 

FROM   WALT   WHITMAN 

1  celebrate  myself;1 

And  what  I  assume  you  shall  assume  ; 

For  every  atom  belonging  to  me,  as  good  belongs  to  you. 


I  loafe  and  invite  my  Soul  ; 

I  lean  and  loafe  at  my  ease,  observing  a  spear  of  summer  grass. 

Houses  and  rooms  are  full  of  perfumes  —  the  shelves  are  crowded  with  perfumes; 

I  breathe  the  fragrance  myself,  and  know  it  and  like  it  ; 

The  distillation  would  intoxicate  me  also,  but  I  shall  not  let  it. 

The  atmosphere  is  not  a  perfume  —  it  has  no  taste  of  the  distillation  —  it  is  odorless; 
It  is  for  my  mouth  forever  —  I  am  in  love  with  it  ;  I0 

I  will  go  to  the  bank  by  the  wood,  and  become  undisguised  and  naked; 
I  am  mad  for  it  to  be  in  contact  with  me. 

2 

The  smoke  of  my  own  breath; 

Echoes,  ripples,    buzz'd  whispers,  love-root,  silk-thread,  crotch  and  vine; 
My  respiration  and  inspiration,  the  beating  of  my  heart,  the  passing  of  blood  and 

air  through  my  lungs; 
The  sniff  of  green  leaves  and  dry  leaves,   and  of  the  shore,   and   dark-color'd   sea- 

rocks,  and  of  hay  in  the  barn; 

The  sound  of  the  belch'd  words  of  my  voice,  words  loos'd  to  the  eddies  of  the  wind; 
A  few  light  kisses,  a  few  embraces,  a  reaching  around  of  arms; 
The  play  of  shine  and  shade  on  the  trees  as  the  supple  boughs  wag; 
The  delight  alone,  or  in  the  rush  of  the  streets,  or  along  the  fields  and  hill-sides  ;     -20 
The  feeling  of  health,  the  full-noon  trill,  the  song  of  me  rising  from  bed  and  meet 

ing  the  sun. 

Have  you  reckqn'd  a  thousand  acres  much?  have  you  reckon'd  the  earth  much? 

Have  you  practis'd  so  long  to  learn  to  read? 

Have  you  felt  so  proud  to  get  at  the  meaning  of  poems? 

1  "I  meant  'Leaves  of  Grass,'  as  published,  to  be  the  Poem  of  average  Identity  (of  yours,  who 
ever  you  are,  now  reading  these  lines)  .  .  .  All  serves,  helps  —  but  in  the  center  of  all,  absorbing 
all,  giving,  for  your  purpose,  the  only  meaning  and  vitality  to  all,  master  or  mistress  of  all,  under 
the  law,  stands  Yourself.  To  sing  the  Song  of  that  law  of  average  Identity,  and  of  Yourself,  con 
sistently  with  the  divine  law  of  the  universal,  is  a  main  purpose  of  these  'Leaves'."  (See  Whitman's 
Preface  to  the  1876  edition  of  "Leaves  of  Grass.") 


WALT   WHITMAN  475 

Stop  this  day  and  night  with  me,  and  you  shall  possess  the  origin  of  all  poems; 
You  shall  possess  the  good  of  the  earth  and  sun — (there  are  millions  of  suns  left;) 
You  shall  no  longer  take  things  at  second  or  third  hand,  nor  look  through  the  eyes  of 

the  dead,  nor  feed  on  the  spectres  in  books; 

You  shall  not  look  through  my  eyes  either,  nor  take  things  from  me: 
You  shall  listen  to  all  sides,  and  filter  them  from  yourself. 


A  child  said,  What  is  the  grass?  fetching  it  to  me  with  full  hands;  3° 

How  could  I  answer  the  child?     I  do  not  know  what  it  is,  any  more  than  he. 

I  guess  it  must  be  the  flag  of  my  disposition,  out  of  hopeful  green  stuff  woven. 

Or  I  guess  it  is  the  handkerchief  of  the  Lord, 
A  scented  gift  and  remembrancer,  designedly  dropt, 

Bearing  the  owner's  name  someway  in  the  corners,  that  we  may  see  and  remark, 
and  say,  Whose? 

Or  I  guess  the  grass  is  itself  a  child,  the  produced  babe  of  the  vegetation. 

Or  I  guess  it  is  a  uniform  hieroglyphic; 

And  it  means,  Sprouting  alike  in  broad  zones  and  narrow  zones, 

Growing  among  black  folks  as  among  white;  39 

Kanuck,  Tuckahoe,  Congressman,  Cuff,  I  give  them  the  same,  I  receive  them  the  same. 

And  now  it  seems  to  me  the  beautiful  uncut  hair  of  graves. 

Tenderly  will  I  use  you,  curling  grass; 

It  may  be  you  transpire  from  the  breasts  of  young  men; 

It  may  be  if  I  had  known  them  I  would  have  loved  them; 

It  may  be  you  are  from  old  people,  and  from  women,  and  from  offspring  taken  soon 

out  of  their  mothers'  laps ; 
And  here  you  are  the  mothers'  laps. 

This  grass  is  very  dark  to  be  from  the  white  heads  of  old  mothers; 

Darker  than  the  colorless  beards  of  old  men; 

Dark  to  come  from  under  the  faint  red  roofs  of  mouths. 

0  I  perceive  after  all  so  many  uttering  tongues !  5° 
And  I  perceive  they  do  not  come  from  the  roofs  of  mouths  for  nothing. 

1  wish  I  could  translate  the  hints  about  the  dead  young  men  and  women. 

And  the  hints  about  old  men  and  mothers,  and  the  offspring  taken  soon  out  of  their 
laps. 

What  do  you  think  has  become  of  the  young  and  old  men? 
And  what  do  you  think  has  become  of  the  women  and  children? 

They  are  alive  and  well  somewhere ; 

The  smallest  sprout  shows  there  is  really  no  death ; 

And  if  ever  there  was,  it  led  forward  life,  and  does  not  wait  at  the  end  to  arrest  it, 

And  ceas'd  the  moment  life  appear'd. 

All  goes  onward  and  outward — nothing  collapses;  6° 

And  to  die  is  different  from  what  any  one  supposed,  and  luckier. 


476  AMERICAN    POETRY 


The  big  doors  of  the  country  barn  stand  open  and  ready; 
The  dried  grass  of  the  harvest-time  loads  the  slow-drawn  wagon; 
The  clear  light  plays  on  the  brown  gray  and  green  intertinged; 
The  armfuls  are  pack'd  to  the  sagging  mow. 

I  am  there — I  help — I  came  stretch' d  atop  of  the  load; 

I  felt  its  soft  jolts — one  leg  reclined  on  the  other; 

I  jump  from  the  cross-beams,  and  seize  the  clover  and  timothy, 

And  roll  head  over  heels,  and  tangle  my  hair  full  of  wisps. 

10 

Alone,  far  in  the  wilds  and  mountains,  I  hunt,  7° 

Wandering,  amazed  at  my  own  lightness  and  glee; 

In  the  late  afternoon  choosing  a  safe  spot  to  pass  the  night, 

Kindling  a  fire  and  broiling  the  fresh-kill'd  game; 

Falling  asleep  on  the  gather'd  leaves,  with  my  dog  and  gun  by  my  side. 

The  Yankee  clipper  is  under  her  sky-sails — she  cuts  the  sparkle  and  scud; 
My  eyes  settle  the  land — I  bend  at  her  prow,  or  shout  joyously  from  the  deck. 

The  boatmen  and  clam-diggers  arose  early  and  stopt  for  me; 

I  tuck'd  my  trowser-ends  in  my  boots,  and  went  and  had  a  good  time : 

(You  should  have  been  with  us  that  day  round  the  chowder-kettle.) 

I  saw  the  marriage  of  the  trapper  in  the  open  air  in  the  far  west — the  bride  was  a 

red  girl;  8° 

Her  father  and  his   friends   sat  near,   cross-legged  and   dumbly  smoking — they   had 

moccasins  to  their  feet,  and  large  thick  blankets  hanging  from  their  shoulders ; 
On  a  bank  lounged  the  trapper — he  was  drest  mostly  in  skins — his  luxuriant  beard 

and  curls  protected  his  neck — he  held  his  bride  by  the  hand ; 
She  had  long  eyelashes — her  head  was  bare — her  coarse  straight  locks  descended  upon 

her  voluptuous  limbs  and  reach'd  to  her  feet. 

The  runaway  slave  came  to  my  house  and  stopt  outside; 

I  heard  his  motions  crackling  the  twigs  of  the  woodpile; 

Through  the  swung  half-door  of  the  kitchen  I  saw  him  limpsy  and  weak, 

And  went  where  he  sat  on  a  log,  and  led  him  in  and  assured  him, 

And  brought  water,  and  fill'd  a  tub  for  his  sweated  body  and  bruis'd  feet, 

And  gave  him  a  room  that  enter'd  from  my  own,  and  gave  him  some  coarse  clean 

clothes, 

And  remember  perfectly  well  his  revolving  eyes  and  his  awkwardness,  9° 

And  remember  putting  plasters  on  the  galls  of  his  neck  and  ankles ; 
He  staid  with  me  a  week  before  he  was  recuperated  and  pass'd  north ; 
(I  had  him  sit  next  me  at  table — my  fire-lock  lean'd  in  the  corner.) 

12 

The  butcher-boy  puts  off  his  killing  clothes,  or  sharpens  his  knife  at  the  stall  in  the 

market ; 
I   loiter,  enjoying  his  repartee,  and  his  shuffle  and  break-down. 

Blacksmiths  with  grimed  and  hairy  chests  environ  the  anvil; 

Each  has  his  main-sledge — they  are  all  out — (there  is  a  great  heat  in  the  fire). 

From  the   cinder-strew'd   threshold   I    follow   their   movements ; 

The  lithe  sheer  of  their  waists  plays  even  with  their  massive  arms ; 

Over-hand  the  hammers  swing — over-hand  so  slow — over-hand  so  sure  :  I0° 

They  do  not  hasten — each  man  hits  in  his  place. 


WALT   WHITMAN  477 

13 

The  negro  holds  firmly  the  reins  of  his   four  horses — the  block   swags  underneath 

on   its  tied-over  chain ; 
The  negro  that  drives  the  dray  of  the  stone-yard — steady  and  tall  he  stands,  pois'd 

on  one  leg  on  the  string-piece; 

His  blue  shirt  exposes  his  ample  neck  and  breast,  and  loosens  over  his  hip-band; 
His  glance  is  calm  and  commanding — he  tosses  the  slouch  of   his   hat  away   from 

his  forehead; 
The  sun  falls  on  his  crispy  hair  and  moustache — falls  on  the  black  of  his  polish'd 

and  perfect  limbs. 

I  behold  the  picturesque  giant,  and  love  him — and  I  do  not  stop  there; 
I  go  with  the  team  also. 

In  me  the  caresser  of  life  wherever  moving — backward  as  well  as  forward  slueing; 
To  niches  aside  and  junior  bending.  JI° 

Oxen  that  rattle  the  yoke  and  chain,  or  halt  in  the  leafy  shade !  what  is  that  you 

express  in  your  eyes? 
It  seems  to  me  more  than  all  the  print  I  have  read  in  my  life. 

My  tread  scares  the  wood-drake  and  wood-duck,  on  my  distant  and  day-long  ramble; 
They  rise  together — they  slowly  circle  around. 

I  believe  in  those  wing'd  purposes, 

And  acknowledge  red,  yellow,  white,  playing  within  me, 

And  consider  green  and  violet,  and  the  tufted  crown,  intentional; 

And  do  not  call  the  tortoise  unworthy  because  she  is  not  something  else; 

And  the  jay  in  the  woods  never  studied  the  gamut,  yet  trills  pretty  well  to  me; 

And  the  look  of  the  bay  mare  shames  silliness  out  of  me.  I2° 

14 

The  wild  gander  leads  his  flock  through  the  cool  night; 
Ya-honk!  he  says,  and  sounds  it  down  to  me  like  an  invitation; 
(The  pert  may  suppose  it  meaningless,  but  I  listen  close; 
I   find  its  purpose  and  place  up  there  toward  the  wintry  sky.) 

The  sharp-hoof  d  moose  of  the  north,  the  cat  on  the  house-sill,  the  chickadee,  the 

prairie-dog, 

The  litter  of  the  grunting  sow  as  they  tug  at  her  teats, 
The  brood  of  the  turkey-hen,  and  she  with  her  half-spread  wings; 
I  see  in  them  and  myself  the  same  old  law. 

The  press  of  my  feet  to  the  earth  springs  a  hundred  affections; 

They  scorn  the  best  I  can  do  to  relate  them.  130 

I  am  enamor'd  of  growing  out-doors, 

Of  men  that  live  among  cattle,  or  taste  of  the  ocean  or  woods, 

Of  the  builders  and  steerers  of  ships,  and  the  wielders  of  axes  and  mauls,  and  the 

drivers  of  horses; 
I  can  eat  and  sleep  with  them  week  in  and  week  out. 

/What  is  commonest,  cheapest,  nearest,  easiest,  is  Me; 

Me  going  in   for  my  chance,   spending  for  vast  returns ; 
1  Adorning  myself  to  bestow  myself  on  the  first  that  will  take  me; 

Not  asking  the  sky  to  come  down  to  my  good  will; 

Scattering  it   freely   forever 


478  AMERICAN   POETRY 

||  16 

I  am  of  old  and  young,  of  the  foolish  as  much  as  the  wise;  140 

Regardless  of  others,  ever  regardful  of  others, 

Maternal  as  well  as  paternal,  a  child  as  well  as  a  man, 

Stuff'd  with  the  stuff  that  is  coarse,  and  stuff'd  with  the  stuff  that  is  fine; 

One  of  the  Great  Nation,  the  nation  of  many  nations,  the  smallest  the  same,  and 
the  largest  the  same; 

A  southerner  soon  as  a  northerner — a  planter  nonchalant  and  hospitable,  down  by 
the  Oconee  I  live; 

A  Yankee,  bound  by  my  own  way,  ready  for  trade,  my  joints  the  limberest  joints 
on  earth,  and  the  sternest  joints  on  earth; 

A  Kentuckian,  walking  the  vale  of  the  Elkhorn,  in  my  deer-skin  leggings — a  Louisi- 
anian  or  Georgian; 

A  boatman  over  lakes  or  bays,  or  along  coasts — a  Hoosier,  Badger,  Buckeye; 

At  home  on  Kanadian  snow-shoes,  or  up  in  the  bush,  or  with  fishermen  off  New 
foundland  ; 

At  home  in  the  fleet  of  ice-boats,  sailing  with  the  rest  and  tacking;  »so 

At  home  on  the  hills  of  Vermont,  or  in  the  woods  of  Maine,  .or  the  Texan  ranch ; 

Comrade  of  Californians — comrade  of  free  north-westerners,  (loving  their  big  pro 
portions;) 

Comrade  of  raftsmen  and  coalmen — comrade  of  all  who  shake  hands  and  welcome 
to  drink  and  meat ; 

A  learner  with  the  simplest,  a  teacher  of  the  thoughtfullest ; 

A  novice  beginning,  yet  experient  of  myriads  of  seasons; 

Of  every  hue  and  caste  am  I,  of  every  rank  and  religion; 

A   farmer,  mechanic,  artist,  gentleman,  sailor,  quaker; 

A  prisoner,   fancy-man,  rowdy,  lawyer,  physician,  priest. 

I  resist  anything  better  than  my  own  diversity; 

I  breathe  the  air,  but  leave  plenty  after  me,  l6° 

And  am  not  stuck  up,  and  am  in  my  place. 

(The  moth  and  the  fish-eggs  are  in  their  place; 

The  suns  I  see,  and  the  suns  I  cannot  see,  are  in  their  place; 

The  palpable  is  in  its  place,  and  the  impalpable  is  in  its  place.) 

[|  17 

These   are  the  thoughts   of   all   men   in   all   ages   and   lands — they   are   not   original 

with  me ; 

If  they  are  not  yours  as  much  as  mine,  they  are  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing; 
If  they  are  not  the  riddle,  and  the  untying  of  the  riddle,  they  are  nothing; 
If  they  are  not  just  as  close  as  they  are  distant,  they  are  nothing. 

This  is  the  grass  that  grows  wherever  the  land  is,  and  the  water  is; 

This  is  the  common  air  that  bathes  the  globe.  '7° 

20 

Who  goes  there?   hankering,   gross,   mystical,   nude; 
How  is  it  I  extract  strength  from  the  beef  I  eat? 

What  is  a  man,  anyhow?    What  am  I?     What  are  you? 

All  I  mark  as  my  own,  you  shall  offset  it  with  your  own; 
Else  it  were  time  lost  listening  to  me. 

I  do  not  snivel  that  snivel  the  world  over, 

That  months  are  vacuums,  and  the  ground  but  wallow  and  filth; 
That  life  is  a  suck  and  a  sell,  and  nothing  remains  at  the  end  but  threadbare  crape, 
and  tears. 


WALT   WHITMAN  479 

Whimpering  and  truckling  fold  with  powders  for  invalids — conformity  goes  to  the 

fourth-remov'd ; 
I  wear  my  hat  as  I  please,  indoors  or  out.  j8° 

Why  should  I  pray?     Why  should  I  venerate  and  be  ceremonious? 

Having  pried  through  the   strata,   analyzed  to  a  hair,  counsell'd  with   doctors,  and 

calculated  close, 
I  find  no  sweeter  fat  than  sticks  to  my  own  bones. 

In  all  people  I  see  myself — none  more,  and  not  one  a  barleycorn  less; 
And  the  good  or  bad  I  say  of  myself,  I  say  of  them. 

And  I  know  I  am  solid  and  sound ; 

To  me  the  converging  objects  of  the  universe  perpetually  flow;  .  ^ 

All  are  written  to  me,  and  I  must  get  what  the  writing  means. 

I  know  I  am  deathless ; 

I  know  this  orbit  of  mine  cannot  be  swept  by  the  carpenter's  compass;  J9° 

I  know  I  shall  not  pass  like  a  child's  carlacue  cut  with  a  burnt  stick  at  night. 

I  know  I  am  august ; 

I  do  not  trouble  my  spirit  to  vindicate  itself  or  be  understood; 

I   see  that  the   elementary  laws   never  apologize; 

(I  reckon  I  behave  no  prouder  than  the  level  I  plant  my  house  by,  after  all.) 

I  exist  as  I  am — that  is  enough; 

If  no  other  in  the  world  be  aware,  I  sit  content; 

And  if  each  and  all  be  aware,  I  sit  content. 

One  world  is  aware,  and  by  far  the  largest  to  me,  and  that  is  myself ; 

And  whether  I  come  to  my  own  to-day,  or  in  ten  thousand  or  ten  million  years,    20° 

I  can  cheerfully  take  it  now,  or  with  equal  cheerfulness  I  can  wait. 

My  foothold  is  tenon'd  and  mortis'd  in  granite; 
I  laugh  at  what  you  call  dissolution; 
And  I  know  the  amplitude  of  time. 

21 

I  am  the  poet  of  the  Body; 
And  I  am  the  poet  of  the  Soul. 

The  pleasures  of  heaven  are  with  me,  and  the  pains  of  hell  are  with  me; 
The   first    I    graft    and    increase   upon    myself — the    latter    I    translate    into    a   new 
tongue. 

I  am  the  poet  of  the  woman  the  same  as  the  man; 
And  I  say  it  is  as  great  to  be  a  woman  as  to  be  a  man; 
And  I  say  there  is  nothing  greater  than  the  mother  of  men. 

I  chant  the  chant  of  dilation  or  pride; 

We  have  had  ducking  and  deprecating  about  enough ; 

I   show  that  size  is  only  development. 

Have  you  outstript  the   rest?     Are  you  the   President? 

It  is  a  trifle — they  will  more  than  arrive  there,  every  one,  and  still  pass  on. 

I  am  he  that  walks  with  the  tender  and  growing  night; 
I  call  to  the  earth  and  sea,  half-held  by  the  night.  - 


480  AMERICAN    POETRY 

Press  close,  bare-bosom'd  night !     Press  close,  magnetic,  nourishing  night ! 

Night  of  south  winds!  night  of  the  large  few  stars!  22° 

Still,  nodding  night!  mad,  naked,  summer  night. 

Smile,  O  voluptuous,  cool-breath"  d  earth! 

Earth  of  the  slumbering  and  liquid  trees; 

Earth  of  departed   sunset;   earth   of  the   mountains,   misty-tqpt! 

Earth  of  the  vitreous  pour  of  the  full  moon,  just  tinged  with  blue! 

Earth  of  shine  and  dark,  mottling  the  tide  of  the  river ! 

Earth  of  the  limpid  gray  of  clouds,  brighter  and  clearer  for  my  sake! 

Far-swooping  elbow'd  earth !   rich,  apple-blossom'd  earth ! 

Smile,   for  your  lover  comes! 

Prodigal,  you  have  given  me  love !     Therefore  I  to  you  give  love !  230 

0  unspeakable,  passionate  love! 

31 

1  believe  a  leaf  of  grass  is  no  less  than  the  journey-work  of  the  stars, 

And  the  pismire  is  equally  perfect,  and  a  grain  of  sand,  and  the  egg  of  the  wren, 
And  the  tree-toad  is  a  chef-d'oeuvre  for  the  highest, 
And   the    running   blackberry    would    adorn   the   parlors    of    heaven, 
And  the  narrowest  hinge  in  my  hand  puts  to  scorn  all  machinery, 
And  the  cow  crunching  with  depress'd  head  surpasses  any  statue, 
And  a  mouse  is  miracle  enough  to  stagger  sextillions  of  infidels, 
And  I  could  come  every  afternoon  of  my  life  to  look  at  the  farmer's  girl  boiling 
her  iron  tea-kettle   and   baking  short-cake. 

I  find  I  incorporate  gneiss,  coal,  long-threaded  moss,  fruits,  grains,  esculent  roots,    24P 
And  am  stucco'd  with  quadrupeds  and  birds  all  over, 
And  have  distanced  what  is  behind  me  for  good  reasons, 
And  call  anything  close  again,  when   I  desire  it. 

In  vain  the  speeding  or  shyness; 

In  vain  the  plutonic  rocks  send  their  old  heat  against  my  approach; 

In  vain  the  mastodon  retreats  beneath  its  own  powder'd  bones ; 

In  vain  objects  stand  leagues  off,  and  assume  manifold  shapes; 

In  vain  the  ocean  settling  in  hollows,   and  the  great  monsters  lying  low; 

In  vain  the  buzzard  houses  herself   with  the   sky ; 

In  vain  the  snake  slides  through  the  creepers  and  logs ;  25° 

In  vain  the  elk  takes  to  the  inner  passes  of  the  woods; 

In  vain  the  razor-bill'd  auk  sails  far  north  to  Labrador; 

I  follow  quickly,  I  ascend  to  the  nest  in  the  fissure  of  the  cliff. 

32 

I  think  I  could  turn  and  live  with  animals,  they  are  so  placid  and  self-contain'd; 
I  stand  and  look  at  them  long  and  long. 

They  do  not  sweat  and  whine  about  their  condition; 

They  do  not  lie  awake  in  the  dark  and  weep  for  their  sins; 

They  do  not  make  me  sick  discussing  their  duty  to  God ; 

Not  one  is  dissatisfied — not  one  is   demented  with  the  mania  of  owning  things; 

Not  one  kneels  to  another,  nor  to  his  kind  that  lived  thousands  of  years  ago;       26° 

Not  one   is  respectable  or  industrious  over  the  whole  earth. 

So  they  show  their  relations  to  me,  and  I  accept  them ; 

They  bring  me   tokens   of   myself — they   evince   them   plainly   in   their  possession. 


WALT   WHITMAN  481 

I  wonder  where  they  get  those  tokens : 

Did  I  pass  that  way  huge  times  ago,  and  negligently  drop  them? 

Myself  moving  forward  then  and  now  and   forever, 

Gathering  and   showing  more  always   and  with  velocity, 

Infinite  and  omnigenous,  and  the  like  of  these  among  them; 

Not  too  exclusive  toward  the  reachers  of  my  remembrancers; 

Picking  out  here  one  that  I  love,  and  now  go  with  him  on  brotherly  terms.  2?° 

A  gigantic  beauty  of  a  stallion,  fresh  and  responsive  to  my  caresses, 

Head  high  in  the   forehead,  wide  between  the  ears, 

Limbs  glossy  and  supple,  tail  dusting  the  ground, 

Eyes  full  of  sparkling  wickedness — ears  finely  cut,  flexibly  moving. 

His  nostrils   dilate,   as   my   heels   embrace   him; 

His  well-built  limbs  tremble  with  pleasure,  as   we  race  around  and  return. 

I  but  use  you  a  moment,  then  I  resign  you,  stallion ; 
Why  do  I  need  your  paces,  when  I  myself  out-gallop  them? 
Even,  as  I  stand  or  sit,  passing  faster  than  you. 

34 

Now  I  tell  what  I  knew  in  Texas  in  my  early  youth;  280 

(I  tell  not  the   fall  of  Alamo, 

Not  one  escaped  to  tell  the  fall  of  Alamo, 

The   hundred  and   fifty   are  dumb  yet  at  Alamo;) 

'Tis  the  tale  of  the  murder  in  cold  blood  of  four  hundred  and  twelve  young  men. 

Retreating,  they  had  form'd  in  a  hollow  square,  with  their  baggage  for  breast 
works  ; 

Nine  hundred  lives  out  of  the  surrounding  enemy's,  nine  times  their  number,  was 
the  price  they  took  in  advance; 

Their  colonel   was  wounded  and  their  ammunition   gone; 

They  treated  for  an  honorable  capitulation,  receiv'd  writing  and  seal,  gave  up 
their  arms,  and  march'd  back  prisoners  of  war. 

They  were  the  glory  of  the  race  of  rangers; 

Matchless  with  horse,   rifle,  song,  supper,  courtship,  290 

Large,  turbulent,  generous,  handsome,  proud,  and  affectionate, 

Bearded,   sunburnt,   drest  in  the   free  costume  of  hunters, 

Not  a  single  one  over  thirty  years  of  age. 

The  second  First-day  morning  they  were  brought  out  in  squads,  and  massacred — 

it  was  beautiful  early  summer; 
The  work  commenced  about  five  o'clock,  and  was  over  by  eight. 

None  obey'd  the  command  to  kneel; 

Some  made  a  mad  and  helpless  rush — some  stood  stark  and  straight; 

A  few  fell  at  once,  shot  in  the  temple  or  heart — the  living  and  dead  lay  together; 

The   maim'd   and   mangled   dug   in   the   dirt — the    newcomers   saw   them   there; 

Some,  half-kill'd,  attempted  to  crawl  away;  300 

These  were  despatch'd   with   bayonets,   or  batter'd   with   the  blunts  of  muskets ; 

A  youth  not  seventeen  years  old  seiz'd  his  assassin  till  two  more  came  to  release 

him ; 
The  three  were  all  torn,  and  cover'd  with  the  boy's  blood. 

At  eleven  o'clock  began  the  burning  of  the  bodies: 

That  is  the  tale  of  the  murder  of  the   four  hundred  and  twelve  young  men. 


482  AMERICAN   POETRY 

35 

Would  you   hear   of   an   old-fashion'd   sea-fight? 

Would  you  learn  who  won  by  the  light  of  the  moon  and  stars? 

List  to  the  story  as  my  grandmother's   father,  the   sailor,   told  it  to  me. 

Our  foe  was  no  skulk  in  his  ship,  I  tell  jou,    (said  he;) 

His  was  the  surly  English  pluck — and  there  is  no  tougher  or  truer,  and  never  was, 
and   never  will  be;  310 

Along  the   lower'd   eve   he   came,  horribly   raking  us. 

We  closed  with  him — the  yards   entangled — the  cannon  touch'd; 
My  captain   lash'd    fast  with   his   own   hands. 

We   had   receiv'd   some   eighteen-pound   shots   under   the   water ; 

On  our  lower  gun-deck  two  large  pieces  had  .burst  at  the  first  fire,  killing  all  around, 
and   blowing  up   overhead. 

Fighting  at  sun-down,  fighting  at  dark; 

Ten  o'clock  at  night,  the   full  moon ,  well  up,  our  leaks  on  the  gain,   and   five   feet 

of  water  reported; 
The   master-at-arms   loosing  the   prisoners   confined   in  the  afterhold,   to   give  them 

a  chance   for  themselves. 

The  transit  to  and   from  the  magazine   is  now  stopt  by  the  sentinels, 

They  see  so  many  strange  faces,  they  do  not  know  whom  to  trust.  32° 

Our    frigate   takes   fire ; 

The  other  asks  if  we  demand  quarter? 

If  our  colors  are  struck,  and  the  fighting  is  done? 

Now  I  laugh  content,  for  I  hear  the  voice  of  my  little  captain, 

We   have  not  struck,   he   composedly   cries,   we   have  just   begun   our  part  of   the 
fighting. 

Only  three  guns  are  in  use ; 

One  is  directed  by  the  captain  himself  against  the  enemy's  mainmast; 

Two,  well  served  with  grape  and  canister,  silence  his  musketry  and  clear  his  decks. 

The  tops  alone  second  the  fire  of  this  little  battery,  especially  the  main-top; 

They  hold  out  bravely   during  the  whole  of  the   action.  330 

Not  a  moment's  cease; 

The  leaks  gain   fast  on  the  pumps — the  fire  eats  toward  the  powder-magazine. 

One  of  the   pumps   has  been   shot  away — it   is  generally  thought  we   are   sinking. 

Serene    stands    the    little   captain ; 

He   is  not  hurried — his   voice   is   neither  high   nor   low; 

His   eyes   give   more  light  to   us   than  our   battle-lanterns. 

Toward  twelve  at  night,  there  in  the  beams  of  the  moon,   they  surrender  to  us. 

36 

Stretch'd  and  still  lies  the  midnight; 

Two  great  hulls  motionless  on   the  breast  of  the  darkness; 

Our  vessel    riddled   and    slowly   sinking — preparations   to   pass   to   the  one   we   have 
conquered ;  340 


WALT   WHITMAN  483 

The  captain  on  the  quarter-deck  coldly  giving  his  orders  through  a  countenance 
white  as  a  sheet; 

Near  by,  the  corpse  of  the  child  that  serv'd  in  the  cabin; 

The  dead  face  of  an  old  salt  with  long  white  hair  and  carefully  curl'd  whiskers; 

The  flames,  spite  of  all  that  can  be  done,  flickering  aloft  and  below; 

The  husky  voices  of  the  two  or  three  officers  yet  fit   for  duty; 

Formless  stacks  of  bodies,  and  bodies  by  .themselves — dabs  of  flesh  upon  the  masts 
and  spars, 

Cut  of  cordage,  dangle  of  rigging,  slight  shock  of  the  soothe  of  waves, 

Black   and    impassive   guns,    litter   of   powder-parcels,   strong   scent, 

Delicate  sniffs  of  sea-breeze,  smells  of  sedgy  grass  and  fields  by  the  shore,  death- 
messages  given  in  charge  to  survivors, 

The  hiss  of  the  surgeon's  knife,  the  gnawing  teeth  of  his  saw,  350 

Wheeze,  cluck,  swash  of  falling  blood,  short  wild  scream,  and  long,  dull,  tapering 
groan ; 

These  so — these  irretrievable. 

44 
It  is  time  to  explain  myself — Let  us  stand  up. 

What  is  known  I  strip  away; 

I  launch  all  men  and  women  forward  with  me  into  THE  UNKNOWN. 

The  clock  indicates  the  moment — but  what  does  eternity  indicate? 

We  have  thus  far  exhausted  trillions  of  winters  and  summers; 
There  are  trillions  ahead,  and  trillions  ahead  of  them. 

Births   have   brought    us    richness   and   variety, 

And  other  births  will  bring  us  richness  and  variety.  360 

I    do  not  call  one  greater  and   one   smaller; 

That  which  fills  its  period  and  place  is  equal  to  any. 

Were  mankind   murderous   or  jealous  upon  you,   my  brother,  my  sister? 
I  am  sorry   for  you — they  are  not  murderous  or  jealous  upon  me; 
All  has  been  gentle  with  me — I  keep  no  account  with  lamentation; 
(What  have  I  to  do  with  lamentation?) 

I  am  an  acme  of  things  accomplished,  and  I  an  encloser  of  things  to  be. 

My   feet  strike  an  apex  of  the  apices  of  the  stairs; 

On  every  step  bunches  of  ages,  and  larger  bunches  between  the  steps ; 

All  below  duly  travel'd,  and  still  I  mount  and  mount.  37° 

Rise  after   rise  bow   the  phantoms  behind  me; 

Afar  down  I  see  the  huge  first  Nothing — I  know  I  was  even  there; 
I   waited  unseen  and  always,  and  slept  through   the   lethargic  mist, 
And  took  my  time,  and  took  no  hurt   from  the  fetid  carbon. 

Long  I  was  hugged  close — long  and  long. 

Immense   have   been   the   preparations    for   me, 
Faithful  and  friendly  the  arms  that  have  help'd  me. 

Cycles   ferried  my  cradle,  rowing  and  rowing  like  cheerful  boatmen; 

For  room  to  me  stars  kept  aside  in  their  own  rings; 

They  sent  influences  to  look  after  what  was  to  hold  me.  380 


484  AMERICAN    POETRY 

Before  I  was  born  out  of  my  mother,  generations  guided  me; 
My  embryo  has  never  been  torpid — nothing  could  overlay  it. 

For  it  the  nebula  cohered  to  an  orb, 

The  long  slow  strata  piled  to  rest  it  on, 

Vast   vegetables  gave  it   sustenance, 

Monstrous   sauroids   transported  it   in   their  mouths,  and   deposited  it  with   care. 

All  forces  have  been  steadily  employ'd  to  complete  and  delight  me; 
Now  on  this  spot  I  stand  with  my  robust  Soul. 

46 

I  know  I  have  the  best  of  time  and  space,  and  was  never  measured,  and  never  will 
be  measured. 

I  tramp  a  perpetual  journey — (come  listen  all!)  390 

My  signs  are  a  rain-proof  coat,  good  shoes,  and  a  staff  cut  from  the  woods; 

No  friend  of  mine  takes  his  ease  in  my  chair; 

I  have  no  chair,  no  church,  no  philosophy; 

I  lead  no  man  to  a  dinner-table,  library,  or  exchange; 

But  each  man  and  each  woman  of  you  I  lead  upon  a  knoll, 

My  left  hand  hooking  you  round  the  waist, 

My  right  hand  pointing  to  landscapes  of  continents,  and  a  plain  public,  road. 

Not  I — not  any  one  else,  can  travel  that  road  for  you, 
You  must  travel  it  for  yourself. 

It  is  not  far — it  is  within  reach ;  400 

Perhaps  you  have  been  on  it  since  you  were  born,  and  did  not  know; 
Perhaps  it  is  every  where  on  water  and  on  land. 

Shoulder  your  duds,  dear  son,  and  I  will  mine,  and  let  us  hasten  forth, 
Wonderful  cities  and  free  nations  we  shall  fetch  as  we  go. 

If  you  tire,  give  me  both  burdens,  and  rest  the  chuff  of  your  hand  on  my  hip, 
And  in  due  time  you  shall  repay  the  same  service  to  me; 
For  after  we  start,  we  never  lie  by  again. 

This  day  before  dawn  I  ascended  a  hill,  and  look'd  at  the  crowded  heaven, 

And  I   said  to  my  Spirit,    When  we   become  the  enf aiders  of  those   orbs,  and  the 

pleasure  and  knowledge  of  everything  in  them,  shall  we  be  fill'd  and  satisfied 

then? 
And  my  Spirit  said,  No,  we  but  level  that  lift,  to  pass  and  continue  beyond.          4«> 

You  are  also  asking  me  questions,  and  I  hear  you; 

I  answer  that  I  cannot  answer — you  must  find  out  for  yourself. 

Sit  a  while,  dear  son; 

Here  are  biscuits  to  eat,  and  here  is  milk  to  drink; 

But  as  soon  as  you  sleep,  and  renew  yourself  in  sweet  clothes,  I  kiss  you  with  a 
good-bye  kiss,  and  open  the  gate  for  your  egress  hence. 

Long  enough  have  you   dream'd  contemptible  dreams; 
Now  I  wash  the  gum   from  your  eyes ; 

You  must  habit  yourself  to  the  dazzle  of  the  light,  and  of  every  moment  of  your 
life. 


WALT   WHITMAN  485 

Long  have  you  timidly  waded,  holding  a  plank  by  the  shore; 

Now  I  will  you  to  be  a  bold  swimmer,  4» 

To  jump  off  in  the  midst  of  the  sea,  rise  again,  nod  to  me,  shout,  and  laughingly 
dash  with  your  hair. 

48 

I  have  said  that  the  soul  is  not  more  than  the  body, 

And  I  have  said  that  the  body  is  not  more  than  the  soul; 

And  nothing,  not  God,  is  greater  to  one  than  one's  self  is, 

And  Whoever  walks  a   furlong  without  sympathy,   walks  to  his  own   funeral,   drest 

in  his  shroud, 

And  I  or  you,  pocketless  of  a  dime,  may  purchase  the  pick  of  the  earth, 
And  to  glance  with  an  eye,  or  show  a  bean  in  its  pod,  confounds  the  learning  of 

all  times, 
And  there  is  no  trade  or  employment  but  the  young  man  following  it  may  become 

a  hero, 

And  there  is  no  object  so  soft  but  it  makes  a  hub  for  the  wheel'd  universe, 
And  I  say  to  any  man  or  woman,  Let  your  soul  stand  cool  and  composed  before  a 

million  universes.  430 

And  I  say  to  mankind,  Be  not  curious  about  God, 

For  I,  who  am  curious  about  each,  am  not  curious  about  God; 

(No  array  of  terms  can  say  how  much  I  am  at  peace  about  God,  and  about  death.) 

I  hear  and  behold  God  in  every  object,  yet  understand  God  not  in  the  least, 
Nor  do  I  understand  who  there  can  be  more  wonderful  than  myself. 

Why  should  I  wish  to  see  God  better  than  this  day? 

I  see  something  of  God  each  hour  of  the  twenty-four,  and  each  moment  then; 

In  the  faces  of  men  and  women  I  see  God,  and  in  my  own  face  in  the  glass; 

I  find  letters  from  God  dropt  in  the  street — and  every  one  is  sign'd  by  God's  name, 

And  I  leave  them  where  they  are,  for  I  know  that  wheresoe'er  I  go,  440 

Others   will  punctually  come   forever  and  ever. 

49 

And  as  to  you  Death,  and  you  bitter  hug  of  mortality,  it  is  idle  to  try  to  alarm  me. 

To  his  work  without  flinching  the  accoucheur  comes; 
I   see  the   elder-hand,   pressing,  receiving,   supporting; 
I   recline  by  the  sills  of  the  exquisite  flexible  doors, 
And  mark  the  outlet,  and  mark  the  relief  and  escape. 

And  as  to  you,  Corpse,  I  think  you  are  good  manure — but  that  does  not  offend  me; 

I  smell  the  white  roses  sweet-scented  and  growing, 

I  reach  to  the  leafy  lips — I  reach  to  the  polish'd  breasts  of  melons. 

And  as  to  you  Life,  I  reckon  you  are  the  leavings  of  many  deaths ;  450 

(No  doubt  I  have  died  myself  ten  thousand  times  before.) 

I  hear  you  whispering  there,  O  stars  of  heaven ; 

O  suns!  O  grass  of  graves!  O  perpetual  transfers  and  promotions! 

If  you  do  not  say  anything,  how  can  I  say  anything? 

Of  the  turbid  pool  that  lies  in  the  autumn  forest, 

Of  the  moon  that  descends  the  steeps  of  the  soughing  twilight, 

Toss,  sparkles  of  day  and  dusk!  toss  on  the  black  stems  that  decay  in  the  muck! 

Toss  to  the  moaning  gibberish  of  the  dry  limbs. 


486  AMERICAN    POETRY 

I  ascend  from  the  moon,  I  ascend  from  the  night ; 

I  perceive  that  the  ghastly  glimmer  is  noonday  sunbeams  reflected;  460 

And  debouch  to  the  steady  and  central  from  the  offspring  great  or  small. 

50 
There  is  that  in  me — I  do  not  know  what  it  is — but  I  know  it  is  in  me. 

Wrench'd  and  sweaty — calm  and  cool  then  my  body  becomes; 
I  sleep — I  sleep  long. 

I  do  not  know  it — it  is  without  name— it  is  a  word  unsaid; 
It  is  not  in  any  dictionary,  utterance,  symbol. 

Something  it  swings  on  more  than  the  earth  I  swing  on; 
To  it  the  creation  is  the  friend  whose  embracing  awakes  me. 

Perhaps  I  might  tell  more.     Outlines !  I  plead  for  my  brothers  and  sisters. 

Do  you  see,  O  my  brothers  and  sisters?  470 

It  is  not  chaos  or  death — it  is  form,  union,  plan — it  is  eternal  life — it  is  HAPPINESS. 

52 

The   spotted  hawk   swoops  by  and  accuses   me — he   complains   of   my  gab   and   my 
loitering. 

I  too  am  not  a  bit  tamed — I  too  am  untranslatable; 

I  sound  my  barbaric  yawp  over  the  roofs  of  the  world. 

The  last  scud  of  day  holds  back  for  me; 

It  flings  my  likeness  after  the  rest,  and  true  as  any,  on  the  shadow'd  wilds; 

It  coaxes  me  to  the  vapor  and  the  dusk. 

I  depart  as  air — I  shake  my  white  locks  at  the  runaway  sun; 
I  effuse  my  flesh  in  eddies,  and  drift  it  in  lacy  jags. 

I  bequeathe  myself  to  the  dirt,  to  grow  from  the  grass  I  love;  4&> 

If  you  want  me  again*  look  for  me  under  your  boot-soles. 

You  will  hardly  know  who  I  am,  or  what  I  mean; 
But  I  shall  be  good  health  to  you  nevertheless. 
And  filter  and  fibre  your  blood. 

Failing  to  fetch  me  at  first,  keep  encouraged; 
Missing  me  one  place,  search  another; 
I   stop   somewhere,   waiting   for  you. 

1855. 

FROM   SONG  OF  THE   BROAD-AXE 

1 

Weapon,  shapely,  naked,  wan ! 

Head   from  the  mother's  bowels   drawn ! 

Wooded  flesh,  and  metal  bone !  limb  only  one,  and  lip  only  one ! 

Gray-blue  leaf  by  red-heat  grown !  helve  produced  from  a  little  seed  sown ! 

Resting  the  grass  amid  and  upon, 

To  be  Jean'd,  and  to  lean  on, 


WALT   WHITMAN  487 

Strong  shapes,  and  attributes  of  strong  shapes — masculine  trades,  sights  and  sounds; 

Long  varied  train  of  an  emblem,  dabs  of  music; 

Fingers  of  the  organist  skipping  staccato  over  the  keys  of  the  great  organ. 

4 

Muscle  and  pluck  forever!  I0 

What  invigorates  life,  invigorates   death, 
And  the  dead  advance  as  much  as  the  living  advance, 
And  the    future  is  no  more  uncertain  than  the   present, 
And  the  roughness  of  the  earth  and  of  man  encloses  as  much  as  the  delicatesse  of 

the  earth  and  of  man, 
And   nothing  endures   but  personal  qualities. 

What  do  you  think  endures? 

Do  you  think  the  great  city  endures? 

Or"  a  teeming  manufacturing  state?  or  a  prepared  constitution?  or  the  best-built 
steamships? 

Or  hotels  of  granite  and  iron?  or  any  chef-d'ceuvres  of  engineering,  forts,  arma 
ments? 

Away !     These  are  not  to  be  cherish'd  for  themselves ;  2° 

They  fill  their  hour,  the  dancers  dance,  the  musicians  play  for  them; 
The  show   passes,   all   does   well   enough  of   course, 
All  does  very  well  till  one  flash  of  defiance. 

The  great  city  is  that  which  has  the  greatest  man  or  woman; 

If  it  be  a  few  ragged  huts,  it  is  still  the  greatest  city  in  the  whole  world. 


The  place  where  the  great  city  stands  is  not  the  place  of  stretch'd  wharves,  docks, 

manufactures,  deposits  of  produce, 
Nor   the   place   of  ceaseless    salutes   of    new-comers,    or    the    anchor-lifters    of    the 

departing, 
Nor  the  place  of  the  tallest  and  costliest  buildings,   or   shops   selling  goods    from 

the  rest  of  the  earth, 
Nor   the   place   of   the   best   libraries   and   schools — nor   the   place   where   money   is 

plentiest, 
Nor  the  place  of  the  most  numerous  population.  3° 

Where  the  city  stands  with  the  brawniest  breed  of  orators  and  bards; 

Where   the   city   stands   that   is   beloved   by   these,    and   loves   them   in   return,   and 

understands  them ; 

Where  no  monuments  exist  to  heroes,  but  in  the  common  words  and  deeds; 
Where  thrift  is  in  its  place,  and  prudence  is  in  its  place; 
Where  the  men  and   women   think   lightly   of  the  laws ; 
Where  the  slave  ceases,  and  the  master  of  slaves  ceases ; 
Where    the    populace    rise    at   once    against    the    never-ending    audacity    of    elected 

persons ; 
Where  fierce  men  and  women  pour  forth,  as  the  sea  to  the  whistle  of  death  pours 

its  sweeping  and  unript  waves; 

Where  outside  authority  enters  always  after  the  precedence   of   inside  authority; 
Where  the  citizen   is   always  the  head  and  ideal — and   President,   Mayor,   Governor, 

and  what  not,  are  agents  for  pay;  40 

Where  children  are  taught  to  be  laws  to  themselves,  and  to  depend  on  themselves; 
Where   equanimity   is   illustrated   in   affairs ; 
Where  speculations  on  the  Soul  are  encouraged ; 

Where  women  walk  in  public  processions  in  the  streets,  the  same  as  the  men, 
Where  they  enter  the  public  assembly  and  take  places  the  same  as  the  men; 


488  AMERICAN   POETRY 

Where  the  city  of  the  faithfulest  friends  stands; 

Where  the  city  of  the  cleanliness  of  the  sexes  stands ; 

Where  the  city  of  the  healthiest  fathers  stands; 

Where  the  city  of  the  best-bodied  mothers  stands, 

There  the  great  city  stands.  5° 

8 

I  see  the  European  headsman; 

He  stands  mask'd,  clothed  in  red,  with  huge  legs,  and  strong  naked  arms, 
And  leans  on  a  ponderous  axe. 

(Whom  have  you  slaughter'd  lately,  European  headsman? 
Whose  is  that  blood  upon  you,  so  wet  and  sticky?) 

I  see  the  clear  sunsets  of  the  martyrs; 

I  see  from  the  scaffolds  the  descending  ghosts, 

Ghosts  of  dead  lords,  uncrown'd  ladies,  impeach'd  ministers,   rejected  kings, 

Rivals,  traitors,   poisoners,   disgraced   chieftains,   and  the   rest. 

I  see  those  who  in  any  land  have  died  for  the  good  cause;  60 

The  seed  is  spare,  nevertheless  the  crop  shall  never  run  out; 

(Mind  you,  O   foreign  kings,  O  priests,  the  crop  shall  never  run  out.) 

I  see  the  blood  wash'd  entirely  away  from  the  axe; 
Both  blade  and  helve  are  clean; 

They  spirt  no  more  the  blood  of  European  nobles — they  clasp  no  more  the  necks 
of  queens. 

I  see  the  headsman  withdraw  and  become  useless; 

I  see  the  scaffold  untrodden  and  mouldy — I   see  no  longer  any  axe  upon  it; 
I  see  the  mighty  and  friendly  emblem  of  the  power  of  my  own  race — the  newest, 
largest  race. 

10 

The  shapes  arise ! 

The  shape  measur'd,   saw'd,  jack'd,  join'd,   stain'd,  70 

The  coffin-shape  for  the  dead  to  lie  within  in  his  shroud; 

The  shape  got  out  in  posts,  in  the  bedstead  posts,  in  the  posts  of  the  bride's  bed; 
The  shape  of  the  little  trough,  the  shape  of  the  rockers  beneath,  the  shape  of  the 

babe's  cradle; 

The  shape  of  the  floor-planks,  the  floor-planks   for  dancers'   feet; 
The  shape  of  the  planks  of  the  family  home,  the  home  of  the  friendly  parents  and 

children, 
The  shape  of  the  roof  of  the  home  of  the  happy  young  man  and  woman — the  roof 

over  the  well-married  young  man   and   woman, 
The  roof  over  the  supper  joyously  cook'd  by  the  chaste  wife,  and  joyously  eaten 

by  the  chaste  husband,  content  after  his  day's  work. 

The  shapes  arise! 

The  shape  of  the  prisoner's  place  in  the  court-room,  and  of  him  or  her  seated  in 
the  place; 

The  shape  of  the  liquor-bar  lean'd  against  by  the  young  rum-drinker  and  the  old 
rum-drinker ;  &> 

The  shape  of  the  shamed  and  angry  stairs,  trod  by  sneaking   footsteps; 

The  shape  of  the  sly  settee,  and  the  adulterous  unwholesome  couple; 

The  shape  of  the  gambling-board  with  its  devilish  winnings  and  losings ; 

The  shape  of  the  step-ladder  for  the  convicted  and  sentenced  murderer,  the  mur 
derer  with  haggard  face  and  pinion'd  arms, 

The  sheriff  at  hand  with  his  deputies,  the  silent  and  white-lipp'd  crowd,  the  dangling 
of  the  rope. 


WALT   WHITMAN  489 

The  shapes  arise ! 

Shapes  of  doors  giving  many  exits  and  entrances ; 
The  door  passing  the  dissever'd  friend,  flush'd  and  in  haste; 
The  door  that  admits  good  news  and  bad  news ; 

The  door  whence  the  son  left  home,  confident  and  puff'd  up;  9° 

The   door  he  enter'd  again    from  a  long  and   scandalous   absence,   diseas'd,   broken 
.  down,   without    innocence,    without   means. 

12 

The  main  shapes  arise ! 

Shapes  of  Democracy,  total — result  of   centuries; 
Shapes,   ever  projecting  other  shapes; 
Shapes  of  turbulent  manly  cities; 

Shapes  of  the  friends  and  home-givers  of  the  whole  earth, 
Shapes  bracing  the  earth,  and  braced  with  the  whole  earth. 

1856. 

FROM   SONG  OF  THE   OPEN   ROAD 

1 

Afoot  and  light-hearted,  I  take  to  the  open  road, 

Healthy,  free,  the  world  before  me, 

The  long  brown  path  before  me,  leading  wherever  I  choose. 

Henceforth  I  ask  not  good- fortune — I  myself  am  good  fortune; 
Henceforth  I   whimper  no   more,  postpone  no  more,  need  nothing, 
Strong  and  content,  I  travel  the  open  road. 

The  earth — that  is  sufficient; 

I  do  not  want  the  constellations  any  nearer; 

I  know  they  are  very  well  where  they  are; 

I  know  they  suffice  for  those  who  belong  to  them. 

(Still  here  I  carry  my  old  delicious  burdens; 

I  carry  them,  men  and  women — I  carry  them  with  me  wherever  I  go ; 

I  swear  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  get  rid  of  them ; 

I  am  fill'd  with  them,  and  I  will  fill  them  in  return.) 


You  road  I  enter  upon  and  look  around !     I  believe  you  are  not  all  that  is  here ; 
I  believe  that  much  unseen  is  also  here. 

Here  the  profound  lesson  of  reception,  neither  preference  or  denial; 

The  black  with  his   woolly  head,  the   felon,  the   diseas'd,   the   illiterate  person,   are 

not  denied; 
The    birth,    the    hasting    after    the    physician,    the    beggar's    tramp,    the    drunkard's 

stagger,  the  laughing  party  of  mechanics, 

The  escaped  youth,  the  rich  person's  carriage,  the   fop,  the   eloping  couple,  2° 

The    early    market-man,    the   hearse,    the   moving   of    furniture   into   the   town,    the 

return  back   from  the  town, 

They  pass — I  also  pass — anything  passes — none  can  be  interdicted ; 
None  but  are  accepted — none  but  are  dear  to  me. 


You  air  that  serves  me  with  breath  to  speak ! 

You  objects  that  call  from  diffusion  my  meanings,  and  give  them  shape! 


490  AMERICAN    POETRY 

You  light  that  wraps  me  and  all  things  in  delicate  equable  showers! 

You  paths  worn  in  the  irregular  hollows  by  the  roadsides ! 

I  think  you  are  latent  with  unseen  existences — you  are  so  dear  to  me. 

You  flagg'd  walks  of  the  cities !  you  strong  curbs  at  the  edges ! 

You  ferries !  you  planks  and  posts  of  wharves !  you  timber-lined  sides !  you  distant 

ships !    '  3° 

You  rows  of  houses !  you  window-pierc'd  f agades !  you  roofs ! 
You  porches  and  entrances !   you  copings  and   iron  guards ! 
You   windows  whose  transparent   shells   might  expose  so   much! 
You   doors  and  ascending  steps !  you  arches ! 

You  gray   stones   of   interminable   pavements!   you  trodden   crossings!  - 
From  all  that  has  been  near  you,  I  believe  you  have  imparted  to  yourselves,  and 

now   would   impart  the  same  secretly  to  me; 
From  the  living  and  the  dead   I   think  you   have   peopled  your   impassive   surfaces, 

and  the  spirits  thereof  would  be  evident  and  amicable  with  me. 


The  earth  expanding  right  hand  and  left  hand, 

The  picture  alive,  every  part  in  its  best  light, 

The  music  falling  in  where  it  is  wanted,  and  stopping  where  it  is  not  wanted,       4° 

The  cheerful  voice  of  the  public  road — the  gay   fresh  sentiment  of  the  road. 

O  highway  I  travel!  O  public  road!  do  you  say  to  me,  Do  not  leave  me? 

Do  you  say,  Venture  not?    If  you  leave  me,  you  are  lost? 

Do  you  say,  /  am  already  prepared — /  am  well-beaten  and  undenied — adhere  to  me? 

0  public  road!  I  say  back,  I  am  not  afraid  to  leave  you — yet  I  love  you; 
You  express  me  better  than  I  can  express  myself; 

You  shall  be  more  to  me  than  my  poem. 

1  think  heroic  deeds  were  all  conceiv'd  in  the  open  air,  and  all  great  poems  also; 
I   think   I   could  stop  here  myself,   and   do   miracles ; 

(My  judgments,  thoughts,  I  henceforth  try  by  the  open  air,  the  road;)  5° 

I  think  whatever  I   shall  meet  on  the   road  I   shall  like,  and  whoever  beholds  me 

shall  like  me; 
I  think  whoever  I  see  must  be  happy. 


Now  if  a  thousand  perfect  men  were  to  appear,  it  would  not  amaze  me; 

Now  if  a  thousand  beautiful  forms  of  women  appear'd,  it  would  not  astonish  me. 

Now  I  see  the  secret  of  the  making  of  the  best  persons, 

It  is  to  grow  in  the  open  air,  and  to  eat  and  sleep  with  the  earth. 

Here  a  great  personal  deed  has  room; 

A  great  deed  seizes  upon  the  hearts  of  the  whole  race  of  men, 
Its  effusion  of  strength  and  will  overwhelms  law,  and  mocks  all  authority  and  all 
argument  against   it. 

Here  is  the  test  of  wisdom;  60 

Wisdom  is  not  finally  tested  in  schools; 

Wisdom  cannot  be  pass'd  from  one  having  it,  to  another  not  having  it; 

Wisdom  is  of  the  Soul,  is  not  susceptible  of  proof,  is  its  own  proof, 

Applies  to  all  stages  and  objects  and  qualities,  and  is  content, 

Is   the   certainty   of   the    reality    and    immortality    of   things,    and    the    excellence    of 

things ; 
Something  there  is  in  the  float  of  the  sight  of  things  that  provokes  it  out  of  the 

Soul. 


WALT   WHITMAN  491 

Now   I   re-examine  philosophies   and  religions, 

They   may   prove   well   in   lecture-rooms,   yet   not   prove   at   all   under   the   spacious 
clouds,  and  along  the  landscape  and  flowing  currents. 

Here  is  realization; 

Here  is  a  man  tallied — he  realizes  here  what  he  has  in  him ;  TO 

The  past,  the   future,  majesty,  love — if  they  are  vacant  of  you,  you  are  vacant  of 
them. 

Only  the  kernel  of  every  object  nourishes; 

Where  is  he  who  tears  off  the  husks   for  you  and  me? 

Where  is  he  that  undoes  stratagems  and  envelopes   for  you  and  me? 

Here  is  adhesiveness — it  is  not  previously  fashion'd — it  is   apropos; 
Do  you  know  what  it  is,  as  you  pass,  to  be  loved  by  strangers? 
Do  you  know  the  talk  of  those  turning  eye-balls? 


Aliens !  whoever  you  are,  come  travel  with  me ! 
Traveling  with  me,  you  find  what  never  tires. 

The  earth  never  tires ;  8° 

The  earth   is  rude,  silent,   incomprehensible  at  first — Nature  is  rude  and  incompre 
hensible  at   first ; 

Be  not  discouraged — keep  on— there  are   divine  things,  well  envelop'd ; 
I  swear  to  you  there  are  divine  things  more  beautiful  than  words  can  tell. 

Allons !  we  must  not  stop  here ! 

However   sweet  these  laid-up   stores — however   convenient  this   dwelling,   we   cannot 

remain  here; 
However  shelter'd  this  port,  and  however  calm  these  waters,  we  must  not  anchor 

here; 
However   welcome   the   hospitality  that   surrounds  us,   we   are  permitted  to  receive 

it  but  a  little  while. 

10 

Allons !  the  inducements  shall  be  greater ; 
We  will  sail  pathless  and  wild  seas ; 

We  will  go  where  winds  blow,  waves  dash,  and  the  Yankee  clipper  speeds  by  under 
full  sail.  90 

Allons !   with  power,  liberty,  the  earth,  the  elements ! 
Health,    defiance,    gayety,    self-esteem,    curiosity; 

Allons !  from  all  formules ! 

From  your  formules,  O  bat-eyed  and  materialistic  priests ! 

The  stale  cadaver  blocks  up  the  passage — the  burial  waits  no  longer. 

Allons  !  yet  take  warning ! 

He  traveling  with  me  needs  the  best  blood,  thews,  endurance ; 

None  may  come  to  the  trial,  till  he  or  she  bring  courage  and  health. 

Come  not  here  if  you  have  not  already  spent  the  best  of  yourself; 

Only  those  may  come,  who  come  in  sweet  and  determin'd  bodies ;  I0° 

No  diseas'd  person — no  rum-drinker  or  venereal  taint  is  permitted  here. 

I  and  mine  do  not  convince  by  arguments,  similes,  rhymes; 
We  convince  by  our  presence. 


492  AMERICAN   POETRY 

11 

Listen !    I  will  be  honest  with  you ; 

I  do  not  offer  the  old  smooth  prizes,  but  offer  rough  new  prizes; 

These  are  the  days  that  must  happen  to  you : 

You  shall  not  heap  up  what  is  call'd  riches, 

You  shall  scatter  with  lavish  hand  all  that  you  earn  or  achieve, 

You  but  arrive  at  the  city  to  which  you  were  destin'd — you  hardly  settle  yourself  to 

satisfaction,  before  you  are  call'd  by  an  irresistible  call  to  depart, 
You  shall  be  treated  to  the  ironical  smiles  and  mockings  of  those  who  remain  behind 

you;  II0 

What  beckonings  of  love  you  receive,  you  shall  only  answer  with  passionate  kisses 

of  parting, 
You  shall  not  allow  the  hold  of  those  who  spread  their  reach'd  hands  toward  you. 

14 

The  Soul  travels; 

The  body  does  not  travel  as  much  as  the  soul; 

The  body  has  just  as  great  a  work  as  the   soul,  and   parts  away  at  last   for  the 
journeys  of  the  soul. 

All  parts  away  for  the  progress  of  souls; 

All  religion,  all  solid  things,  arts,  governments, — all  that  was  or  is  apparent  upon  this 

globe  or  any  globe,  falls  into  niches  and  corners  before  the  procession  of  Souls 

along  the  grand  roads  of  the  universe. 

Of  the  progress  of  the  souls  of  men  and  women  along  the  grand  roads  of  the  uni 
verse,  all  other  progress  is  the  needed  emblem  and  sustenance. 

Forever  -alive,  forever  forward, 

Stately,  solemn,  sad,  withdrawn,  baffled,  mad,  turbulent,  feeble,  dissatisfied,  I2° 

Desperate,  proud,  fond,  sick,  accepted  by  men,  rejected  by  men, 

They  go !  they  go !  I  know  that  they  go,  but  I  know  not  where  they  go ; 

But  I  know  that  they  go  toward  the  best — toward  something  great. 

16 

Allons!  through  struggles  and  wars! 
The  goal  that  was  named  cannot  be  countermanded. 

Have  the  past  struggles  succeeded? 

What  has  succeeded?    yourself?    your  nation?    nature? 

Now  understand  me  well — It  is  provided  in  the  essence  of  things,  that   from  any 

fruition  of  success,  no  matter  what,  shall  come   forth  something  to   make  a 

greater  struggle  necessary. 

My  call  is  the  call  of  battle — I  nourish  active  rebellion; 

He  going  with  me  must  go  well  arm'd;  J3° 

He  going  with  me  goes  often  with  spare  diet,  poverty,  angry  enemies,  desertions. 

17 

Allons!   the  road  is  before  us! 
It  is  safe — I  have  tried  it — my  own  feet  have  tried  it  well. 

Allons!    be  not  detain'd! 

Let  the  paper  remain  on  the  desk  unwritten,  and  the  book  on  the  shelf  unopen'd ! 
Let  the  tools  remain  in  the  workshop !  let  the  money  remain  unearn'd ! 
Let  the  school  stand !    mind  not  the  cry  of  the  teacher ! 

Let  the  preacher  preach  in  his  pulpit!    let  the  lawyer  plead  in  the  court,  and  the 
judge  expound  the  law. 


WALT   WHITMAN  493 

Mon  enfant!    I  give  you  my  hand! 

I  give  you  my  love,  more  precious  than  money,  M° 

I  give  you  myself,  before  preaching  or  law; 

Will  you  give  me  yourself?    will  you  come  travel  with  me? 

Shall  we  stick  by  each  other  as  long  as  we  live? 

First  published  in  1856.     In  that  edition  and  that  of  1860  under  title  of  "Poem  of  the  Road." 

CROSSING  BROOKLYN   FERRY  1 
1 

Flood-tide  below  me !     I  watch  you  face  to  face ; 

Clouds  of  the  west !    sun  there  half  an  hour  high !    I  see  you  also  face  to  face. 

Crowds  of  men  and  women  attired  in  the  usual  costumes!   how  curious  you  are  to  me! 
On  the  ferry-boats,  the  hundreds  and  hundreds  that  cross,  returning  home,  are  more 

curious  to  me  than  you  suppose; 
And  you  that  shall  cross  from  sho^e  to  shore  years  hence,  are  more  to  me,  and  more 

in  my  meditations,  than  you  might  suppose. 


The  impalpable  sustenance  of  me  from  all  things,  at  all  hours  of  the  day; 

The  simple,  compact,  well-join'd  scheme — myself  disintegrated,  every  one  disintegrated, 

yet  part  of  the  scheme : 

The  similitudes  of  the  past,  and  those  of  the  future; 
The  glories  strung  like  beads  on  my  smallest  sights  and  hearings— on  the  walk  in  the 

street,  and  the  passage  over  the  river; 

The  current  rushing  so  swiftly,  and  swimming  with  me  far  away;  "> 

The  others  that  are  to  follow  me,  the  ties  between  me  and  them; 
The  certainty  of  others — the  life,  love,  sight,  hearing  of  others. 

Others  will  enter  the  gates  of  the  ferry,  and  cross  from  shore  to  shore; 

Others  will  watch  the  run  of  the  flood-tide; 

Others  will  see  the  shipping  of  Manhattan  north  and  west,  and  the  heights  of  Brooklyn 

to  the  south  and  east; 

Others  will  see  the  islands  large  and  small; 

Fifty  years  hence,  others  will  see  them  as  they  cross,  the  sun  half  an  hour  high; 
A  hundred  years  hence,  or  ever  so  many  hundred  years  hence,  others  will  see  them, 
Will  enjoy  the  sunset,  the  pouring  in  of  the  flood-tide,  the  falling  back  to  the  sea  of 

the  ebb-tide. 

3 

It  avails  not,  neither  time  or  place — distance  avails  not;  20 

I  am  with  you,  you  men  and  women  of  a  generation,  or  ever  so  many  generations 

hence ; 
I  project  myself — also  I  return — I  am  with  you,  and  know  how  it  is. 

Just  as  you  feel  when  you  look  on  the  river  and  sky,  so  I  felt; 

Just  as  any  of  you  is  one  of  a  living  crowd,  I  was  one  of  a  crowd; 

Just  as  you  are  refresh'd  by  the  gladness  of  the  river  and  the  bright  flow,  I  was 

refresh'd ; 
Just  as  you  stand  and  lean  on  the  rail,  yet  hurry  with  the  swift  current,  I  stood,  yet 

was  hurried ; 
Just  as  you  look  on  the  numberless  masts  of  ships,  and  the  thick-stem'd  pipes  of 

steamboats,  I  look'd. 

1  Living  in   Brooklyn  or  New  York  City  from  this  time  forward,  my   life  then,  and   still   more 

the    following   years,    was   curiously    identified    with    Fulton    Ferry.     ...     I    have  always    had    a 

passion   for    ferries;    to   me   they    afford   inimitable,    streaming,   never-failing   poems.  (Whitman   in 
''Specimen  Days.") 


494  AMERICAN    POETRY 

I,  too,  many  and  many  a  time  cross'd  the  river,  the  sun  half  an  hour  high; 

I  watched  the  Twelfth-month   sea-gulls — I   saw  them  high   in  the  air,  floating  with 

motionless  wings,  oscillating  their  bodies, 
I  saw  how  the  glistening  yellow  lit  up  parts  of  their  bodies,  and  left  the  rest  in 

strong  shadow,  3° 

I  saw  the  slow-wheeling  circles,  and  the  gradual  edging  toward  the  south. 

I,  too,  saw  the  reflection  of  the  summer  sky  in  the  water, 

Had  my  eyes  dazzled  by  the  shimmering  track  of  beams, 

Look'd  at  the  fine  centrifugal  spokes  of  light  around  the  shape  of  my  head  in  the 
sun-lit  water, 

Look'd  on  the  haze  on  the  hills  southward  and  southwestward, 

Look'd  on  the  vapor  as  it  flew  in  fleeces  tinged  with  violet, 

Look'd  toward  the  lower  bay  to  notice  the  arriving  ships, 

Saw  their  approach,  saw  aboard  those  that  were  near  me, 

Saw  the  white  sails  of  schooners  and  sloops — saw  the  ships  at  anchor, 

The  sailors  at  work  in  the  rigging,  or  out  astride  the  spars,  4° 

The  round  masts,  the  swinging  motion  of  the  hulls,  the  slender  serpentine  pennants, 

The  large  and  small  steamers  in  motion,  the  pilots  in  their  pilot-houses, 

The  white  wake  left  by  the  passage,  the  quick  tremulous  whirl  of  the  wheels, 

The  flags  of  all  nations,  the  falling  of  them  at  sun-set, 

The  scallop-edged  waves  in  the  twilight,  the  ladled  cups,  the  frolicsome  crests  and 
glistening, 

The  stretch  afar  growing  dimmer  and  dimmer,  the  gray  walls  of  the  granite  store 
houses  by  the  docks, 

On  the  river  the  shadowy  group,  the  big  steam-tug  closely  flank'd  on  each  side  by 
the  barges — the  hay-boat,  the  belated  lighter, 

On  the  neighboring  shore,  the  fires  from  the  foundry  chimneys  burning  high  and 
glaringly  into  the  night, 

Casting  their  flicker  of  black,  contrasted  with  wild  red  and  yellow  light,  over  the 
tops  of  houses,  and  down  into  the  clefts  of  streets. 

4 

These,  and  all  else,  were  to  me  the  same  as  they  are  to  you;  so 

1  project  myself  a  moment  to  tell  you — also  I  return. 

I  loved  well  those  cities; 

I  loved  well  the  stately  and  rapid  river; 

The  men  and  women  I  saw  were  all  near  to  me ; 

Others  the  same — others  who  look  back  on  me,  because  I  look'd  forward  to  them. 

(The  time  will  come,  though  I  stop  here  to-day  and  to-night.) 

5 

What  is  it,  then,  between  us? 
What  is  the  count  of  the  scores  or  hundreds  of  years  between  us? 

Whatever  it  is,  it  avails  not — distance  avails  not,  and  place  avails  not. 


I  too  lived — Brooklyn,  of  ample  hills,  was  mine ;  6° 

I  too  walk'd  the  streets  of  Manhattan  Island,  and  bathed  in  the  waters  around  it; 

I  too  felt  the  curious  abrupt  questionings  stir  within  me, 

In  the  day,  among  crowds  of  people,  sometimes  they  came  upon  me, 

In  my  walks  home  late  at  night,  or  as  I  lay  in  my  bed,  they  came  upon  me. 

I  too  had  been  struck  from  the  float  forever  held  in  solution ; 
I  too  had  receiv'd  identity  by  my  Body; 

That  I  was,  I  knew  was  of  my  body — and  what  I  should  be,  I  knew  I  should  be  of 
my  body. 


WALT   WHITMAN  495 


It  is  not  upon  you  alone  the  dark  patches  fall, 
The  dark  patches  threw  down  upon  me  also ; 

The  best  I  had  done  seemed  to  me  blank  and  suspicious ;  7° 

My  great  thoughts,  as  I  supposed  them,  were  they  not  in  reality  meager?    would  not 
people  laugh  at  them? 

It  is  not  you  alone  who  knows  what  it  is  to  be  evil; 

I  am  he  who  knew  what  it  was  to  be  evil; 

I,  too,  knitted  the  old  knot  of  contrariety, 

Blabb'd,  blush'd,  resented,  lied,  stole,  grudg'd, 

Had  guile,  anger,  lust,  hot  wishes  I  dared  not  speak, 

Was  wayward,  vain,  greedy,  shallow,  sly,  cowardly,  malignant; 

The  wolf,  the  snake,  the  hog  not  wanting  in  me,. 

The  cheating  look,  the  frivolous  word,  the  adulterous  wish,  not  wanting, 

Refusals,  hates,  postponements,  meanness,  laziness,  none  of  these  wanting.  8° 

8 

But  I  was  Manhattanese,  friendly  and  proud ! 

I  was  called  by  my  nighest  name  by  clear,  loud  voices  of  young  men  as  they  saw  me 

approaching  or  passing; 
Felt  their  arms  on  my  neck  as  they  stood,  or  the  negligent  leaning  of  their  flesh 

against  me  as  I  sat, 
Saw  many   I   loved   in  the  street,  or   ferry-boat,  or  public  assembly,  yet  never  told 

them  a  word, 

Lived  the  same  life  with  the  rest,  the  same  old  laughing,  gnawing,  sleeping, 
.  Play'd  the  part  that  still  looks  back  on  the  actor  or  actress, 
The  same  old  role,  the  role  that  is  what  we  make  it,  as  great  as  we  like, 
Or  as  small  as  we  like,  or  both  great  and  small. 

9 

Closer  yet  I  approach  you;  89 

What  thought  you  have  of  me,  I  had  as  much  of  you — I  laid  in  my  stores  in  advance; 
I  consider'd  long  and  seriously  of  you  before  you  were  born. 

Who  was  to  know  what  should  come  home  to  me? 

Who  knows  but  I  am  enjoying  this? 

Who  knows  but  I  am  as  good  as  looking  at  you  now,  for  all  you  cannot  see  me? 

It  is  not  you  alone,  nor  I  alone; 

Not  a  few  races,  nor  a  few  generations,  nor  a  few  centuries; 

It  is  that  each  came,  or  comes,  or  shall  come,  from  its  due  emission, 

From  the  general  center  of  all,  and  forming  a  part  of  all: 

Everything  indicates — the  smallest  does,  and  the  largest  does ; 

A  necessary  film  envelopes  all,  and  envelopes  the  Soul  for  a  proper  time.  i°° 

10 

Now  I  am  curious  what  sight  can  ever  be  more  stately  and  admirable  to  me  than  my 

mast-hemm'd  Manhattan, 

My  river  and  sun-set,  and  my  scallpp-edg'd  waves  of  flood-tide, 
The  sea-gulls  oscillating  their  bodies,  the  hay-boat  in  the  twilight,  and  the  belated 

lighter ; 
Curious  what  Gods  can  exceed  these  that  clasp  me  by  the  hand,  and  with  voices  I 

love  call  me  promptly  and  loudly  by  my  nighest  name  as  I  approach ; 
Curious  what  is  more  subtle  than  this  which  ties  me  to  the  woman  or  man  that  looks 

in  my  face, 
WThich  fuses  me  into  you  now,  and  pours  my  meaning  into  you. 


496  AMERICAN    POETRY 

We  understand,  then,  do  we  not? 

What  I  promis'd  without  mentioning  it,  have  you  not  accepted? 

What  the  study  could  not  teach — what  the  preaching  could  not  accomplish,  is  accom- 

plish'd,  is  it  not? 
What  the  push  of  reading  could  not  start,  is  started  by  me  personally,  is  it  not?    "° 

11 

Flow  on,  river !  flow  with  the  flood-tide,  and  ebb  with  the  ebb-tide ! 

Frolic  on,  crested  and  scallop-edg'd  waves ! 

Gorgeous  clouds  of  the  sun-set!    drench  with  your  splendor  me,  or  the  men  and 

women  generations  after  me; 

Cross  from  shore  to  shore,  countless  crowds  of  passengers ! 
Stand  up,  tall  masts  of  Mannahatta ! — stand  up,  beautiful  hills  of  Brooklyn ! 
Throb,  baffled  and  curious  brain !    throw  out  questions  and  answers ! 
Suspend  here  and  everywhere,  eternal  float  of  solution! 
Gaze,  loving  and  thirsting  eyes,  in  the  house,  or  street,  or  public  assembly! 
Sound  out,  voices  of  young  men !    loudly  and  musically  call  me  by  my  nighest  name ! 
Live,  old  life !   play  the  part  that  looks  back  on  the  actor  or  actress !  I2° 

Play  the  old  role,  the  role  that  is  great  or  small,  according  as  one  makes  it ! 
Consider,  you  who  peruse  me,  whether  I  may  not  in  unknown  ways  be  looking  upon 

you; 
Be  firm,  rail  over  the  river,  to  support  those  who  lean  idly,  yet  haste  with  the  hasting 

current ; 

Fly  on,  sea-birds !   fly-sideways,  or  wheel  in  large  circles  high  in  the  air ; 
Receive  the  summer  sky,  you  water!   and  faithfully  hold  it,  till  all  downcast  eyes  have 

time  to  take  it  from  you; 
Diverge,  fine  spokes  of  light,  from  the  shape  of  my  head,  or  any  one's  head,  in  the 

sun-lit  water; 
Come  on,  ships  from  the  lower  bay !  pass  up  or  down,  white-sail'd  schooners,  sloops, 

lighters ! 

Flaunt  away,  flags  of  all  nations !  be  duly  lower'd  at  sunset ; 
Burn  high  your  fires,  foundry  chimneys!    cast   black  shadows  at  nightfall!    cast  red 

and  yellow  light  over  the  tops  of  the  houses; 

Appearances,  now  or  henceforth,  indicate  what  you  are;  '3° 

You  necessary  film,  continue  to  envelop  the  soul ; 

About  my  body  for  me,  and  your  body, for  you,  be  hung  our  divinest  aromas: 
Thrive,  cities !    bring  your  freight,  bring  your  shows,  ample  and  sufficient  rivers ; 
Expand,  being  than  which  none  else  is  perhaps  more  spiritual; 
Keep  your  places,  objects  than  which  none  else  is  more  lasting. 

12 

We  descend  upon  you  and  all  things — we  arrest  you  all ; 
We  realize  the  soul  only  by  you,  you  faithful  solids  and  fluids; 
Through  you  color,  form,  location,  sublimity,  ideality; 

Through  you  every  proof,  comparison,  and  all  the  suggestions  and   determinations 
of  ourselves. 

You  have  waited,  you  always  wait,  you  dumb,  beautiful  ministers !  you  novices !      l*° 

We  receive  you  with  free  sense  at  last,  and  are  insatiate  henceforward; 

Not  you  any  more  shall  be  able  to  foil  us,  or  withhold  yourselves  from  us; 

We  use  you,  and  do  not  cast  you  aside — we  plant  you  permanently  within  us ; 

We  fathom  you  not — we  love  you — there  is  perfection  in  you  also; 

You  furnish  your  parts  toward  eternity, 

Great  or  small,  you  furnish  your  parts  toward  the  soul. 

First   published   under  title  of  "Sun-Down   Poem"   in    1856. 


WALT   WHITMAN  497 

FROM   AS   I   SAT   ALONE   BY   BLUE   ONTARIO'S   SHORE 


I  listened  to  the  Phantom  by  Ontario's  shore, 
I  heard  the  voice  arising,  demanding  bards ; 

By  them,  all  native  and  grand — by  them  alone  can   The   States  be    fused  into   the 
compact  organism  of  a  Nation. 

To  hold  men  together  by  paper  and  seal,  or  by  compulsion,  is  no  account; 
That  only  holds  men  together  which  aggregates  all  in  a  living  principle,  as  the  hold 
of  the  limbs  of  the  body,  or  the  fibers  of  plants. 

Of  all  races  and  eras,  These  States,  with  veins  full  of  poetical  stuff,  most  need  poets, 

and  are  to  have  the  greatest,  and  use  them  the  greatest; 
Their  Presidents  shall  not  be  their  common  referee  so  much  as  their  poets  shall. 

(Soul  of  love,  and  tongue  of  fire! 

Eye  to  pierce  the  deepest  deeps,  and  sweep  the  world ! 

— Ah,  mother!    prolific  and  full  in  all  besides — yet  how  long  barren,  barren?)  I0 

10 

Of  These  States,  the  poet  is  the  equable  man, 

Not  in  him,  but  off  from  him,  things  are  grotesque,  eccentric,  fail  of  their  full  returns, 

Nothing  out  of  its  place  is  good,  nothing  in  its  place  is  bad, 

He  bestows  on  every  object  or  quality  its  fit  proportion,  neither  more  nor  less, 

He  is  the  arbiter  of  the  diverse,  he  is  the  key, 

He  is  the  equalizer  of  his  age  and  land, 

He  supplies  what  wants  supplying — he  checks  what  wants  checking, 

In  peace,  out  of  him  speaks  the  spirit  of  peace,  large,  rich,  thrifty,  building  populous 

towns,  encouraging  agriculture,  arts,  commerce,  lighting  the  study  of  man,  the 

Soul,  health,  immortality,  government ; 
In  war,  he  is  the  best  backer  of  the  war — he  fetches  artillery  as  good  as  the  engineer's 

— he  can  make  every  word  he  speaks  draw  blood ; 

The  years  straying  toward  infidelity,  he  withholds  by  his  steady  faith,  2° 

He  is  no  arguer,  he  is  judgment — (Nature  accepts  him  absolutely;) 
He  judges  not  as  the  judge  judges,  but  as  the  sun  falling  round  a  helpless  thing; 
As  he  sees  the  farthest,  he  has  the  most  faith, 
His  thoughts  are  the  hymns  of  the  praise  of  things, 
In  the  dispute  on  God  and  eternity  he  is  silent, 
He  sees  eternity  less  like  a  play  with  a  prologue  and  denouement, 
He  sees  eternity  in  men  and  women — he  does  not  see  men  and  women  as  dreams  or 

dots. 

For  the  great  Idea,  the  idea  of  perfect  and  free  individuals, 
For  that  idea  the  bard  walks  in  advance,  leader  of  leaders, 
The  attitude  of  him  cheers  up  slaves  and  horrifies  foreign  despots.  3° 

Without  extinction  is  Liberty !   without  retrograde  is  Equality ! 
They  live  in  the  feelings  of  young  men,  and  the  best  women ; 

Not  for  nothing  have  the  indomitable  heads  of  the  earth  been  always  ready  to  fall 
for  Liberty. 


11 

or  the  great  Idea ! 
That,  O  my  brethren — that  is  the  mission  of  Poets. 

Songs  of  stern  defiance,  ever  ready, 
Songs  of  the  rapid  arming,  and  the  march, 


498  AMERICAN    POETRY 

The  flag  of  peace  quick-folded,  and  instead,  the  flag  we  know, 
Warlike  flag  of  the  great  Idea. 

(Angry  cloth  I  saw  there  leaping!  4° 

I  stand  again  in  leaden  rain,  your  flapping  folds  saluting; 

I  sing  you  over  all,  flying,  beckoning  through  the  fight — O  the  hard-contested  .fight ! 

O  the  cannons  ope  their  rosy-flashing  muzzles !   the  hurtled  balls  scream ! 

The  battle- front  forms  amid  the  smoke— the  volleys  pour  incessant  from  the  line; 

Hark!    the  ringing  word,  Charge! — now  the  tussle,  and  the  furious  maddening  yells; 

Now  the  corpses  tumble  curl'd  upon  the  ground, 

Cold,  cold  in  death,  for  precious  life  of  you, 

Angry  cloth  I  saw  there  leaping.) 

12 

Are  you  he  who  would  assume  a  place  to  teach,  or  be  a  poet  here  in  The  States? 
The  place  is  august — the  terms  obdurate.  5» 

Who  would  assume  to  teach  here,  may  well  prepare  himself,  body  and  mind, 

He  may  well  survey,  ponder,  arm,  fortify,  harden,  make  lithe,  himself, 

He  shall  surely  be  question'd  beforehand  by  me  with  many  and  stern  questions. 

Who  are  you,  indeed,  who  would  talk  or  sing  to  America? 

Have  you  studied  out  the  land,  its  idioms  and  men? 

Have   you    learn'd    the    physiology,    phrenology,    politics,    geography,    pride,    freedom, 

friendship,  of  the  land?   its   substratums   and  objects? 

Have  you  consider'd  the  organic  compact  of  the  first  day  of  the  first  year  of  Inde 
pendence,   sign'd   by  the   Commissioners,   ratified  by   The   States,   and   read   by 

Washington  at  the  head  of  the  army? 
Have  you  possess'd  yourself  of  the  Federal  Constitution? 
Do  you  see  who  have  left  all  feudal  processes  and  poems  behind  them,  and  assumed 

the  poems  and  processes  of  Democracy? 
Are  you  faithful  to  things?    do  you  teach  as  the  land  and  sea,  the  bodies  of  men, 

womanhood,  amativeness,  angers,  teach?  6° 

Have  you  sped  through  fleeting  customs,  popularities? 
Can  you  hold  your  hand  against  all  seductions,  follies,  whirls,  fierce  contentions?  are 

you  very  strong?  are  you  really  of  the  whole  people? 
Are  you  not  of  some  coterie?    some  school  or  mere  religion? 
Are  you  done  with  reviews  and  criticisms  of  life?    animating  now  to  life  itself? 
Have  you  vivified  yourself  from  the  maternity  of  These  States? 
Have  you  too  the  old,  ever-fresh  forbearance  and  impartiality? 
Do  you  hold  the  like  love  for.  those  hardening  to  maturity;  for  the  last-born?  little 

and  big?  and  for  the  errant? 

What  is  this  you  bring  my  America? 

Is  it  uniform  with  my  country? 

Is  it  not  something  that  has  been  better  told  or  done  before?  ?° 

Have  you  not  imported  this,  or  the  spirit  of  it,  in  some  ship? 

Is  it  not  a  mere  tale?  a  rhyme?  a  prettiness?  is  the  good  old  cause  in  it? 

Has  it  not  dangled  long  at  the  heels  of  the  poets,  politicians,   literats,  of  enemies' 

lands  ? 

Does  it  not  assume  that  what  is  notoriously  gone  is  still  here? 
Does  it  answer  universal  needs?    will  it  improve  manners? 
Does  it  sound,  with  trumpet-voice,  the  proud  victory  of  the  Union,  in  that  secession 

war? 

Can  your  performance  face  the  open  fields  and  the  seaside? 
Will  it  absorb  into  me  as  I  absorb  food,  air — to  appear  again  in  my  strength,  gait, 

face? 

Have  real  employments  contributed  to  it?    original  makers — not  mere  amanuenses? 
Does  it  meet  modern   discoveries,   calibres,  .facts   face  to   face?  8° 


WALT   WHITMAN  499 

What  does  it  mean  to  me?  to  American  persons,  progresses,  cities?    Chicago,  Kanada, 

Arkansas?    the  planter,  Yankee,  Georgian,  native,  immigrant,  sailors,  squatters, 

old  States,  new  States? 
Does  it  encompass  all  The  States,  and  the  unexceptional  rights  of  all  the  men  and 

women  of  the  earth?   (the  genital  impulse  of  These  States;) 
Does  it  see  behind  the  apparent  custodians,  the  real  custodians,  standing,  menacing, 

silent — the  mechanics,  Manhattanese,  western  men,  southerners,  significant  alike 

in  their  apathy,  and  in  the  promptness  of  their  love? 
Does   it  see   what   finally   befalls,   and   has  always   finally   befallen,   each   temporizer, 

patcher,  outsider,  partialist,  alarmist,  infidel,  who  has  ever  ask'd  anything  of 

America? 

What  mocking  and  scornful  negligence? 
The  track  strew'd  with  the  dust  of  skeletons ; 
By  the  roadside  others  disdainfully  toss'd. 

13 

Rhymes  and  rhymers  pass  away — poems  distill'd  from  foreign  poems  pass  away, 
The  swarms  of  reflectors  and  the  polite  pass,  and  leave  ashes; 

Admirers,  importers,  obedient  persons,  make  but  the  soul  of  literature;  9° 

America  justifies  itself,  give  it  time — no  disguise  can  deceive  it,  or  conceal  from  it — 

it  is  impassive  enough, 

Only  toward  the  likes  of  itself  will  it  advance  to  meet  them, 
If  its  poets  appear,  it  will  in  due  time  advance  to  meet  them — there  is  no   fear  of 

mistake, 
(The   proof   of   a   poet   shall   be   sternly   deferr'd,    till   his   country    absorbs    him   as 

affectionately  as  he  has  absorb'd  it.) 

He  masters  whose  spirit  masters — he  tastes  sweetest  who  results  sweetest  in  the  long 

run; 

The  blood  of  the  brawn  beloved  of  time  is  unconstraint ; 
In  the  need  of  poems,  philosophy,  politics,  manners,  engineering,  an  appropriate  native 

grand-opera,   shipcraft,   any  craft,   he   or   she   is   greatest   who   contributes   the 

greatest  original  practical  example. 

Already  a  nonchalant  breed,  silently  emerging,  appears  on  the  streets. 

People's  lips  salute  only  doers,  lovefs,  satisfiers,  positive  knowers; 

There  will  shortly  be  no  more  priests — I  say  their  work  is  done,  I0° 

Death  is  without  emergencies  here,  but  life  is  perpetual  emergencies  here, 

Are  your  body,  days,  manners,  superb?    after  death  you  shall  be  superb; 

Justice,  health,  self-esteem,  clear  the  way  with  irresistible  power; 

How  dare  you  place  anything  before  a  man? 

14 

Fall  behind  me,  States ! 

A  man  before  all — myself,  typical  before  all. 

Give  me  the  pay  I  have  served  for! 

Give  me  to  sing  the  song  of  the  great  Idea !    take  all  the  rest ; 

I  have  loved  the  earth,  sun,  animals — I  have  despised  riches, 

I  have  given  alms  to  every  one  that  ask'd,  stood  up  for  the  stupid  and  crazy,  devoted 

my  income  and  labor  to  others,  II0 

I  have  hated  tyrants,  argued  not  concerning  God,  had  patience  and  indulgence  toward 

the  people,  taken  off  my  hat  to  nothing  known  or  unknown, 
I  have  gone  freely  with  powerful  uneducated  persons,  and  with  the  young,  and  with 

the  mothers  of   families, 
I  have  read  these  leaves  to  myself  in  the  open  air — I  have  tried  them  by  trees,  stars, 

rivers, 
I  have  dismiss'd  whatever  insulted  my  own  Soul  or  defiled  my  Body, 


500  AMERICAN   POETRY 

I  have  claim'd  nothing  to  myself  which  I  have  not  carefully  claim'd  for  others  on 

the  same  terms, 

I  have  sped  to  the  camps,  and  comrades  found  and  accepted  from  every  State; 
(In  war  of  you,  as  well  as  peace,  my  suit  is  good,  America — sadly  I  boast; 
Upon  this  breast  has  many  a  dying  soldier  lean'd,  to  breathe  his  last; 
This  arm,  this  hand,  this  voice,  have  nourish'd,  rais'd,  restored, 

To  life  recalling  many  a  prostrate  form:)  120 

— I  am  willing  to  wait  to  be  understood  by  the  growth  of  the  taste  of  myself, 
I  reject  none,  I  permit  all. 

(Say,  O  mother!  have  I  not  to  your. thought  been  faithful? 
Have  I  not,  through  life,  kept  you  and  yours  before  me?) 

22 

O  my  rapt  verse,  my  call — mock  me  not! 

Not  for  the  bards  of  the  past — not  to  invoke  them  have  I  launch'd  you   forth, 

Not  to  call  even  those  lofty  bards  here  by  Ontario's  shores, 

Have  I  sung  so  capricious  and  loud,  my  savage  song. 

Bards  for  my  own  land,  only,  I  invoke; 

(For  the  war,  the  war  is  over — the  field  is  clear'd,)  13° 

Till  they  strike  up  marches  henceforth  triumphant  and  onward, 

To  cheer,  O  mother,  your  boundless,  expectant  soul. 

Bards  grand  as  these  days  so  grand! 

Bards  of  the  great  Idea!     Bards  of  the  peaceful  inventions!   (for  the  war,  the  war 

is  over !) 

Yet  Bards  of  the  latent  armies — a  million  soldiers  waiting,  ever-ready, 
Bards   towering   like   hills — (no   more   these   dots,   these   pigmies,    these    little   piping 

straws,  these  gnats,  that  fill  the  hour,  to  pass  for  poets;) 
Bards  with  songs  as  from  burning  coals,  or  the  lightning's  fork'd  stripes ! 
Ample  Ohio's  bards — bards  for  California!   inland  bards — bards  of  the  war;) 
(As  a  wheel  turns  on  its  axle,  so  I  find  my  chants  turning  finally  on  the  war;) 
Bards  of  pride !  Bards  tallying  the  ocean's  roar,  and  the  swooping  eagle's  scream !     '4° 
You,  by  my  charm,  I  invoke! 

First  published  under  title  of  "Poem  of  Many  in  One"  in  1856. 


OUT  OF  THE  CRADLE  ENDLESSLY  ROCKING 

1 

Out  of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking, 

Out  of  the  mocking-bird's  throat,  the  musical  shuttle, 

Out  of  the  Ninth-month  midnight, 

Over  the  sterile  sands,  and  the  fields  beyond,  where  the  child,  leaving  his  bed,  wan- 

der'd  alone,  bare-headed,   barefoot, 
Down  from  the  shower'd  halo, 

Up  from  the  mystic  play  of  shadows,  twining  and  twisting  as  if  they  were  alive, 
Out  from  the  patches  of  briers  and  blackberries, 
From  the  memories  of  the  bird  that  chanted  to  me, 

From  your  memories,   sad  brother — from  the  fitful  risings  and   fallings  I  heard, 
From  under  that  yellow  half-moon,  late-risen,  and  swollen  as  if  with  tears,  10 

From  those  beginning  notes  of  sickness  and  love,  there  in  the  transparent  mist, 
From  the  thousand  responses  of  my  heart,  never  to  cease, 
From  the  myriad  thence-arous'd  words, 
From  the  word  stronger  and  more  delicious  than  any, 
From  such,  as  now  they  start,  the  scene  revisiting, 


WALT   WHITMAN  501 


As  a  flock,  twittering,  rising,  or  overhead  passing, 

Borne  hither — ere  all  eludes  me,  hurriedly, 

A  man — yet  by  these  tears  a  little  boy  again, 

Throwing  myself  on  the  sand,  confronting  the  "waves,1 

I,  chanter  of  pains  and  joys,  uniter  of  here  and  hereafter,  » 

Taking  all  hints  to  use  them — but  swiftly  leaping  beyond  them, 

A  reminiscence  sing. 

2 

Once,  Paumanok, 
When  the  snows  had  melted — when  the  lilac-scent  was  in  the  air,  and  the  Fifth-month 

grass  was  growing, 
Up  this  sea-shore,  in  some  briers, 
Two  guests  from  Alabama — two  together, 

And  their  nest,  and  four  light-green  eggs,  spotted  with  brown, 
And  every  day  the  he-bird,  to  and  fro,  near  at  hand, 
And  every  day  the  she-bird,  crouch'd  on  her  nest,  silent,  with  bright  eyes, 
And  every  day  I,  a  curious  boy,  never  too  close,  never  disturbing  them,  3° 

Cautiously  peering,  absorbing,  translating. 

3 

Shine!  shine!  shine! 

Pour  down  your  warmth,  great  Sun! 

While  we  bask — we  two  together. 

Two  together! 

Winds  blow  South,  or  winds  blow  North, 

Day  come  white,  or  night  come  black, 

Home,  or  rivers  and  mountains  from  home, 

Singing  all  time,  minding  no  time, 

While  we  two  keep  together.  4° 

4 

Till  of  a  sudden, 

May-be  kill'd,  unknown  to  her  mate, 

One  forenoon  the  she-bird  crouch'd  not  on  the  nest, 

Nor  return'd  that  afternoon,  nor  the  next, 

Nor  ever  appear'd  again. 

And  thenceforward,  all  summer,  in  the  sound  of  the  sea, 

And  at  night,  under  the  full  of  the  moon,  in  calmer  weather, 

Over  the  hoarse  surging  of  the  sea, 

Or  flitting  from  brier  to  brier  by  day, 

I  saw,  I  heard  at  intervals,  the  remaining  one,  the  he-bird,  5° 

The  solitary  guest  from  Alabama. 

5 

Blow!  blow!  blow! 

Blow  up,  sea-winds,  along  Paumanok' 's  shore! 
I  wait  and  I  wait,  till  you  blow  my  mate  to  me. 

6 

Yes,  when  the  stars  glisten'd, 

All  night  long,  on  the  prong  of  a  moss-scallop'd  stake, 
Down,  almost  amid  the  slapping  waves, 
Sat  the  lone  singer,  wonderful,  causing  tears. 

1  Whitman,  in  analysis  of  himself,  wrote  "he  .  .  .  constructs  his  verse  in  a  loose  and  free 
metre  of  his  own,  of  an  irregular  length  of  lines,  apparently  lawless  at  first  perusal,  although  on 
closer  examination  a  certain  regularity  appears,  like  the  recurrence  of  lesser  and  larger  waves  on 
the  sea-shore,  rolling  in  without  intermission,  and  fitfully  rising  and  falling."  See  footnote  on 
"There  was  a  Child,"  page  473. 


502  AMERICAN    POETRY 

He  call'd  on  his  mate; 

He  pour'd  forth  the  meanings  which  I,  of  all  men,  know.  6° 

Yes,  my  brother,  I  know; 

The  rest  might  not — but  I  have  treasur'd  every  note; 

For  once,  and  more  than  once,   dimly,   down  to  the  beach  gliding, 

Silent,   avoiding  the   moonbeams,   blending   myself   with   the   shadows, 

Recalling  now   the   obscure   shapes,   the   echoes,   the   sounds   and   sights   after   their 

sorts, 

The  white  arms  out  in  the  breakers  tirelessly  tossing, 
I,  with  bare  feet,  a  child,  the  wind  wafting  my  hair, 
Listen'd  long  and  long. 

Listen'd,  to  keep;  to  sing — now  translating  the  notes, 

Following  you,  my  brother.  7° 

7 

Soothe!  soothe!  soothe! 
Close  on  its  wave  soothes  the  wave  behind, 

And  again  another  behind,  embracing   and   lapping,  every   one   close, 
But  my  love  soothes  not  me,  not  me. 

Low  hangs  the  moon — it  rose  late; 

O  it  is  lagging — O  I  think  it  is  heavy  with  love,  with  love. 

O  madly  the  sea  pushes,  pushes  upon  the  land, 
With  love — with  love. 

O  night!  do  I  not  see  my  love  fluttering  out  there  among  the  breakers? 

What  is  that  little  black  thing  I  see 'there  in  the  white?  8° 

Loud!  loud!  loud! 

Loud  I  call  to  you,  my  love! 

High  and  clear  I  shoot  my  voice  over  the  waves; 

Surely  you  must  know  who  is  here,  is  here; 

You  must  know  who  I  am,  my  love. 

Low-hanging  moon! 

What  is  that  dusky  spot  in  your  brown  yellow? 

O  it  is  the  shape,  the  shape  of  my  mate! 

O  moon,  do  not  keep  her  from  me  any  longer. 

Land!  land!  O  land!  9° 

Whichever  way  I  turn,  0  I  think  you  could  give  me  my  mate  back  again,  if  you 

only  would; 
For  I  am  almost  sure  I  see  her  dimly  whichever  way  I  look. 

O  rising  stars! 

Perhaps  the  one  I  want  so  much  will  rise,  will  rise  with  some  of  you. 

O  throat!  O   trembling  throat! 

Sound  clearer  through  the  atmosphere! 

Pierce  the  woods,  the  earth; 

Somewhere  listening   to  catch  you,  must  be  the  one  I  want. 

Shake  out,  carols! 

Solitary  here— the  night's  carols!  I0° 


WALT   WHITMAN  503 

Carols  of  lonesome  love!    Death's  carols! 

Carols  under  that  lagging,  yellow,  waning  mootf! 

O,  under  that  moon,  where  she  droops  almost  down  into  the  sea! 

0  reckless,  despairing  carols. 

But  soft!  sink  low; 

Soft!  let  me  just  murmur; 

And  do  you  wait  a  moment,  you  husky-noised  sea/ 

For  somewhere  I  believe  I  heard  my  mate  responding  to  me, 

So  faint — /  must  be  still,  be  still  to  listen; 

But  not  altogether  still,  for  then  she  might  not  come  immediately  to  me.  "° 

Hither,  my  love! 

Here  I  am!    Here! 

With  this  just-sustain' d  note  I  announce  myself  to  you; 

This  gentle  call  is  for  you,  my  love,  for  you. 

Do  not  be  decoy' d  elsewhere! 

That  is  the  whistle  of  the  wind — it  is  not  my  voice; 
That  is  the  fluttering,  the  fluttering  of  the  spray; 
Those  are  the  shadows  of  leaves. 

O  darkness!    0  in  vain! 

0  I  am  very  sick  and  sorrowful.  MO 

O  brown  halo  in  the  sky,  near  the  moon,  drooping  upon  the  sea! 

O  troubled  reflection  in  the  sea! 

O   throat!     O   throbbing  heart! 

O  all — and  I  singing  uselessly,  uselessly  all  the  night. 

Yet  I  murmur,  murmur  on! 

O  murmurs — you  yourselves  make  me  continue  to  sing,  I  know  not  why. 

O  past!  O  life!  O  songs  of  joy! 

In  the  air — in  the  woods — over  fields; 

Loved!   loved!   loved!   loved!   loved! 

But  my  love  no  more,  no  more  with  me!  130 

We  two  together  no  more. 

8 

The  aria  sinking; 

All  else  continuing — the  stars  shining, 

The  winds  blowing — the  notes  of  the  bird  continuous  echoing, 

With  angry   moans  the  fierce  old  'mother  incessantly  moaning, 

On  the  sands  of  Paumanok's  shore,  gray  and  rustling; 

The  yellow  half-moon  enlarged,  sagging  down,  drooping,  the  face  of  the  sea  almost 
touching; 

The  boy  extatic — with  his  bare  feet  the  waves,  with  his  hair  the  atmosphere  dal 
lying, 

The  love  in  the  heart  long  pent,  now  loose,  now  at  last  tumultuously  bursting, 

The  aria's  meaning,  the  ears,  the  Soul,  swiftly  depositing,  14° 

The   strange   tears   down   the   cheeks   coursing, 

The   colloquy   there — the   trio — each    uttering, 

The   undertone — the   savage  old   mother,   incessantly  crying, 

To   the   boy's  ^Soul's   questions   sullenly   timing — some   drown'd   secret   hissing, 

To  the  outsetting  bard  of  love. 


504  AMERICAN    POETRY 


Demon  or  bird!   (said  the  boy's  soul,) 

Is  it  indeed  toward  your  mate  you  sing?  or  is  it  mostly  to  me? 
For  I,  that  was  a  child,  my  tongue's  use  sleeping, 
Now  I  have  heard  you, 

Now  in  a  moment  I  know  what  I  am  for — I  awake,  150 

And  already  a  thousand  singers — a  thousand   songs,  clearer,  louder  and  more  sor 
rowful  than  yours, 

A  thousand  warbling  echoes  have  started  to  life  within  me, 
Never  to  die. 

O   you   singer,   solitary,    singing  by  yourself — projecting   me; 

O    solitary   me,   listening — nevermore   shall    I    cease   perpetuating   you ; 

Never  more  shall  I  escape,  never  more  the  reverberations, 

Never  more  the  cries  of  unsatisfied  love  be  absent   from  me, 

Never  again  leave  me  to   be  the  peaceful  child   I   was   before  what  there,   in   the 

night, 

By  the  sea,  under  the  yellow  and  sagging  moon, 

The  messenger  there  arous'd — the  fire,  the  sweet  hell  within,  l6° 

The  unknown  want,  the  destiny  of  me. 

O  give  me  the  clew!   (it  lurks  in  the  night  here  somewhere;) 

O  if  I  am  to  have  so  much,  let  me  have  more! 

O  a  word!   O  what  is  my  destination?    (I    fear  it  is  henceforth  chaos;) 

O  how  joys,   dreads,   convolutions,   human   shapes,   and   all   shapes,   spring   as    from 

graves  around  me! 

O  phantoms !  you  cover  all  the  land  and  all  the  sea ! 
O  I  cannot  see  in  the  dimness  whether  you  smile  or  frown  upon  me; 
O  vapor,  a  look,  a  word !     O  well-beloved ! 
O  you  dear  women's  and  men's  phantoms! 

A  word  then,   (for  I  will  conquer  it,)  J7° 

The  word  final,  superior  to  all, 
Subtle,  sent  up — what  is  it? — I  listen; 

Are  you  whispering  it,  and  have  been  all  the  time,  you  sea-waves? 
Is  that  it  from  your  liquid  rims  and  wet  sands? 

10 

Whereto  answering,  the  sea, 
Delaying  not,  hurrying  not, 

Whisper'd   me   through   the   night,   and   very  plainly   before   daybreak, 
Lisp'd  to  me  the  low  and  delicious  word  DEATH  ; 
And  again  Death — ever  Death,  Death,  Death, 

Hissing  melodious,  neither  like  the  bird,  nor  like  my  arous'd  child's  heart,  l8° 

But  edging  near,  as  privately   for  me,  rustling  at  my   feet, 
Creeping  thence  steadily  up  to  my  ears,  and  laving  me  softly  all  over, 
Death,  Death,  Death,  Death,  Death. 

Which  I   do  not  forget, 

But  fuse  the  song  of  my  dusky  demon  and  brother, 
That  he  sang  to  me  in  the  moonlight  on   Paumanok's  gray  beach, 
With  the  thousand  responsive  songs,  at  random, 
My  own  songs,  awaked  from  that  hour; 
And  with  them  the  key,  the  word  up  from  the  waves, 

The  word  of  the  sweetest  song,  and  all  songs,  J9° 

That  strong  and  delicious  word  which,  creeping  to  my   feet, 
The  sea  whisper'd  me. 

Under  title  of  "A  Child's  Reminiscence,"  New  York  Saturday  Press,  Dec.  24,  1859. 


WALT   WHITMAN  505 

STARTING   FROM    PAUMANOK 


Starting  from  fish-shape  Paumanok,  where  I  was  born, 
Well-begotten,   and   rais'd  by   a  perfect   mother; 
After   roaming   many   lands — lover   of   populous    pavements; 
Dweller  in  Mannahatta,  my  city — or  on  southern  savannas; 

Or  a  soldier  camp'd,  or  carrying  my  knapsack  and  gun — or  a  miner  in  California; 
Or  rude  in  my  home  in  Dakota's  woods,  my  diet  meat,  my  drink  from  the  spring; 
Or  withdrawn  to   muse   and   meditate  in  some   deep   recess, 
Far  from  the  clank  of  crowds,   intervals  passing,   rapt  and  happy; 
Aware  of  the  fresh  free  giver,  the  flowing  Missouri — aware  of  mighty  Niagara; 
Aware    of   the   buffalo   herds,   grazing   the   plains — the    hirsute   and    strong-breasted 
bull ;  10 

Of  earth,  rocks,  Fifth-month  flowers,  experienced — stars,  rain,  snow,  my  amaze; 
Having  studied  the  mocking-bird's  tones,  and  the  mountain-hawk's, 
And  heard  at  dusk  the  unrival'd  one,  the  hermit  thrush  from  the  swamp-cedars, 
Solitary,  singing  in  the  West,  I  strike  up  for  a  New  World. 

2 

Victory,  union,   faith,  identity,  time, 

The   indissoluble   compacts,   riches,   mystery, 

Eternal  progress,  the  kosmos,   and  the  modern   reports. 

This,  then,  is  life; 

Here  is  what  has  come  to  the  surface  after  so  many  throes  and  convulsions. 

How  curious !  how  real !  » 

Underfoot  the  divine  soil — overhead  the  sun. 

See,  revolving,  the  globe; 

The  ancestor-continents,  away,  group'd  together; 

The  present  and  future  continents,  north  and  south,  with  the  isthmus  between. 

See,  vast,  trackless  spaces; 

As  in  a  dream,  they  change,  they  swiftly  fill; 

Countless  masses  debouch  upon  them ; 

They  are  now   cover'd  with   the   foremost  people,   arts,   institutions,   known 

See,  projected,  through  time, 

For  me,  an  audience  interminable.  3° 

With  firm  and  regular  step  they  wend — they  never  stop, 

Successions   of   men,   Americanos^   a   hundred   millions; 

One  generation  playing  its  part,  and  passing  on; 

Another  generation  playing  its  part,  and  passing  on  in  its  turn, 

With   faces  turn'd  sideways  or  backward  towards  me,  to  listen, 

With  eyes  retrospective  towards  me, 

3 

Americanos !  conouerors  !  marches  humanitarian ; 
Foremost !  century  marches  !  Libertad !   masses ! 
For  you  a  programme  of  chants. 

Chants  of  the  prairies ;  4° 

Chants  of  the  long-running  Mississippi,   and   down   to   the   Mexican   sea; 
Chants  of  Ohio,  Indiana,  Illinois,  Iowa,   Wisconsin  and   Minnesota; 


506  AMERICAN    POETRY 

Chants  going  forth  from  the  centre,  from  Kansas,  and  thence,  equi-distant, 
Shooting  in  pulses  of  fire,  ceaseless,  to  vivify  all. 

4 

In  the  Year  80  of  The  States, 

My  tongue,  every  atom  of  my  blood,  form'd  from  this  soil,  this  air, 
Born  here  of  parents  born  here,  from  parents  the  same,  and  their  parents  the  same, 
I,  now  thirty-six  years  old,  in  perfect  health,  begin, 
Hoping  to  cease  not  till  death. 

Creeds  and  schools  in  abeyance,  5° 

(Retiring  back  a  while,  sufficed  at  what  they  are,  but  never  forgotten,) 
I  harbor,   for  good  or  bad — I  permit  to  speak,  at  every  hazard, 
Nature  now  without  check,  with  original  energy. 


Take  my  leaves,  America!   take  them,   South,  and  take  them,  North! 
Make  welcome  for  them  everywhere,  for  they  are  your  own  offspring; 
Surround   them,   East   and   West !    for   they   would   surround   you ; 
And  you  precedents!   connect  lovingly   with   them,    for   they   connect   lovingly   with 
you. 

I  conn'd  old  times; 

I  sat  studying  at  the  feet  of  the  great  masters : 

Now,  if  eligible,  O  that  the  great  masters  might  return  and  study  me!  fo 

In  the  name  of  These  States,  shall  I  scorn  the  antique? 
Why  These  are  the  children  of  the  antique,  to  justify  it. 

6 

Dead  poets,  philosophs,  priests, 
Martyrs,  artists,  inventors,  governments  long  since, 
Language-shapers,   on   other   shores, 

Nations  once  powerful,  now  reduced,  withdrawn,  or  desolate, 
I  dare  now  proceed  till  I  respectfully  credit  what  you  have  left,  wafted  hither : 
I  have  perused  it — own  it  is  admirable,    (moving  awhile  among  it;) 
Think   nothing  can   ever   be   greater — nothing   can    ever   deserve   more   than   it   de 
serves  ; 

Regarding  it  all  intently  a  long  while — then  dismissing  it,  7° 

I  stand  in  my  place,  with  my  own  day,  here. 

Here  lands   female  and  male; 

Here  the  heir-ship  and  heiress-ship  of  the  world — here  the  flame  of  materials; 

Here  Spirituality,  the  translatress,  the  openly-avow'd, 

The  ever-tending,  the  finale  of  visible   forms ; 

The   satisfier,  after   due  long-waiting,  now   advancing, 

Yes,  here  comes  my  mistress,  the  Soul. 

7 

The  SOUL: 

Forever  and  forever — longer  than  soil  is  brown  and  solid — longer  than  water  ebbs 
and  flows. 

I  will  make  the  poems  of  materials,  for  I  think  they  are  to  be  the  most  spiritual 
poems ;  8° 

And  I  will  make  the  poems  of  my  body  and  of  mortality. 

For  I  think  I  shall  then  supply  myself  with  the  poems  of  my  Soul,  and  of  im 
mortality. 


WALT   WHITMAN  507 

I  will  make  a  song  for  These  States,  that  no  one  State  may  under  any  circum 
stances  be  subjected  to  another  State; 

And  I  will  make  a  song  that  there  shall  be  comity  by  day  and  by  night  between 
all  The  States,  and  between  any  two  of  them : 

And  I  will  make  a  song  for  the  ears  of  the  President,  full  of  weapons  with  men 
acing  points, 

And  behind  the   weapons  countless   dissatisfied   faces : 

— And  a  song  make  I,  of  the  One  form'd  out  of  all; 

The  fang'd  and  glittering  One  whose  head  is  over  all; 

Resolute,  warlike  One,  including  and  over  all; 

(However  high  the  head  of  any  else,  that  head  is  over  all.)  9° 

I  will  acknowledge  contemporary  lands ; 

I   will  trail  the   whole   geography  of   the  globe,   and   salute   courteously   every   city 

large  and   small ; 
And  employments!   I   will  put  in  my  poems,  that  with  you  is  heroism,  upon  land 

and  sea ; 
And  I  will  report  all  heroism  from  an  American  point  of  view. 

I  will  sing  the  song  of  companionship; 

I  will  show  what  alone  must  finally  compact  These ; 

I  believe  These  are  to  found  their  own  ideal  of  manly  love,  indicating  it  in  me; 

I    will   therefore    let    flame    from    me   the    burning   fires    that    ware    threatening   to 

consume  me; 

I  will  lift  what  has  too  long  kept  down  those  smouldering  fires; 
I  will  give  them  complete  abandonment;  10° 

I  will  write  the  evangel-poem  of  comrades,  and  of  love; 
(For  who  but  I  should  understand  love,  with  all  its  sorrow  and  joy? 
And  who  but  I  should  be  the  poet  of  comrades?) 

8 

I  am  the  credulous  man  of  qualities,  ages,  races; 
I  advance  from  the  people  in  their  own  spirit; 
Here  is  what  sings  unrestricted  faith. 

Omnes!   Omnes !   let  others  ignore  what  they  may; 

I  make  the  poem  of  evil  also-^-I  commemorate  that  part  also; 

I  am  myself  just  as  much  evil  as  good,  and  my  nation  is — And  I  say  there  is  in 

fact  no  evil; 
(Or  if  there  is,  I   say  it  is  just  as  important  to  you,  to  the  land,   or  to  me,   as 

anything  else.)  «o 

I  too,  following  many,  and  follow'd  by  many,  inaugurate  a  Religion — I  descend  into 

the  arena ; 
(It   may   be   I   am   destin'd   to   utter   the   loudest  cries    there,   the   winner's   pealing 

snouts ; 
Who  knows?  they  may  rise  from  me  yet,  and  soar  above  every  thing.) 

% 

Each  is  not  for  its  own  sake; 
I  say  the  whole  earth,  and  all  the  stars  in  the  sky,  are  for  Religion's  sake. 

I  say  no  man  has  ever  yet  been  half  devout  enough; 

None  has  ever  yet  adored  or  worship'd  half  enough; 

None  has  begun  to  think  how  divine  he  himself  is,  and  how  certain  the  future  is. 

I   say  that  the   real   and   permanent  grandeur  of   These   States   must  be  their   Re 
ligion  ; 

Otherwise  there  is  no  real  and  permanent  grandeur:  120 

(Nor  character,  nor  life  worthy  the  name,  without  Religion; 
Nor  land,  nor  man  or  woman,  without  Religion.) 


508  AMERICAN    POETRY 

9 

What  are  you  doing,  young  man? 

Are  you  so  earnest — so  given  up  to  literature,  science,  art,  amours? 
These   ostensible   realities,   politics,   points? 
Your   ambition   or   business,   whatever   it  may   be? 

It  is  well — Against  such  I  say  not  a  word — I  am  their  poet  also ; 

But  behold !  such  swiftly  subside — burnt  up  for  Religion's  sake ; 

For  not  all  matter  is  fuel  to  heat,  impalpable  flame,  the  essential  life  of  the  earth, 

Any  more  than  such  are  to  Religion.  130 

10 

What  do  you  seek,  so  pensive  and  silent? 
What  do  you  need,  Camerado? 
Dear  son !  do  you  think  it  is  love? 

Listen,  dear  son — listen,  America,  daughter  or  son ! 

It  is  a  painful  thing  to  love  a  man  or  woman  to   excess — and  yet  it  satisfies — it 

is  great; 

But  there  is  something  else  very  great — it  makes  the  whole  coincide; 
It,  magnificent,  beyond  materials,  with  continuous  hands,  sweeps  and  provides  for  all. 

11 

Know  you !  solely  to  drop  in  the  earth  the  germs  of  a  greater  Religion, 
The  following  chants,  each  for  its  kind,  I  sing. 

My  comrade!  '40 

For  you,  to  share  with  me,  two  greatnesses — and  a  third  one,  rising  inclusive  and 

more  resplendent, 
The  greatness   of   Love   and  Democracy — and   the  greatness   of   Religion. 

Melange  mine  own !  the  unseen  and  the  seen ; 

Mysterious  ocean  where  the  streams  empty; 

Prophetic  spirit  of   materials   shifting  and   flickering  around   me; 

Living  beings,  identities,  now  doubtless  near  us,  in  the  air,  that  we  know  not  of; 

Contact  daily  and  hourly  that  will  not  release  me; 

These  selecting — these,   in  hints,   demanded  of   me. 

Not  he,  with  a  daily  kiss,  onward  from  childhood  kissing  me, 

Has  winded  and  twisted  around  me  that  which  holds  me  to  him,  15° 

Any  more  than  I  am  held  to  the  heavens,  to  the  spiritual  world, 

And  to  the  identities  of  the  Gods,  my  lovers,  faithful  and  true, 

After  what  they  have  done  to  me,  suggesting  themes. 

O  such  themes !     Equalities  ! 

O  amazement  of  things !     O  divine  average ! 

O  warblings  under  the  sun — usher'd,  as  now,  or  at  noon,  or  setting! 

0  strain,    musical,    flowing   through    ages — now    reaching   hither ! 

1  take  to  your  reckless  and  composite  chords — I  add  to  them,  and  cheerfully  pass 

them   forward. 

12 

As  I  have   walk'd   in  Alabama   my   morning  walk, 

I   have   seen   where  the   she-bird,   the  mocking-bird,   sat  on  her  nest   in   the  briers, 
hatching  her  brood.  160 

I  have  seen  the  he-bird  also; 

I  have  paused  to  hear  him,  near  at  hand,  inflating  his  throat,  and  joyfully  singing. 


WALT   WHITMAN  509 

And  while  I  paused,  it  came  to  me  that  what  he  really  sang  for  was  not  there  only, 

Nor  for  his  mate,  nor  himself  only,  nor  all  sent  back  by  the  echoes; 

But  subtle,  clandestine,  away  beyond, 

A   charge   transmitted,   and   gift   occult,   for  .those   being   born. 

13 

Democracy ! 
Near  at  hand  to  you  a  throat  is  now  inflating  itself  and  joyfully  singing. 

Ma  f emme ! 

For  the  brood  beyond  us  and  of  us,  T7° 

For  those  who  belong  here,   and  those  to  come, 

I,  exultant,  to  be  ready  for  them,  will  now  shake  out  carols  stronger  and  haughtier 

than  have  ever  yet  been  heard  upon  earth. 
I  will  make  the   songs  of  passion,  to  give  them  their  way, 
And  your  songs,  outlaw'd  offenders — for  I  scan  you  with  kindred  eyes,  and  carry 

you  with  me  the  same  as   any. 

I  will  make  the  true  poem  of  riches, 

To  earn  for  the  body  and  the  mind  whatever  adheres,  and  goes  forward,  and  is 
not  dropt  by  death. 

I  will  effuse  egotism,  and  show  it  underlying  all — and  I  will  be  the  bard  of  per 
sonality  ; 

And  I  will  show  of  male  and   female  that  either  is  but  the  equal  of  the  other, 

And  sexual  organs  and  acts !  do  you  concentrate  in  me — for  I  am  determin'd  to 
tell  you  with  courageous  clear  voice,  to  prove  you  illustrious; 

And  I  will  show  that  there  is  no  imperfection  in  the  present — and  can  be  none  in 
the  future;  '&> 

And  I  will  show  that  whatever  happens  to  anybody,  it  may  be  turn'd  to  beautiful 
results — and  I  will  show  that  nothing  can  happen  more  beautiful  than  death; 

And  I   will  thread  a  thread  through  my  poems  that  time  and   events  are  compact, 

And  that  all  the  things  of  the  universe  are  perfect  miracles,  each  as  profound  as 
any. 

I   will  not  make  poems  with  reference  to  parts ; 

But  I   will  make  leaves,   poems,   poemets,   songs,   says,   thoughts,   with   reference  to 

ensemble : 

And  I  will  not  sing  with  reference  to  a  day,  but  with  reference  to  all  days; 
And  I  will  not  make  a  poem,  not  the  least  part  of  a  poem,  but  has  reference  to 

the  Soul; 
(Because,  having  look'd  at  the  objects  of  the  universe,  I  find  there  is  no  one,  nor 

any  particle  of  one,  but  has  reference  to  the  Soul.) 

14 

Was  somebody  asking  to  see  the  Soul? 

See!  your  own  shape  and  countenance — persons,  substances,  beasts,  the  trees,  the 
running  rivers,  the  rocks  and  sands.  J9o 

All  hold  spiritual  joys,  and  afterwards  loosen  them : 
How  can  the  real  body  ever  die,  and  be  buried? 

Of  your  real  body,  and  any  man's  or  woman's  real  body, 

Item   for  item,   it   will   elude   the  hands   of  the  corpse-cleaners,   and   pass   to   fitting 

spheres, 
Carrying   what   has    accrued    to    it    from   the    moment    of    birth    to    the    moment   of 

death. 


510  AMERICAN   POETRY 

Not  the  types  set  up  by  the  printer  return  their  impression,  the  meaning,  the  main 

concern, 
Any    more    than    a    man's    substance   and    life,    or    a   woman's    substance    and    life, 

return  in  the  body  and  the  Soul, 
Indifferently  before  death  and  after  death. 

Behold !  the  body  includes  and  is  the  meaning,  the  main  concern — and  includes  and 

is  the  Soul; 
Whoever  you  are !  how  superb  and  how  divine  is  your  body,  or  any  part  of  it.         2°° 

15 
Whoever  you  are !  to  you  endless  announcements. 

Daughter  of  the  lands,  did  you  wait  for  your  poet? 

Did  you  wait    for  one  with   a   flowing  mouth   and   indicative   hand? 

Toward  the  male  of  The   States,  and  toward  the   female  of   The   States, 
Live  words — words  to  the  lands. 

O   the   lands !    interlink'd,    food-yielding   lands ! 

Land  of  coal  and  iron !     Land  of  gold !     Lands  of  cotton,  sugar,  rice ! 

Land  of  wheat,  beef,  pork!  Land  of  wool  and  hemp!  Land  of  the  apple  and 
grape ! 

Land  of  the  pastoral  plains,  the  grass-fields  of  the  world!  Land  of  those  sweet- 
air'd  interminable  plateaus ! 

Land  of  the  herd,  the  garden,  the  healthy  house  of  adobie !  2I° 

Lands  where  the  northwest  Columbia  winds,  and  where  the  southwest  Colorado 
winds ! 

Land  of  the  eastern  Chesapeake !     Land  of  the  Delaware ! 

Land  of  Ontario,  Erie,  Huron,  Michigan ! 

Land  of  the  Old  Thirteen !  Massachusetts  land !  Land  of  Vermont  and  Connec 
ticut  ! 

Land  of  the  ocean  shores !     Land  of  sierras  and  peaks ! 

Land  of  boatmen  and  sailors !     Fishermen's  land ! 

Inextricable  lands!  the  clutched  together!  the  passionate  ones! 

The  side  by  side !  the  elder  and  younger  brothers !  the  bony-limb' d ! 

The  great  women's  land !  the  feminine !  the  experienced  sisters  and  the  inexperi 
enced  sisters ! 

Far  breath'd  land !  Arctic  braced !   Mexican  breez'd !   the  diverse !  the  compact !     22° 

The  Pennsylvanian !   the  Virginian !   the   double  Carolinian ! 

0  all  and  each  well-loved  by  me!   my  intrepid  nations!     O  I  at  any  rate  include 

you  all  with  perfect  love ! 

1  cannot  be  discharged  from  you !  not  from  one,  any  sooner  than  another ! 

O  Death !  O  for  all  that,  I  am  yet  of  you,  unseen,  this  hour,  with  irrepressible  love, 

Walking  New  England,  a  friend,  a  traveler, 

Splashing  my  bare  feet  in  the  edge  of  the  summer  ripples,  on  Paumanok's  sands. 

Crossing   the   prairies — dwelling   again    in    Chicago — dwelling   in    every   town, 

Observing   shows,    births,   improvements,   structures,   arts, 

Listening   to   the   orators   and   the   oratresses   in   public   halls, 

Of  and  through  The  States,  as  during  life — each  man  and  woman  my  neighbor,     23° 

The  Louisianian,  the  Georgian,  as  near  to  me,  and  I  as  near  to  him  and  her, 

The  Mississippian  and  Arkansian  yet  with  me — and  I  yet  with  any  of  them; 

Yet  upon  the  plains  west  of  the  spinal  river — yet  in  my  house  of  adobie, 

Yet  returning  eastward — yet  in  the  Sea-Side  State,  or  in  Maryland, 

Yet  Kanadian,  cheerily  braving  the  winter — the  snow  and  ice  welcome  to  me, 

Yet  a  true  son  either  of  Maine,  or  of  the  Granite  State,  or  of  the  Narragansett  Bay 

State,  or  of  the  Empire  State  ; 
Yet  sailing  to  other  shores  to  annex  the  same — yet  welcoming  every  new  brother; 


WALT   WHITMAN  511 

Hereby  applying  these  leaves  to  the  new  ones,   from  the  hour  they  unite  with  the 

old  ones; 
Coming   among   the   new   ones   myself,   to   be  .their   companion    and    equal — coming 

personally  to  you  now ; 
Enjoining  you  to  acts,  characters,  spectacles,  with  me.  *4° 

16 
With  me,  with  firm  holding — yet  haste,  haste  on. 

For  your  life,  adhere  to  me! 

Of  all  the  men  of  the  earth,  I  only  can  unloose  you  and  toughen  you; 

I  may  have  to  be  persuaded  many  times  before  I  consent  to  give  myself  really  to  you — 

but  what  of  that? 
Must  not  Nature  be  persuaded  many  times? 

No  dainty  dolce  affettuoso  I ; 

Bearded,  sun-burnt,  gray-neck'd,  forbidding,  I  have  arriv'ed, 

To  be  wrestled  with  as  I  pass,  for  the  solid  prizes  of  the  universe ; 

For  such  I  afford  whoever  can  persevere  to  win  them. 

17 

On  my  way  a  moment  I  pause;  2S<> 

Here  for  you !  and  here  for  America ! 
Still  the  Present  I  raise  aloft — Still  the  Future  of  The  States  I  harbinge,  glad  and 

sublime ; 
And  for  the  Past,  I  pronounce  what  the  air  holds  of  the  red  aborigines. 

The  red  aborigines ! 

Leaving  natural  breaths,  sounds  of  rain  and  winds,  calls  as  of  birds  and  animals  in 

the  woods,  syllabled  to  us  for  names; 
Okonee,    Koosa,    Ottawa,    Monongahela,    Sauk,    Natchez,    Chattahoochee,    Kaqueta, 

Oronoco, 

Wabash,  Miami,  Saginaw,  Chippewa,  Oshkosh,  Walla- Walla; 
Leaving  such  to  The  States,  they  melt,  they  depart,  charging  the  water  and  the  land 

with  names. 

18 

O  expanding  and  swift!     O  henceforth,  *&> 

Elements,  breeds,  adjustments,  turbulent,  quick  and  audacious; 

A  world  primal  again — Vistas  of  glory,  incessant  and  branching; 

A  new  race,  dominating  previous  ones,  and  grander  far — with  new  contests, 

New  politics,  new  literatures  and  religions,  new  inventions  and  arts. 

These!  my  voice  announcing — I  will  sleep  no  more,  but  arise; 

You  oceans  that  have  been  calm  within  me !  how  I  feel  you,  fathomless,  stirring, 
preparing  unprecedented  waves  and  storms. 

19 

See !  steamers  steaming  through  my  poems  ! 

See,  in  my  poems  immigrants  continually  coming  and  landing; 

See,  in  arriere,  the  wigwam,  the  trail,  the  hunter's  hut,  the  flatboat,  the  maize-leaf, 

the  claim,  the  rude  fence,  and  the  backwoods  village ; 
See,  on  the  one  side  the  Western  Sea,  and  on  the  other  the  Eastern  Sea,  how  they 

advance  and  retreat  upon  my  poems,  as  upon  their  own  shores.  27° 

See,  pastures  and  forests  in  my  poems — See,  animals,  wild  and  tame — See,  beyond 
the  Kanzas,  countless  herds  of  buffalo,  feeding  on  short  curjy  grass; 

See,  in  my  poems,  cities,  solid,  vast,  inland,  with  paved  streets,  with  iron  and  stone 
edifices,  ceaseless  vehicles,  and  commerce; 


512  AMERICAN    POETRY 

%  , 

See,  the  many-cylinder' d  steam  printing-press — See,  the  electric  telegraph,  stretching 

across  the  Continent,   from  the  Western  Sea  to  Manhattan; 
See,  through  Atlantica's  depths,  pulses  American,  Europe  reaching — pulses  of  Europe, 

duly  return'd; 

See,  the  strong  and  quick  locomotive,  as  it  departs,  panting,  blowing  the  steam-whistle ; 
See,  ploughmen,  ploughing   farms — See,  miners,   digging  mines — See,  the  numberless 

factories; 
See,  mechanics,  busy  at  their  benches,  with  tools — See   from  among  them,   superior 

judges,  philosophers,   Presidents,  emerge,  drest  in  working  dresses; 
See,  lounging  through  the  shops  and  fields  of  The  States,  me,  well-belov'd,  close-held 

by  day  and  night ; 
Hear  the  loud  echoes  of  my  songs  there!    Read  the  hints  come  at  last. 

20 

O  Camerado  close  !  280 

O  you  and  me  at  last — and  us  two  only. 

O  a  word  to  clear  one's  path  ahead  endlessly ! 

O  something  extatic  and  undemonstrable !     O  music  wild ! 

O  now  I  triumph — and  you  shall  also; 

O  hand  in  hand — O  wholesome  pleasure — O  one  more  desirer  and  lover! 

O  to  haste,  firm  holding — to  haste,  haste  on  with  me. 

First  published  in  1860  under  title  of  "Proto-Leaf." 


A   SONG 

1 

Come,  I  will  make  the  continent  indissoluble ; 

I  will  make  the  most  splendid  race  the  sun  ever  yet  shone  upon; 

I  will  make  divine  magnetic  lands, 

With  the  love  of  comrades, 
With   the   life-long   love   of   comrades 


I  will  plant  companionship  thick  as  trees  along  all  the  rivers  of  America,  and  along 

the  shores  of  the  great  lakes,  and  all  over  the  prairies; 
I  will  make  inseparable  cities,  with  their  arms  about  each  other's  necks; 
By  the  love  of  comrades, 
By  the  manly  love  of  comrades. 

3 

For  you  these,  from  me,  O  Democracy,  to  serve  you,  ma  femme!  1° 

For  you !  for  you,  I  am  thrilling  these  songs, 
In  the  love  of  comrades, 
In  the  high-towering  love  of  comrades. 

1860 

I    SAW    IN    LOUISIANA    A    LIVE-OAK    GROWING 

I  saw  in  Louisiana  a  live-oak  growing, 

All  alone  stood  it,  and  the  moss  hung  down  from  the  branches; 
Without  any  companion  it  grew  there,  uttering  joyous  leaves  of  dark  green, 
And  its  look,  rude,  unbending,  lusty,  made  me  think  of  myself; 

But  I  wonder'd  how  it  could  utter  joyous  leaves,  standing  alone  there,  without  its 
friend,  its  lover  near — for  I  knew  I  could  not; 


WALT   WHITMAN  513 

And  I  broke  off  a  twig  with  a  certain  number  of  leaves  upon  it,  and  twined  around 

it  a  little  moss, 

And  brought  it  away — and  I  have  placed  it  in  sight  in  my  room; 
It  is  not  needed  to  remind  me  as  of  my  own  dear  friends, 
(For  I  believe  lately  I  think  of  little  else  than  of  them;) 

Yet  it  remains  to  me  a  curious  token — it  makes  me  think  of  manly  love ;  I0 

For  all  that,  and  though  the  live-oak  glistens  there  in  Louisiana,  solitary,  in  a  wide 

flat  space, 

Uttering  joyous  leaves  all  its  life,  without  a  friend,  a  lover,  near, 
I  know  very  well  I  could  not. 

1860 

I   HEAR    IT   WAS    CHARGED   AGAINST    ME 

I  hear  it  was  charged  against  me  that  I  sought  to  destroy  institutions; 

But  really  I  am  neither  for  nor  against  institutions ; 

(What  indeed  have  I  in  common  with  them? — Or  what  with  the  destruction  of  them?) 

Only  I  will  establish  in  the  Mannahatta,  and  in  every  city  of  These  States,  inland  and 

seaboard, 

And  in  the  fields  and  woods,  and  above  every  keel,  little  or  large,  that  dents  the  water, 
Without  edifices,  or  rules,  or  trustees,  or  any  argument, 
The  institution  of  the  dear  love  of  comrades. 

1860 

ME   IMPERTURBE 

Me  imperturbe,  standing  at  ease  in  Nature, 

Master  of  all,  or  mistress  of  all — aplomb  in  the  midst  of  irrational  things, 

Imbued  as  they — passive,  receptive,  silent  as  they, 

Finding   my    occupation,    poverty,    notoriety,    foibles,    crimes,    less    important   than    I 

thought ; 
Me  private,  or  public,  or  menial,  or  solitary — all  these  subordinate,   (I  am  eternally 

equal  with  the  best — I  am  not  subordinate;) 
Me  toward  the  Mexican  Sea,  or  in  the  Mannahatta,  or  the  Tennessee,  or  far  north, 

or  inland, 
A  river  man,  or  a  man  of  the  woods,  or  of  any  farm-life  in  These  States,  or  of  the 

coast,  or  the  lakes,  or  Kanada, 
Me,  wherever  my  life  is  lived,  O  to  be  self-balanced  for  contingencies ! 

0  to  confront  night,   storms,  hunger,  ridicule,  accidents,   rebuffs,   as  the  trees  and 

animals  do. 

1860 

I    HEAR    AMERICA    SINGING 

1  hear  America  singing,  the  varied  carols  I  hear; 

Those  of  mechanics — each  one  singing  his,  as  it  should  be,  blithe  and  strong; 

The  carpenter  singing  his,  as  he  measures  his  plank  or  beam, 

The  mason  singing  his,  as  he  makes  ready  for  work,  or  leaves  off  work ; 

The  boatman  singing  what  belongs  to  him  in  his  boat — the  deckhand  singing  on  the 

steamboat  deck; 

The  shoemaker  singing  as  he  sits  on  his  bench — the  hatter  singing  as  he  stands ; 
The  wood-cutter's  song — the  ploughboy's,  on  his  way  in  the  morning,  or  at  the  noon 

intermission,  or  at  sundown ; 
The  delicious  singing  of  the  mother — or  of  the  young  wife  at  work — or  of  the  girl 

sewing  or  washing — Each  singing  what  belongs  to  her,  and  to  none  else; 
The  day  what  belongs  to  the  day — At  night,  the  party  of  young  fellows,  robust,  friendly, 
Singing,  with  open  mouths,  their  strong  melodious  songs.  I0 

First  published  in  1860  where  line  1   reads  "American   Mouth-Songs." 


514  AMERICAN    POETRY 

WITH   ANTECEDENTS 

1 

With  antecedents; 

With  my  fathers  and  mothers,  and  the  accumulations  of  past  ages; 
With  all  which,  had  it  not  been,  I  would  not  now  be  here,  as  I  am: 
With  Egypt,  India,  Phenicia,  Greece  and  Rome; 
With  the  Kelt,  the  Scandinavian,  the  Alb,  and  the  Saxon ; 

With  antique  maritime  ventures, — with   laws,   artizanship,   wars  and  journeys; 
With  the  poet,  the  skald,  the  saga,  the  myth,  and  the  oracle ; 
With  the  sale  of  slaves— with  enthusiasts — with  the  troubadour,  the  crusader,  and  the 

monk; 

With  those  old  continents  whence  we  have  come  to  this  new  continent; 
With  the  fading  kingdoms  and  kings  over  there;  10 

With  the  fading  religions  and  priests ; 

With  the  small  shores  we  look  back  to  from  our  own  large  and  present  shores; 
With  countless  years  drawing  themselves  onward,  and  arrived  at  these  years; 
You  and  Me  arrived — America  arrived,  and  making  this  year; 
This  year !  sending  itself  ahead  countless  years  to  come. 


0  but  it  is  not  the  years — it  is  I — it  is  You ; 
We  touch  all  laws,  and  tally  all  antecedents; 

We  are  the  skald,  the  oracle,  the  monk,  and  the  knight — we  easily  include  them,  and 

more; 

We  stand  amid  time,  beginningless  and  endless — we  stand  amid  evil  and  good; 
All  swings  around  us — there  is  as  much  darkness  as  light;  2° 

The  very  sun  swings  itself  and  its  system  of  planets  around  us; 
Its  sun,  and  its  again,  all  swing  around  us. 
As  for  me,  (torn,  stormy,  even  as  I,  amid  these  vehement  days,) 

1  have  the  idea  of  all,  and  am  all,  and  believe  in  all; 

I  believe  materialism  is  true,  and  spiritualism  is  true — I  reject  no  part. 

Have  I  forgotten  any  part? 

Come  to  me,  whoever  and  whatever,  till  I  give  you  recognition. 

I  respect  Assyria,  China,  Teutonia,  and  the  Hebrews; 

I  adopt  each  theory,  myth,  god,  and  demi-god; 

I  see  that  the  old  accounts,  bibles,  genealogies,  are  true,  without  exception;  3° 

I  assert  that  all  past  days  were  what  they  should  have  been; 

And  that  they  could  no-how  have  been  better  than  they  were, 

And  that  to-day  is  what  it  should  be — and  that  America  is, 

And  that  to-day  and  America  could  no-how  be  better  than  they  are. 


In  the  name  of  These  States,  and  in  your  and  my  name,  the  Past, 

And  in  the  name  of  These  States,  and  in  your  and  my  name,  the  Present  time. 

I  know  that  the  past  was  great,  and  the  future  will  be  great, 

And  I  know  that  both  curiously  conjoint  in  the  present  time, 

(For  the  sake  of  him  I  typify — for  the  common  average  man's  sake — your  sake,  if  you 

are  he;) 
And  that  where  I  am,  or  you  are,  this  present  day,  there  is  the  centre  of  all  days, 

all  races,  4° 

And  there  is  the  meaning,  to  us,  of  all  that  has  ever  come  of  races  and  days,  or  ever 

will  come. 

1860 


WALT   WHITMAN  515 

MYSELF  AND  MINE 

Myself  and  mine  gymnastic  ever, 

To  stand  the  cold  or  heat — to  take  good  aim  with  a  gun — to  sail  a  boat — to  manage 

horses — to  beget  superb  children, 

To  speak  readily  and  clearly — to  feel  at  home  among  common  people, 
And  to  hold  our  own  in  terrible  positions,  on  land  and  sea. 

Not  for  an  embroiderer; 

(There  will  always  be  plenty  of  embroiderers — I  welcome  them  also;) 

But  for  the  fibre  of  things,  and  for  inherent  men  and  women. 

Not  to  chisel  ornaments, 

But  to  chisel  with  free  stroke  the  heads  and  limbs  of  plenteous  Supreme  Gods,  that 
The  States  may  realize  them,  walking  and  talking. 

Let  me  have  my  own  way ;  10 

Let  others  promulge  the  laws — I  will  make  no  account  of  the  laws ; 
Let  others  praise  eminent  men  and  hold  up  peace — I  hold  up  agitation  a<id  conflict; 
I  praise  no  eminent  man — I  rebuke  to  his  face  the  one  that  was  thought  most  worthy. 

(Who  are  you?  you  mean  devil!    And  what  are  you  secretly  guilty  of,  all  your  life? 
Will  you  turn  aside  all  your  life?    Will  you  grub  and  chatter  all  your  life?) 

(And  who  are  you — blabbing  by  rote,  years,  pages,  languages,  reminiscences, 
Unwitting  to-day  that  you  do  not  know  how  to  speak  a  single  word?) 

Let  others  finish  specimens — I  never  finish  specimens; 

I  shower  them  by  exhaustless  laws,  as  Nature  does,  fresh  and  modern  continually. 

I  give  nothing  as  duties;  ». 

What  others  give  as  duties,  I  give  as  living  impulses; 
(Shall  I  give  the  heart's  action  as  a  duty?) 

Let    others    dispose    of    questions — I    dispose    of    nothing — I    arouse    unanswerable 

questions ; 

Who  are  they  I  see  and  touch,  and  what  about  them? 
What  about  these  likes  of  myself,  that  draw  me  so  close  by  tender  directions  and 

indirections? 
I  call  to  the  world  to  distrust  the  accounts  of  my  friends,  but  listen  to  my  enemies — 

as  I  myself  do ; 
I  charge  you,  too,  forever,  reject  those  who  would  expound  me — for  I  cannot  expound 

myself ; 

I  charge  that  there  be  no  theory  or  school  founded  out  of  me; 
I  charge  you  to  leave  all  free,  as  I  have  left  all  free. 

After  me,  vista!  30 

O,  I  see  life  is  not  short,  but  immeasurably  long; 

I  henceforth  tread  the  world,  chaste,  temperate,  an  early  riser,  a  steady  grower, 
Every  hour  the  semen  of  centuries — and  still  of  centuries. 

I  will  follow  up  these  continual  lessons  of  the  air,  water,  earth; 
I  perceive  I  have  no  time  to  lose. 

1860 


516  AMERICAN    POETRY 

DRUM-TAPS 
Aroused  and  angry, 

I  thought  to  beat  the  alarum,  and  urge  relentless  war; 
But  soon  my  fingers  fail'd  me,  my  face  droop'd,  and  I  resigned  myself, 
To  sit  by  the  wounded  and  soothe  them,  or  silently  watch  the  dead. 1 

DRUM-TAPS 

1 

First,  O  songs,  for  a  prelude, 

Lightly  strike  on  the  stretch'd  tympanum,  pride  and  joy  in  my  city, 

How  she  led  the  rest  to  arms — how  she  gave  the  cue, 

How  at  once  with  lithe  limbs,  unwaiting  a  moment,  she  sprang; 

(O  superb!    O  Manhattan,  my  own,  my  peerless! 

O  strongest  you  in  the  hour  of  danger,  in  crisis!   O  truer  than  steel!) 

How  you  sprang!  how  you  threw  off  the  costumes  of  peace  with  indifferent  hand; 

How  your  soft  opera-music  changed,  and  the  drum  and  fife  were  heard  in  their  stead; 

How  you  led  to  the  war,  (that  shall  serve  for  our  prelude,  songs  of  soldiers,) 

How  Manhattan  drum-taps  led.  1C 


Forty  years  had  I  in  my  city  seen  soldiers  parading; 

Forty  years  as  a  pageant — till  unawares,  the  Lady  of  this  teeming  and  turbulent  city, 

Sleepless  amid  her  ships,  her  houses,  her  incalculable  wealth, 

With  her  million  children  around  her — suddenly, 

At  dead  of  night,  at  news  from  the  south, 

Incens'd,  struck  with  clench'd  hand  the  pavement. 

A  shock  electric — the  night  sustain'd  it; 

Till  with  ominous  hum,  our  hive  at  day-break  pour'd  out  its  myriads. 

From  the  houses  then,  and  the  workshops,  and  through  all  the  doorways, 

Leapt  they  tumultuous — and  lo!    Manhattan  arming.  20 

3 

To  the  drum-taps  prompt, 

The  young  men  falling  in  and  arming; 

The  mechanics  arming,    (the   trowel,  the  jack-plane,  the  blacksmith's  hammer,  tost 

aside  with  precipitation;) 

The  lawyer  leaving  his  office,  and  arming — the  judge  leaving  the  court; 
The  driver  deserting  his  wagon  in  the  street,  jumping  down,  throwing  the  reins  abruptly 

down  on  the  horses'  backs ; 

The  salesman  leaving  the  store — the  boss,  the  book-keeper,  porter,  all  leaving; 
Squads  gather  everywhere  by  common  consent,  and  arm; 
The  new  recruits,  even  boys — the  old  men  show  them  how  to  wear  their  accoutrements 

— they  buckle  the  straps  carefully; 

Outdoors  arming — indoors  arming — the  flash  of  the  musket-barrels; 
The  white  tents  cluster  in  camps — the  arm'd  sentries  around — the  sunrise  cannon,  and 

again  at  sunset ;  3° 

Arm'd  regiments  arrive  every  day,  pass  through  the  city,  and  embark  from  the  wharves ; 
(How  good  they  look,  as  they  tramp  down  to  the  river,  sweaty,  with  their  guns  on 

their  shoulders ! 
How  I  love  them !  how  I  could  hug  them,  with  their  brown  faces,  and  their  clothes 

and  knapsacks  cover'd  with  dust!) 

1  Whitman  began  his  hospital  service  in  December  1862,  when  his  brother  George  was  wounded 
at  Fredericksburg.  "Friends  in  New  York  and  elsewhere  supplied  him  with  money  for  the  work. 
Before  the  war  closed  he  had  made  about  six  hundred  hospital  visits^  cared,  to  a  greater  or  less 
extent,  for  nearly  one  hundred  thousand  unfortunates;  and  expended  many  thousand  dollars." 
— G>  R.  Carpenter's  "Whitman,"  page  91, 


WALT   WHITMAN  517 

The  blood  of  the  city  up — arm'd!  arm'd!  the  cry  everywhere; 

The  flags  flung  out  from  the  steeples  of  churches,  and  from  all  the  public  buildings 

and  stores; 

The  tearful  parting — the  mother  kisses  her  son — the  son  kisses  his  mother; 
(Loth  is  the  mother  to  part — yet  not  a  word  does  she  speak  to  detain  him;) 
The  tumultuous  escort — the  ranks  of  policemen  preceding,  clearing  the  way; 
The  unpent  enthusiasm — the  wild  cheers  of  the  crowd  for  their  favorites; 
The  artillery — the  silent  cannons,  bright  as  gold,  drawn  along,  rumble  ligh       over 

the  stones;  40 

(Silent  cannons — soon  to  cease  your  silence! 
Soon,  unlimber'd,  to  begin  the  red  business;) 
All  the  mutter  of  preparation — all  the  determin'd  arming; 
The  hospital  service — the  lint,  bandages,  and  medicines; 
The    women    volunteering    for   nurses — the    work    begun    for,    in    earnest — no    mere 

parade  now; 

War !   an  arm'd   race  is  advancing ! — the  welcome   for  battle — no  turning  away ; 
War !  be  it  weeks,  months,  or  years — an  arm'd  race  is  advancing  to  welcome  it. 


Mannahatta  a-march ! — and  it's  O  to  sing  it  well ! 

It's  O  for  a  manly  life  in  the  camp! 

And  the  sturdy  artillery !  5° 

The  guns,  bright  as  gold — the  work  for  giants — to  serve  well  the  guns : 

Unlimber  them !  no  more,  as  the  past  forty  years,  for  salutes  for  courtesies  merely ; 

Put  in  something  else  now  besides  powder  and  wadding. 


And  you,  Lady  of  Ships!  you  Mannahatta! 

Old  matron  of  this  proud,   friendly,  turbulent  city! 

Often   in   peace  and  wealth  you   were  pensive,  or   covertly    frown'd  amid  all  your 

children ; 
But  now  you  smile  with  joy,  exulting  old  Mannahatta! 

1865 


BEAT!    BEAT!    DRUMS! 

1 

Beat!  beat!  drums! — Blow!  bugles!  blow! 

Through  the   windows — through   doors — burst   like   a   ruthless    force, 

Into  the  solemn  church,  and  scatter  the  congregation; 

Into  the  school  where  the  scholar  is  studying; 

Leave  not  the  bridegroom  quiet — no  happiness  must  he  have  now  with  his  bride; 

Nor  the  peaceful  farmer  any  peace,  plowing  his  field  or  gathering  his  grain; 

So  fierce  you  whirr  and  pound,  you  drums — so  shrill  you  bugles  blow. 


Beat!  beat!  drums! — Blow!  bugles!  blow! 

Over  the  traffic  of  cities — over  the  rumble  of  wheels  in  the  streets: 
Are  beds  prepared  for  sleepers  at  night  in  the  houses?     No  sleepers  must  sleep  in 
those  beds ;  I0 

No  bargainers'  bargains  by  day — no  brokers  or  speculators — Would  they  continue? 
Would  the  talkers  be  talking?  would  the  singer  attempt  to  sing? 
Would  the  lawyer  rise  in  the  court  to  state  his  case  before  the  judge? 
Then  rattle  quicker,  heavier  drums — you  bugles  wilder  blow. 


518  AMERICAN   POETRY 


Beat!  beat!  drums! — Blow!  bugles!  blow! 

Make  no  parley — stop  for  no  expostulation; 

Mind  not  the  timid — mind  not  the  weeper  or  prayer; 

Mind  not  the  old  man  beseeching  the  young  man; 

Let  not  the  child's  voice  be  heard,  nor  the  mother's  entreaties; 

Make  even  the  trestles  to  shake  the  dead,  where  they  lie  awaiting  the  hearses,          2° 

So  strong  you   thump,   O   terrible   drums — so  loud  you  bugles   blow. 

First  published   in  "Drum-Taps,"   1865. 

THE   CENTENARIAN'S    STORY  i 

VOLUNTEER  OF  1861-2. 
(At  Washington  Park,  Brooklyn,  assisting  the  Centenarian.) 

Give  me  your  hand,  old  Revolutionary; 

The  hill-top  is  nigh — but  a  few  steps,  (make  room,  gentlemen;) 

Up  the  path  you  have  follow'd  me  well,  spite  o,f  your  hundred  and  extra  years; 

You  can  walk,  old  man,  though  your  eyes  are  almost  done; 

Your  faculties  serve  you,  and  presently  I  must  have  them  serve  me. 

Rest,  while  I  tell  what  the  crowd  around  us  means; 

On  the  plain  below,  recruits  are  drilling  and  exercising; 

There  is  the  camp — one  regiment  departs  to-morrow; 

Do  you  hear  the  officers  giving  the  orders? 

Do  you  hear  the  clank  of  the  muskets?  I0 

Why,  what  comes  over  you  now,  old  man? 

Why  do  you  tremble,  and  clutch  my  hand  so  convulsively? 

The  troops  are  but  drilling — they  are  yet  surrounded  with  smiles; 

Around  them,  at  hand,  the  well-drest  friends,  and  the  women; 

While  splendid  and  warm  the  afternoon  sun  shines  down; 

Green  the  midsummer  verdure,  and  fresh  blows  the  dallying  breeze, 

O'er  proud  and  peaceful  cities,  and  arm  of  the  sea  between. 

But  drill  and  parade  are  over — they  inarch  back  to  quarters; 

Only  hear  that  approval  of  hands !  hear  what  a  clapping ! 

As  wending,  the  crowds  now  part  and  disperse — but  we,  old  man,  20 

Not   for  nothing  have   I   brought  you   hither — we   must   remain; 
You  to  speak  in  your  turn,  and  I  to  listen  and  tell. 

THE  CENTENARIAN 

When  I  clutch'd  your  hand,  it  was  not  with  terror ; 

But  suddenly,  pouring  about  me  here,  on  every  side, 

And  below  there  where  the  boys  were  drilling,  and  up  the  slopes  they  ran, 

And    where   tents    are    pitch'd,    and    wherever    you    see,    south    and    south-east   and 

south-west, 
Over  hills,  across  lowlands,  and  in  the  skirts  of  woods, 

And  along  the  shores,  in  mire   (now  fill'd  over),  came  again,  and  suddenly  raged, 
As   eighty-five  years   agone,   no   mere  parade   receiv'd   with   applause   of    friends, 
But  a  battle,  which  I  took  part  in  myself — aye,  long  ago  as  it  is,  I  took  part  in  it,    3° 
Walking  then  this  hill-top,  this  same  ground. 

Aye,  this  is  the  ground; 

My  blind  eyes,  even  as  I  speak,  behold  it  re-peopled  from  graves; 

1  Story  of  the  Battle  of  Long  Island,  Aug.  27,  1776, 


WALT   WHITMAN  519 

The  years  recede,  pavements  and  stately  houses  disappear; 
Rude  forts  appear  again,  the  old  hoop'd  guns  are  mounted; 
I  see  the  lines  of  rais'd  earth  stretching  from  river  to  bay; 
I  mark  the  vista  of  waters,  I  mark  the  uplands  and  slopes : 
Here  we  lay  encamp' d — it  was  this  time  in  summer  also. 

i 

As  I  talk,  I  remember  all — I  remember  the  Declaration; 

It  was  read  here — the  whole  army  paraded — it  was  read  to  us  here;  4° 

By  his  staff  surrounded,  the  General  stood  in  the  middle — he  held  up  his  unsheath'd 

sword, 
It  glitter'd  in  the  sun  in  full  sight  of  the  army. 

'Twas  a  bold  act  then; 

The  English  war-ships  had  just  arrived — the  king  had  sent  them  from  over  the  sea; 

We  could  watch  down  the  lower  bay  where  they  lay  at  anchor, 

And  the  transports,  swarming  with  soldiers. 

A  few  days  more,  and  they  landed — and  then  the  battle. 

Twenty  thousand  were  brought  against  us, 
A  veteran  force,  furnish'd  with  good  artillery. 

I  tell  not  now  the  whole  of  the  battle;  so 

But  one  brigade,  early  in  the  forenoon,  order' d  forward  to  engage  the  red-coats; 
Of  that  brigade  I  tell,  and  how  steadily  it  march'd, 
And  how  long  and  how  well  it  stood,  confronting  death. 

Who  do  you  think  that  was,  marching  steadily,  sternly  confronting  death? 
It  was  the  brigade  of  the  youngest  men,  two  thousand  strong, 

Rais'd    in    Virginia   and    Maryland,    and    many    of    them    known    personally    to    the 
General. 

Jauntily  forward  they  went  with  quick  step  toward   Gowanus  waters ; 

Till  of  a  sudden,  unlook'd  for,  by  denies  through  the  woods,  gain'd  at  night, 

The  British  advancing,  wedging  in  from  the  east,  fiercely  playing  their  guns, 

That  brigade  of  the  youngest  was  cut  off,  and  at  the  enemy's  mercy.  6° 

The  General  watch'd  them  from  this  hill ; 

They  made  repeated  desperate  attempts  to  burst  their  environment; 
Then  drew  close  together,  very  compact,  their  flag  flying  in  the  middle; 
But  O  from  the  hills  how  the  cannon  were  thinning  and  thinning  them! 

It  sickens  me  yet,  that  slaughter ! 

I  saw  the  moisture  gather  in  drops  on  the  face  of  the  General; 

I  saw  how  he  wrung  his  hands  in  anguish. 

Meanwhile  the  British  manceuvr'd  to  draw  us  out  for  a  pitch'd  battle; 
But  we  dared  not  trust  the  chances  of  a  pitch'd  battle. 

We  fought  the  fight  in  detachments ;  70 

Sallying  forth,  we   fought  at  several  points — but  in   each  the  luck  was  against  us ; 
Our  foe  advancing,  steadily  getting  the  best  of  it,  push'd  us  back  to  the  works  on 

this  hill; 
Till  we  turn'd,  menacing,  here,  and  then  he  left  us. 

That  was  the  going  out  of  the  brigade  of  the  youngest  men,  two  thousand  strong; 
Few  return'd — nearly  all  remain  in  Brooklyn. 


520  AMERICAN    POETRY 

That,  and  here,  my  General's  first  battle; 

No  women  looking  on,  nor  sunshine  to  bask  in — it  did  not  conclude  with  applause; 

Nobody  clapp'd  hands  here  then. 

But  in  darkness,  in  mist,  on  the  ground,  under  a  chill  rain, 

Wearied  that  night  we  lay,  foil'd  and  sullen;  8° 

While  scornfully  laugh'd  many  an  arrogant  lord,  off  against  us   encamp'd, 
Quite  within  hearing,  feasting,  clinking  wine-glasses  together  over  their  victory. 

So,  dull  and  damp,  and  another  day; 

But  the  night  of  that,  mist  lifting,  rain  ceasing, 

Silent  as  a  ghost,  while  they  thought  they  were  sure  of  him,  my  General  retreated. 

I  saw  him  at  the  river-side, 

Down  by  the   ferry,  lit  by  torches,  hastening  the  embarcation; 

My  General  waited  till  the  soldiers   and  wounded  were  all  pass'd  over ; 

And  then,   (it  was  just  ere  sunrise,)  these  eyes  rested  on  him  for  the  last  time. 

Every  one  seem'd  fill'd  with  gloom;  90 

Many  no  doubt  thought  of  capitulation. 

But  when  my  General  pass'd  me, 

As  he  stood  in  his  boat,  and  look'd  toward  the  coming  sun, 

I   saw    something   different   from   capitulation. 

TERMINUS 

Enough — the  Centenarian's  story  ends ; 

The  two,  the  past  and  present,  have  interchanged ; 

I  myself,  as  connecter,  as  chansonnier  of  a  great  future,  am  now  speaking. 

And  is  this  the  ground  Washington  trod? 

And  these  waters  I  listlessly  daily  cross,  are  these  the  waters  he  cross'd, 

As  resolute  in  defeat,  as  other  generals  in  their  proudest  triumphs?  100 

It  is  well — a  lesson  like  that,  always  comes  good; 

I  must  copy  the  story,  and  send  it  eastward  and  westward ; 

I  must  preserve  that  look,  as  it  beam'd  on  you,  rivers  of  Brooklyn. 

See !  as  the  annual  round  returns,  the  phantoms  return ; 
It  is  the  27th  of  August,  and  the  British  have  landed; 
The  battle  begins,  and  goes  against  us — behold!  through  the  smoke,  Washington's 

face; 

The  brigade  of  Virginia  and  Maryland  have  march'd  forth  to  intercept  the  enemy; 
They  are  cut  off — murderous  artillery  from  the  hills  plays  upon  them; 
Rank  after  rank  falls,  while  over  them  silently  droops  the  flag, 

Baptized  that  day  in  many  a  young  man's  bloody  wounds,  no 

In  death,  defeat,  and  sisters',  mothers'  tears. 

Ah,  hills  and  slopes  of  Brooklyn !  I  perceive  you  are  more  valuable  than  your  owners 

supposed ; 
Ah,  river!  henceforth  you  will  be  illumin'd  to  me  at  sunrise  with  something  besides 

the  sun. 

Encampments  new!  in  the  midst  of  you  stands  an  encampment  very  old; 
Stands  forever  the  camp  of  the  dead  brigade. 

First  published   in   "Drum-Taps,"   1865. 


WALT   WHITMAN  521 

VIGIL   STRANGE  I   KEPT   ON   THE   FIELD   ONE   NIGHT 

Vigil  strange  I  kept  on  the  field  one  night: 

When  you,  my  son  and  my  comrade,  dropt  at  my  side  that  day, 

One  look  I  but  gave,  which  your  dear  eyes  return'd,  with  a  look  I  shall  never  forget; 

One  touch  of  your  hand  to  mine,  O  boy,  reach'd  up  as  you  lay  on  the  ground; 

Then  onward  I  sped  in  the  battle,  the  even-contested  battle; 

Till  late  in  the  night  reliev'd,  to  the  place  at  last  again  I  made  my  way; 

Found  you  in  death  so  cold,  dear  comrade — found  your  body,  son  of  responding 
kisses,  (never  again  on  earth  responding;) 

Bared  your  face  in  the  starlight — curious  the  scene — cool  blew  the  moderate  night- 
wind  ; 

Long  there  and  then  in  vigil  I   stood,  dimly  around  me  the  battle-field  spreading; 

Vigil  wondrous  and  vigil  sweet,  there  in  the  fragrant  silent  night;  I0 

But  not  a  tear  fell,  not  even  a  long-drawn  sigh — Long,  long  I  gazed; 

Then  on  the  earth  partially  reclining,  sat  by  your  side,  leaning  my  chin  in  my  hands; 

Passing  sweet  hours,  immortal  and  mystic  hours  with  you,  dearest  comrade — Not  a 
tear,  not  a  word; 

Vigil  of  silence,  love  and  death — vigil  for  you  my  son  and  my  soldier, 

As  onward  silently  stars  aloft,  eastward  new  ones  upward  stole; 

Vigil  final   for  you,  brave  boy,    (I  could  not  save  you,  swift  was  your  death, 

I  faithfully  loved  you  and  cared  for  you  living — I  think  we  shall  surely  meet  again;) 

Till  at  latest  lingering  of  the  night,  indeed  just  as  the  dawn  appear'd, 

My  comrade  I  wrapt  in  his  blanket,  envelop'd  well  his  form, 

Folded  the  blanket  well,  tucking  it  carefully  over  head,  and  carefully  under  feet;    2° 

And  there  and  then,  and  bathed  by  the  rising  sun,  my  son  in  his  grave,  in  his  rude- 
dug  grave  I  deposited ; 

Ending  my  vigil  strange  with  that — vigil  of  night  and  battlefield  dim ; 

Vigil  for  boy  of  responding  kisses,    (never  again  on  earth  responding;) 

Vigil   for  comrade   swiftly  slain — vigil  I  never   forget,  how  as   day  brighten'd, 

I  rose  from  the  chill  ground,  and  folded  my  soldier  well  in  his  blanket, 

And  buried  him  where  he  fell. 

First  published   in  "Drum-Taps,"   1865. 

THE   DRESSER  i 

1870 
1 

An  old  man  bending,  I  come,  among  new  faces, 

Years   looking  backward,   resuming,    in   answer   to   children, 

Come  tell  us,  old  man,  as  from  young  men  and  maidens  that  love  me; 

Years  hence  of  these  scenes,  of  these  furious  passions,  these  chances, 

Of  unsurpass'd  heroes,   (was  one  side  so  brave?  the  other  was  equally  brave;) 

Now  be  witness  again — paint  the  mightiest  armies  of  earth; 

Of  those  armies  so  rapid,  so  wondrous,  what  saw  you  to  tell  us? 

What  stays  with  you  latest  and  deepest?  of  curious  panics, 

Of  hard- fought  engagements,  or  sieges  tremendous,  what  deepest  remains? 

2 

O  maidens  and  young  men  I  love,  and  that  love  me,  I0 

What  you  ask  of  my  days,  those  the  strangest  and   sudden  your  talking  recalls; 
Soldier  alert  I   arrive,  after  a  long  march,  cover'd  with  sweat  and  dust ; 
In  the  nick  of  time  I  come,  plunge  in  the  fight,  loudly  shout  in  the  rush  of  suc 
cessful  charge; 
Enter  the  captur'd  works  ...  yet  lo!  like  a  swift-running  river,  they  fade; 

1  See  footnote  to  "Drum-Taps,"  page  516.  In  Whitman's  Prose  Works,  in  this  connection 
should  be  read  "The  Wound  Dresser"  and  the  pages  from  "Specimen  Days"  which  cover  bis. 
hospital  experience. 


522  AMERICAN    POETRY 

Pass  and  are  gone,  they  fade — I  dwell  not  on  soldiers'  perils  or  soldiers'  joys; 
(Both  I  remember  .well — many  the  hardships,   few  the  joys,  yet  I  was  content.) 

But  in   silence,   in   dreams'  projections, 

While  the  world  of  gain  and  appearance  and  mirth  goes  on, 
So  soon  what  is  over   forgotten,  and  waves  wash  the  imprints  off  the  sand, 
In  nature's  reverie  sad,  with  hinged  knees  returning,  I  enter  the  doors — (while  for 
you  up  there,  2° 

Whoever  you  are,   follow  me  without  noise,  and  be  of  strong  heart.) 


Bearing  the  bandages,  water  and  sponge, 

Straight  and  swift  to  my  wounded  I  go, 

Where  they  lie  on  the  ground,   after  the  battle  brought  in; 

Where  their   priceless  blood   reddens   the  grass,   the  ground; 

Or  to  the  rows  of  the  hospital  tent,  or  under  the  roof'd  hospital; 

To  the  long  rows  of  cots,  up  and  down,  each  side,  I  return ; 

To  each  and  all,  one  after  another,  I  draw  near — not  one  do  I  miss; 

An  attendant   follows,  holding  a-  tray — he  carries  a  refuse  pail, 

Soon  to  be  fill'd  with  clotted  rags  and  blood,  emptied  and  fill'd  again.  3° 

I  onward  go,  I  stop, 

With  hinged  knees  and  steady  hand,  to  dress  wounds; 

I  am  firm  with  each — the  pangs  are  sharp,  yet  unavoidable; 

One  turns   to  me  his   appealing  eyes — (poor  boy!   I   never  knew  you, 

Yet  I  think  I  could  not  refuse  this  moment  to  die  for  you,  if  that  would  save  you.) 


On,  on  I  go! — (open  doors  of  time!  open  hospital  doors!) 

The  crush'd  head  I  dress,   (poor  crazed  hand,  tear  not  the  bandage  away;) 

The  neck  of  the  cavalry-man,  with  the  bullet  through  and  through,  I  examine ; 

Hard  the  breathing  rattles,  quite  glazed  already  the  eye,  yet  life  struggles  hard; 

(Come,  sweet  death!  be  persuaded,  O  beautiful  death!  4° 

In  mercy  come  quickly.) 

From  the  stump  of  the  arm,  the  amputated  hand, 

I  undo  the  clotted  lint,  remove  the  slough,  wash  off  the  matter  and  blood ; 
Back  on  his  pillow  the  soldier  bends,  with  curv'd  neck,  and  side- falling  head; 
His  eyes  are  closed,  his  face  is  pale,   (he  dares  not  look  on  the  bloody  stump, 
And  has  not  yet  look'd  on  it.) 

I  dress  a  wound  in  the  side,  deep,  deep; 

But  a  day  or  two  more — for  see,  the  frame  all  wasted  already,  and  sinking, 

And  the   yellow-blue   countenance   see. 

I  dress  the  perforated  shoulder,  the  foot  with  the  bullet  wound,  so 

Cleanse  the  one  with  a  gnawing  and  putrid  gangrene,  so  sickening,  so  offensive, 
While  the  attendant  stands  behind  aside  me,  holding  the  tray  and  pail. 

I  am  faithful,  I  do  not  give  out; 

The  fractur'd  thigh,  the  knee,  the  wound  in  the  abdomen, 

These  and   more   I   dress   with   impassive  hand — (yet   deep   in   my  breast  a   fire,  a 
burning  flame.) 

5 

Thus  in  silence,  in  dreams'  projections, 

Returning,   resuming,   I   thread   my  way  through   the  hospitals ; 
The  hurt  and  wounded  I  pacify  with  soothing  hand, 


WALT   WHITMAN  523 

I  sit  by  the  restless  all  the  dark  night— some  are  so  young; 

Some  suffer  so  much — I  recall  the  experience  sweet  and  sad; 

(Many  a  soldier's  loving  arms  about  this  neck  have  cross'd  and  rested, 

Many  a  soldier's  kiss  dwells  on  these  bearded  lips.) 

First  published   in  "Drum-Taps,"  1865. 


GIVE  ME  THE  SPLENDID   SILENT   SUN 

1 

Give  me  the  splendid  silent  sun,  with  all  his  beams  full-dazzling; 

Give  me  juicy  autumnal  fruit,  ripe  and  red  from  the  orchard; 

Give  me  a  field  where  the  unmow'd  grass  grows; 

Give  me  an  arbor,  give  me  the  trellis'd  grape; 

Give  me  fresh  corn  and  wheat — give  me  serene-moving  animals,   teaching  content; 

Give  me  nights  perfectly  quiet,  as  on  high  plateaus  west  of  Mississippi,  and  I  looking 

up  at  the  stars; 
Give  me  odorous  at  sunrise  a  garden  of  beautiful  flowers,  where  I  can  walk  un- 

disturb'd; 

Give  me   for  marriage  a  sweet-breath'd  woman,  of  whom  I   should  never  tire; 
Give  me  a  perfect  child — give  me,  away,  aside  from  the  noise  of  the  world,  a  rural, 

domestic  life; 
Give  me  to  warble  spontaneous  songs,  reliev'd,  recluse  by  myself,  for  my  own  ears 

only;  10 

Give  me  solitude — give  me  Nature — give  me  again,  O  Nature,  your  primal  sanities! 
— These,  demanding  to  have  them,    (tired  with  ceaseless  excitement,  and  rack'd  by 

the  war-strife;) 

These  to  procure,    incessantly  asking,   rising  in  cries    from   my  heart, 
While  yet  incessantly  asking,  still  I   adhere  to  my  city; 
Day  upon  day,  and  year  upon  year,  O  city,  walking  your  streets, 
Where  you  hold  me  enchain'd  a  certain  time,  refusing  to  give  me  up; 
Yet  giving  to  make  me  glutted,  enrich'd  of  soul — you  give  me   forever  faces; 
(O  I   see  what  I   sought  to  escape,  confronting,   reversing  my  cries; 
I  see  my  own  soul  trampling  down  what  it  ask'd  for.) 

2 

Keep  your  splendid,  silent  sun;  2° 

Keep  your  woods,   O   Nature,  and  the  quiet  places  by  the  woods; 

Keep  your  fields  of  clover  and  timothy,  and  your  corn-fields  and  orchards; 

Keep  the  blossoming  buckwheat   fields,   where  the   Ninth-month  bees   hum; 

Give  me  faces  and  streets !  give  me  these  phantoms  incessant  and  endless  along  the 
trottoirs! 

Give  me  interminable  eyes !  give  me  women !  give  me  comrades  and  lovers  by  the 
thousand ! 

Let  me  see  new  ones  every  day!  let  me  hold  new  ones  by  the  hand  every  day! 

Give  me  such  shows!  give  me  the  streets  of  Manhattan!1 

Give  me  Broadway,  with  the  soldiers  marching — give  me  the  sound  of  the  trum 
pets  and  drums ! 

(The  soldiers  in  companies  or  regiments — some,  starting  away,  flush'd  and  reckless; 

Some,  their  time  up,  returning,  with  thinn'd  ranks — young,  yet  very  old,  worn, 
marching,  noticing  nothing;)  3° 

1 1  realize  .  .  .  that  not  Nature  alone  is  great  in  her  fields  of  freedom  and  the  open  air, 
in  her  storms,  the  shows  of  night  and  day,  the  mountains,  forests,  seas — but  in  the  artificial,  the 
work  of  man,  too,  is  equally  great — in  this  profusion  of  teeming  humanity — in  these  ingenuities, 
goods,  streets,  houses,  ships, — these  hurrying,  feverish  electric  crowds  of  men,  their  complicated 
business  genius  (not  least  among  the  genuises)  and  all  this  mighty,  many-threaded  wealth  concen 
trated  here.  (Whitman  in  his  "Collect.") 


524  AMERICAN    POETRY 

— Give  me  the  shores  and  the  wharves  heavy- fringed  with  the  black  ships ! 

O  such  for  me!  O  an  intense  life!  O  full  to  repletion,  and  varied! 

The  life  of  the  theatre,  bar-room,  huge  hotel,   for  me! 

The  saloon  of  the  steamer!  the  crowded  excursion  for  me!  the  torch-light  pro 
cession  ! 

The  dense  brigade,  bound  for  the  war,  with  high  piled  military  wagons  following; 

People,  endless,  streaming,  with  strong  voices,   passions,  pageants ; 

Manhattan  streets,  with  their  powerful  throbs,  with  the  beating  drums,  as  now ; 

The  endless  and  noisy  chorus,  the  rustle  and  clank  of  muskets,  (even  the  sight  of 
the  wounded;) 

Manhattan  crowds,  with  their  turbulent  musical  chorus — with  varied  chorus,  and 
light  of  the  sparkling  eyes; 

Manhattan  faces  and  eyes  forever  for  me.  4° 

First  published  in  "Drum-Taps,"   1865. 


SONG  OF  THE   BANNER  AT   DAY-BREAK 

POET 

O  a  new  song,  a  free  song, 

Flapping,  flapping,  flapping,  flapping,  by  sounds,  by  voices  clearer, 
By  the  wind's  voice  and  that  of  the  drum, 

By  the  banner's  voice,  and  child's  voice,  and  sea's  voice,  and  father's  voice, 
Low  on  the  ground  and  high  in  the  air, 
On  the  ground  where  father  and  child  stand, 
In  the  upward  air  where  their  eyes  turn, 
Where  the  banner  at  day-break  is  flapping. 

Words!  book- words !  what  are  you? 

Words  no  more,  for  hearken  and  see,  10 

My  song  is  there  in  the  open  air — and  I  must  sing, 

With  the  banner  and  pennant  a-flapping. 

I'll  weave  the  chord  and  twine  in, 

Man's  desire  and  babe's  desire — I'll  twine  them  in,  I'll  put  in  life; 

I'll  put  the  bayonet's  flashing  point — I'll  let  bullets  and  slugs  whizz; 

(As  one  carrying  a  symbol  and  menace,  far  into  the  future, 

Crying  with  trumpet  voice,  Arouse  and   beware!     Beware  and  arouse!) 

I'll  pour  the  verse  with  streams  of  blood,  full  of  volition,  full  of  joy; 

Then  loosen,  launch  forth,  to  go  and  compete, 

With  the  banner  and  pennant  a-flapping.  2° 

PENNANT 

Come  up  here,  bard,  bard; 
Come  up  here,  soul,  soul; 
Come  up  here,  dear  little  child, 
To  fly  in  the  clouds  and  winds  with  me,  and  play  with  the  measureless  light. 

CHILD 

Father,  what  is  that  in  the  sky  beckoning  to  me  with  long  finger? 
And  what  does  it  say  to  me  all  the  while? 

FATHER 

Nothing,  my  babe,  you  see  in  the  sky; 

And  nothing  at  all  to  you  it  says.     But  look  you,  my  babe, 

Look  at  these  dazzling  things  in  the  houses,  and  see  you  the  money-shops  opening; 

And  see  you  the  vehicles  preparing  to  crawl  along  the  streets  with  goods :  3° 


WALT   WHITMAN  525 

These!  ah,  these!  how  valued  and  toil'd  for,  these! 
How  envied  by  all  the  earth ! 

POET 

Fresh  and  rosy  red,  the  sun   is  mounting  high ; 

On  floats  the  sea  in  distant  blue,  careering  through  it's  channels; 

On  floats  the  wind  over  the  breast  of  the  sea,  setting  in  toward  land; 

The  great  steady  wind   from   west  and  west-by-south, 

Floating  so  buoyant,  with  milk-white  foam  on  the  waters. 

But  I  am  not  the  sea,  nor  the  red  sun; 

I  am  not  the  wind,  with  girlish  laughter; 

Not  the  immense  wind  which  strengthens — not  the  wind  which  lashes;  4° 

Not  the  spirit  that  ever  lashes  its  own  body  to  terror  and  death; 

But  I  am  that  which  unseen  comes  and  sings,  sings,  sings, 

Which  babbles  in  brooks  and  scoots  in  showers  on  the  land, 

Which  the  birds  know   in  the  woods,   mornings   and   evenings, 

And  the  shore-sands  know,  and  the  hissing  wave,  and  that  banner  and  pennant, 

Aloft  there  flapping  and  flapping. 

CHILD 

O   father,  it  is  alive — it  is  full  of  people — it  has  children! 

0  now  it  seems  to  me  it  is  talking  to  its  children ! 

1  hear  it — it  talks  to  me — O  it  is  wonderful ! 

0  it  stretches — it  spreads  and  runs  so  fast !     O  my  father,  5° 
It  is  so  broad,  it  covers  the  whole  sky! 

FATHER 

Cease,  cease,  my  foolish  babe, 

What  you  are  saying  is  sorrowful  to  me — much  it  displeases  me; 
Behold  with  the  rest,  again  I  say — behold  not  banners  and  pennants  aloft; 
But  the  well-prepared  pavements  behold — and  mark  the  solid-wall'd  houses. 

BANNER  AND  PENNANT 

Speak  to  the  child,  O  bard,  out  of  Manhattan; 

(The   war   is   over — yet   never   over  .  .  .  out   of   it,   we   are   born   to   real   life   and 

identity;) 

Speak  to  our  children  all,  or  north  or  south  of  Manhattan, 
Where   our   factory-engines   hum,   where   our   miners   delve   the   ground, 
Where  our  hoarse  Niagara  rumbles,  where  our  prairie-ploughs  are  ploughing;          6° 
Speak,  O  bard !  point  this  day,  leaving  all  the  rest,  to  us  over  all — and  yet  we  know 

not  why ; 

For  what  are  we,  mere  strips  of  cloth,  profiting  nothing, 
Only  flapping  in  the  wind? 

POET 

1  hear  and  see  not  strips  of  cloth  alone; 

I  hear  again  the  tramp  of  armies,  I  hear  the  challenging  sentry; 

I  hear  the  jubilant  shouts  of  millions  of  men — I  hear  LIBERTY! 

I  hear  the  drums  beat,  and  the  trumpets  yet  blowing; 

I  myself  move  abroad,   swift-rising,   flying  then; 

I  use  the  wings  of  the  land-bird,  and  use  the  wings  of  the  sea-bird,  and  look  down 

as  from  a  height; 
I  do  not   deny   the   precious  results   of   peace — I    see   populous   cities,    with   wealth 

incalculable ;  7° 


526  AMERICAN    POETRY 

I  see  numberless  farms — I  see  the   farmers  working  in  their  fields  or  barns; 

I  see  mechanics  working — I  see  buildings  everywhere  founded,  going  up,  or  fin- 
ish'd ; 

I  see  trains  of  cars  swiftly  speeding  along  railroad  tracks,  drawn  by  the  loco 
motives  ; 

I  see  the   stores,   depots,   of  Boston,   Baltimore,   Charleston,    New   Orleans; 

I  see  far  in  the  West  the  immense  area  of  grain — I  dwell  awhile,  hovering; 

I  pass  to  the  lumber  forests  of  the  north,  and  again  to  the  southern  plantation,  and 
again  to  California; 

Sweeping  the  whole,  I  see  the  countless  profit,  the  busy  gatherings,  earned  wages; 

See  the  identity  formed  out  of  thirty-eight  spacious  and  haughty  States  (and  many 
more  to  come;) 

See  forts  on  the  shores  of  harbors — see  ships  sailing  in  and  out; 

Then  over  all,  (aye!  aye!)  my  little  and  lengthen'd  pennant,  shaped  like  a  sword,   80 

Runs  swiftly  up,  indicating  war  and  defiance — And  now  the  halyards  have  rais'd  it, 

Side  of  my  banner  broad  and  blue — side  of  my  starry  banner, 

Discarding  peace  over  all  the  sea  and  land. 

BANNER  AND  PENNANT 

Yet  louder,  higher,  stronger,  bard!  yet   farther,  wider  cleave! 

No  longer  let  our  children  deem  us  riches  and  peace  alone; 

We  may  be  terror  and  carnage,  and  are  so  now; 

Not  now  are  we  any  one  of  these  spacious  and  haughty  States,   (nor  any  five,  nor 

ten;) 

Nor  market  nor  depot  are  we,  nor  money-bank  in  the  city; 
But  these,  and  all,  and  the  brown  and  spreading  land,   and  the   mines   below,   are 

ours; 

And  the  shores  of  the  sea  are  ours,  and  the  rivers,  great  and  small;  90 

And  the  fields  they  moisten  are  ours,  and  the  crops  and  the  fruits  are  ours; 
Bays  and  channels,  and  ships  sailing  in  and  out,  are  ours — and  we  over  all, 
Over  the  area  spread  below,  the  three  or  four  millions  of  square  miles — the  capitals, 
The  forty  millions  of  people — O  bard!  in  life  and  death  supreme, 
We,  even  we,  henceforth  flaunt  out  masterful,  high  up  above, 
Not  for  the  present  alone,  for  a  thousand  years,  chanting  through  you, 
This  song  to  the  soul  of  one  poor  little  child. 

CHILD 

O  my  father,  I  like  not  the  houses; 

They  will  never  to  me  be  anything — nor  do  I  like  money; 

But  to  mount  up  there  I  would  like,  O  father  dear — that  banner  I  like;  i°o 

That  pennant  I  would  be,  and  must  be. 

FATHER 

Child  of  mine,  you  fill  me  with  anguish; 

To  be  that  pennant  would  be  too  fearful; 

Little  you  know  what  it  is  this  day,  and  after  this  day,   forever; 

It  is  to  gain  nothing,  but  risk  and  defy  everything; 

Forward  to  stand  in  front  of  wars — and  O,  such  wars ! — what  have  you  to  do  with 

them? 
With  passions  of  demons,  slaughter,  premature  death? 

POET 

Demons  and  death  then  I  sing; 

Put  in  all,  aye  all,  will  I — sword-shaped  pennant  for  war,  and  banner  so  broad 
and  blue, 


WALT   WHITMAN  527 

And  a  pleasure  new  and  extatic,  and  the  prattled  yearning  of  children,  "° 

Blent  with  the  sounds  of  the  peaceful  land,  and  the  liquid  wash  of  the  sea; 

And  the  black  ships,  fighting  on  the  sea,  enveloped  in  smoke; 

And  the  icy  cool  of  the  far,  far  north,  with  rustling  cedars  and  pines; 

And  the   whirr  of  drums,  and  the  sounds  of  soldiers   marching,  and  the   hot   sun^ 

shining  south ;  1 

And  the  beech-waves  combing  over  the  beach  on  my  eastern  shore,  and  my  western 

shore  the  same; 
And  all   between   those   shores,   and   my  ever  running  Mississippi,   with   bends   and 

chutes ; 

And  my  Illinois  fields,  and  my  Kansas  fields,  and  my  fields  of  Missouri; 
The  CONTINENT — devoting  the  whole  identity,  without  reserving  an  atom, 
Pour  In!  whelm  that  which  asks,  which  sings,  with  all,  and  the  yield  of  all. 

Aye  all!  for  ever,  for  all!  12° 

From  sea  to  sea,  north  and  south,  east  and  west, 

(The  war  is  completed,  the  price  is  paid,  the  title  is  settled  beyond  recall;) 

Fusing  and  holding,  claiming,  devouring  the  whole ; 

No  more  with  tender  lip,  nor  musical  labial  sound, 

But,  out  of  the  night  emerging  for  good,  our  voice  persuasive  no  more, 

Croaking  like  crows  here  in  the  wind. 

POET. 

(Finale) 

My  limbs,  my  veins  dilate; 

The  blood  of  the  world  has  fill'd  me  full— my  theme  is  clear  at  last:  • 
— Banner  so  broad,  advancing  out  of  the  night,  I  sing  you  haughty  and  resolute; 
I  burst  through  where  I  waited  long,  too  long,  deafen'd  and  blinded;  130 

My  sight,  my  hearing  and  tongue,  are  come  to  me,  (a  little  child  taught  me;) 
I  hear  from  above,  O  pennant  of  war,  your  ironical  call  and  demand; 
Insensate!  insensate!   (yet  I  at  any  rate  chant  you,)  O  banner! 
Not  houses  of  peace  indeed  are  you,  nor  any  nor  all  their  prosperity,   (if  need  be, 

you  shall  again  have  every  one  of  those  houses  to  destroy  them; 
You  thought  not  to  destroy  those  valuable  houses,   standing   fast,   full  of   comfort, 

built  with  money; 
May  they  stand   fast,  then?     Not  an  hour,  except  you,  above  them  and  all,   stand 

fast;) 
— O  banner !  not  money  so  precious  are  you,  not  farm  produce  you,  nor  the  material 

good  nutriment, 

Nor  excellent  stores,  nor  landed  on  wharves  from  the  ships; 

Not  the  superb  ships,  with  sail-power  or  steam-power,  fetching  and  carrying  cargoes, 
Nor  machinery,  vehicles,  trade,  nor  revenues, — But  you,  as  henceforth  I  see  you,     '4° 
Running  up  out  of  the  night,  bringing  your  cluster  of  stars;  (ever-enlarging  stars;) 
Divider  of  day-break  you,  cutting  the  air,  touch'd  by  the  sun",  measuring  the  sky, 
(Passionately  seen  and  yearn'd  for  by  one  poor  little  child, 
While  others  remain  busy,  or  smartly  talking,  forever  teaching  thrift,  thrift;) 

0  you  up  there!     O  pennant!  where  you  undulate  like  a  snake,  hissing  so  curious, 
Out  of  reach — an  idea  only — yet   furiously   fought  for,  risking  bloody  death — loved 

by  me! 

So  loved!     O  you  banner  leading  the  day,  with  stars  brought  from  the  night! 
Valueless,  object  of  eyes,  over  all  and  demanding  all — (absolute  owner  of  ALL) — 

O  banner  and  pennant ! 

1  too  leave  the  rest — great  as  it  is,  it  is  nothing — houses,   machines   are  nothing — I 

see  them  not; 

I  see  but  you,  O  warlike  pennant !  O  banner  so  broad,  with  stripes,  I  sing  you  only,    jso 
Flapping  up  there  in  the  wind. 

First  published  in   "Drum-Taps,"   1865. 


528  AMERICAN    POETRY 

PIONEERS!   O   PIONEERS! 

1 

Come,  my  tan- faced  children, 
Follow  well  in  order,  get  your  weapons  ready; 
Have  you  your  pistols?    have  you  your  sharp  edged  axes? 

Pioneers  !    O  pioneers  ! 

2 

For  we  cannot  tarry  here, 

We  must  march  my  darlings,  we  must  bear  the  brunt  of  danger, 
We,  the  youthful  sinewy  race,  all  the  rest  on  us  depend, 

Pioneers !    O  pioneers  ! 

3 

O  you  youths,  western  youths, 

So  impatient,  full  of  action,  full  of  manly  pride  and  friendship,  i° 

Plain  I  see  you,  western  youths,  see  you  tramping  with  the  foremost, 

Pioneers !    O  pioneers ! 

4 

Have  the  elder  races  halted? 

Do  they  droop  and  end  their  lesson,  wearied,  over  there  beyond  the  seas? 
We  take  up  the  task  eternal,  and  the  burden,  and  the  lesson, 

Pioneers  !    O  pioneers ! 

5 

All  the  past  we  leave  behind; 

We  debouch  upon  a  newer,  mightier  world,  varied  world, 
Fresh  and  strong  the  world  we  seize,  world  of  labor  and  the  march, 

Pioneers  !    O  pioneers !  2° 

6 

We  detachments  steady  throwing, 

Down  the  edges,  through  the  passes,  up  the  mountains  steep, 
Conquering,  holding,  daring,  venturing,  as  we  go,  the  unknown  ways, 

Pioneers !    O  pioneers  ! 

7 

We  primeval  forests  felling, 

We  the  rivers  stemming,  vexing  we,  and  piercing  deep  the  mines  within; 
We  the  surface  broad  surveying,  we  the  virgin  soil  upheaving, 

Pioneers !    O  pioneers ! 

8 

Colorado  men  are  we, 

From  the  peaks  gigantic,  from  the  great  sierras  and  the  high  plateaus,  3° 

From  the  mine  and  from  the  gully,  from  the  hunting  trail  we  come, 

Pioneers !    O  pioneers ! 

9 

From  Nebraska,  from  Arkansas, 

Central  inland  race  are  we,  from  Missouri,  with  the  continental  blood  intervein'd; 
All  the  hands  of  comrades  clasping,  all  the  Southern,  all  the  Northern, 

Pioneers  !    O  pioneers  ! 


WALT    WHITMAN  529 

10 

O  resistless,  restless  race! 

O  beloved  race  in  all!    O  my  breast  aches  with  tender  love  for  all! 
O  I  mourn  and  yet  exult — I  am  rapt  with  love  for  all, 

Pioneers !    O  pioneers !  4<> 

11 

Raise  the  mighty  mother  mistress, 

Waving  high  the  delicate  mistress,  over  all  the  starry  mistress,  (bend  your  heads  all,) 
Raise  the  fang'd  and  warlike  mistress,  stern,  impassive,  weapon'd  mistress, 

Pioneers !    O  pioneers ! 

12 

See,  my  children,  resolute  children, 

By  those  swarms  upon  our  rear,  we  must  never  yield  or  falter, 
Ages  back  in  ghostly  millions,  frowning  there  behind  us  urging, 

Pioneers  !    O  pioneers ! 

13 

On  and  on,  the  compact  ranks, 

With  accessions  ever  waiting,  with  the  places  of  the  dead  quickly  fill'd,  5° 

Through  the  battle,  through  defeat,  moving  yet  and  never  stopping, 

Pioneers !    O  pioneers ! 

14 

0  to  die  advancing  on ! 

Are  there  some  of  us  to  droop  and  die?  has  the  hour  come? 
Then  upon  the  march  we  fittest  die,  soon  and  sure  the  gap  is  fill'd, 
Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

15 

All  the  pulses  of  the  world, 

Falling  in,  they  beat  for  us,  with  the  western  movement  beat; 
Holding  single  or  together,  steady  moving,  to  the  front,  all  for  us, 

Pioneers !    O  pioneers  !  &> 

16 

Life's  involv'd  and  varied  pageants, 

All  the  forms  and  shows,  all  the  workmen  at  their  work, 
All  the  seamen  and  the  landsmen,  all  the  masters  with  their  slaves, 

Pioneers !     O  pioneers  ! 

17 

All  the  hapless  silent  lovers, 

All  the  prisoners  in  the  prisons,  all  the  righteous  and  the  wicked, 
All  the  joyous,  all  the  sorrowing,  all  the  living,  all  the  dying, 

Pioneers !    O  pioneers ! 

18 

1  too  with  my  soul  and  body, 

We,  a  curious  trio,  picking,  wandering  on  our  way,  7° 

Through  these  shores,  amid  the  shadows,  with  the  apparitions  pressing, 
Pioneers  !     O  pioneers  ! 


530  AMERICAN    POETRY 

19 

Lo !  the  darting  bowling  orb  \ 

Lo !    the  brother  orbs  around !    all  the  clustering  suns  and  planets ; 
All  the  dazzling  days,  all  the  mystic  nights  with  dreams, 

Pioneers !     O  pioneers  ! 

20 

These  are  of  us,  they  are  with  us, 

All  for  primal  needed  work,  while  the  followers  there  in  embryo  wait  behind, 
We  to-day's  procession  heading,  we  the  route  for  travel  clearing, 

Pioneers !     O  pioneers ! 

21 

O  you  daughters  of  the  west ! 

O  you  young  and  elder  daughters !     O  you  mothers  and  you  wives ! 
Never  must  you  be  divided,  in  our  ranks  you  move  united, 

Pioneers !     O  pioneers ! 

22 

Minstrels  latent  on  the  prairies ! 

(Shrouded  bards  of  other  lands!  you  may  sleep — you  have  done  your  work;) 
Soon  I  hear  you  coming  warbling,  soon  you  rise  and  tramp  amid  us, 

Pioneers  !     O  pioneers  ! 

23 

Not  for  delectations  sweet; 

Not  the  cushion  and  the  slipper,  not  the  peaceful  and  the  studious;  9<> 

Not  the  riches  safe  and  palling,  not  for  us  the  tame  enjoyment, 

Pioneers!     O  pioneers! 

24 

Do  the  f casters  gluttonous  feast? 

Do  the  corpulent  sleepers  sleep?  have  they  lock'd  and  bolted  doors? 
Still  be  ours  the  diet  hard,  and  the  blanket  on  the  ground, 

Pioneers  !    O  pioneers ! 

25 

Has  the  night  descended? 

Was  the  road  of  late  so  toilsome?  did  we  stop  discouraged,  nodding  on  our  way? 
Yet  a  passing  hour  I  yield  you,  in  your  tracks  to  pause  oblivious, 

Pioneers !     O  pioneers ! 

26 

Till  with  sound  of  trumpet, 

Far,  far  off  the  day-break  call — hark!  how  loud  and  clear  I  hear  it  wind; 
Swift!  to  the  head  of  the  army! — swift!  spring  to  your  places, 

Pioneers !     O  pioneers ! 

First  published   in   "Drum-Taps,"   1865. 


WALT   WHITMAN  531 

YEARS   OF  THE   MODERN 

Years  of  the  modern!   years  of  the  unperform'd! 

Your  horizon  rises — I  see  it  parting  away  for  more  august  dramas, 

I  see  not  America  only — I  see  not  only  Liberty's  nation,  but  other  nations  preparing; 

I  see  tremendous  entrances  and  exits — I  see  new  combinations — I  see  the  solidarity 

of  races; 

I  see  that  force  advancing  with  irresistible  power  on  the  world's  stage; 
(Have  the  old   forces,  the  old   wars,   played   their  parts?   are  the  acts   suitable   to 

them  closed?) 
I  see  Freedom,  completely  arm'd,  and  victorious,  and  very  haughty,  with  Law  on  one 

side,  and  Peace  on  the  other, 

A  stupendous  Trio,  all  issuing  forth  against  the  idea  of  caste ; 
— What  historic  denouements  are  these  we  so  rapidly  approach? 

I  see  men  marching  and  countermarching  by  swift  millions;  I0 

I  see  the  frontiers  and  boundaries  of  the  old  aristocracies  broken; 
I  see  the  landmarks  of  European  kings  removed; 

I  see  this  day  the  People  beginning  their  landmarks,  (all  others  give  way;) 
— Never  were  such  sharp  questions  ask'd  as  this  day; 
Never  was  average  man,  his  soul,  more  energetic,  more  like  a  God; 
Lo !  how  he  urges  and  urges,  leaving  the  masses  no  rest ; 

His  daring  foot  is  on  land  and  sea  everywhere — he  colonizes  the  Pacific,  the  archi 
pelagoes  ; 
With  the  steam-ship,  the  electric  telegraph,  the  newspaper,  the  wholesale  engines  of 

war, 

With  these,  and  the  world-spreading  factories,  he  interlinks  all  geography,  all  lands; 
— What  whispers  are  these,  O  lands,  running  ahead  of  you,  passing  under  the  seas?  2° 
Are  all  nations  communing?  is  there  going  to  be  but  one  heart  to  the  globe? 
Is  humanity  forming,  en-masse? — for  lo!  tyrants  tremble,  crowns  grow  dim; 
The  earth,  restive,  confronts  a  new  era,  perhaps  a  general  divine  war; 
No  one  knows  what  will  happen  next — such  portents  fill  the  days  and  nights; 
Years  prophetical !  the  space  ahead  as  I  walk,  as  I  vainly  try  to  pierce  it,  is   full 

of  phantoms ; 

Unborn  deeds,  things  soon  to  be,  project  their  shapes  around  me; 
This  incredible  rush  and  heat — this  strange  extatic  fever  of  dreams,  O  years! 
Your  dreams,  O  year,  how  they  penetrate  through  me!  (I  know  not  whether  I  sleep 

or  wake!) 

The  perform'd  America  and  Europe  grow  dim,  retiring  in  shadow  behind  me, 
The  unperform'd,  more  gigantic  than  ever,  advance,  advance  upon  me.  3° 

First  published  in  "Drum-Taps,"  1865,  under  title  of  "Years  of  the  Unperformed." 


WHEN   I   HEARD   THE  LEARN'D   ASTRONOMER  1 

When  I  heard  the  learn'd  astronomer; 

When  the  proofs,  the  figures,  were  ranged  in  columns  before  me; 

When  I  was  shown  the  charts  and  the  diagrams,  to  add,  divide,  and  measure  them ; 

When  I,  sitting,  heard  the  astronomer,  where  he  lectured  with  much  applause  in  the 

lecture-room, 

How  soon,  unaccountable,  I  became  tired  and  sick; 
Till  rising  and  gliding  out,  I  wander'd  off  by  myself, 
In  the  mystical  moist  night-air,  and  from  time  to  time, 
Look'd  up  in  perfect  silence  at  the  stars. 

First  published  in   "Drum-Taps,"   1865. 
1  See  "Specimen  Days,"  Oct.  20,  1863;  July  22,  1878;  Apr.  5,  1879,  and  Feb.  10,  1881. 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


PRESIDENT  (LINCOLN'S   BURIAL   HYMN 
"When  lilacs  last  in  the  door-yard  bloom'd.'* 

1 

When  lilacs  last  in  the  door-yard  bloom'd, 

And  the  great  star  early  droop'd  in  the  western  sky  in  the  night, 

I  mourn'd — and  yet  shall  mourn  with  ever-returning  spring. 

O  ever-returning  spring !    trinity  sure  to  me  you  bring-; 
Lilac  blooming  perennial,  and  drooping  star  in  the  west, 
And  thought  of  him  I  love. 

12 
O  powerful,  western,  fallen  star ! 
O  shades  of  night!    O  moody,  tearful  night! 
O  great  star  disappeared !    O  the  black  murk  that  hides  the  s 
O  cruel  hands  that  hold  me  powerless!    O  helpless  soul  of  me 
O  harsh  surrounding  cloud,  that  will  not  free  my  soul! 


In  the  door-yard  fronting  an  old  farm-house,  near  the  white-wash'd  palings, 
Stands  the  lilac  bush,  tall-growing,  with  heart-shaped  leaves  of  rich  green, 
With  many  a  pointed  blossom,  rising,  delicate,  with  the  perfume  strong  I  love, 
With  every  leaf  a  miracle  .    .    .   and  from  this  bush  in  the  dooryard, 
With  delicate-color'd  blossoms,  and  heart-shaped  leaves  of  rich  green, 
A  sprig,  with  its  flower,  I  break. 

4 

In  the  swamp,  in  secluded  recesses, 
A  shy  and  hidden  bird  is  warbling  a  song. 
Solitary,  the  thrush, 

The  hermit,  withdrawn  to  himself,  avoiding  the  settlements, 
Sings  by  himself  a  song. 

Song  of  the  bleeding  throat! 

Death's  outlet  song  of  life — (for  well,  dear  brother,  I  know 

If  thou  wast  not  gifted  to  sing,  thou  would'st  surely  die.) 


Over  the  breast  of  the  spring,  the  land,  amid  cities, 

Amid   lanes,   and   through   old   woods,    (where    lately   the   violets    peep'd    from   the 

ground,  spotting  the  gray  debris;) 

Amid  the  grass  in  the  fields  each  side  of  the  lanes — passing  the  endless  grass; 
Passing  the  yellow-spear' d   wheat,  every  grain   from   its   shroud  in  the   dark-brown 

fields  uprising; 

Passing  the  apple-tree  blows  of  white  and  pink  in  the  orchards;  3° 

Carrying  a  corpse  to  where  it  shall  rest  in  the  grave, 
Night  and  day  journeys  a  coffin. 

6 

Coffin  that  passes  through  lanes  and  streets, 

.Through  day  and  night,  with  the  great  cloud  darkening  the  land, 
/With  the  pomp  of  the  inloop'd  flags,  with  the  cities  draped  in  black, 
*  With  the  show  of  the  States  themselves,  as  of  crape-veil'd  women,  standing, 

1  See  passages  on  Lincoln  in  "Specimen  Days"  for  Aug.  12,  1863;  Mar.  4,  1865;  Apr.  16,  1865. 


WALT   WHITMAN      /  ^s^fi**          533 

With  processions  long  and  winding,  and  the  flambeaus  of  the  night, 

With  the  countless  torches  lit — with  the  silent  sea  of  faces,  and  the  unbared  heads, 

With  the  waiting  depot,  the  arriving  coffin,  and  the  sombre  faces, 

With  dirges  through  the  night,  with  the  thousand  voices  rising  strong  and  solemn;  4° 

With  all  the  mournful  voices  of  the  dirges,  pour'd  around  the  coffin, 

The  dim-lit  'churches  and  the  shuddering  organs — Where  amid  these  you  journey, 

With  the  tolling,  tolling  bells'  perpetual  clang; 

Here !    coffin  that  slowly  passes, 

I  give  you  my  sprig  of  lilac. 

7 

-(Nor  for  you,  for  one,  alone; 

Blossoms  and  branches  green  to  coffins  all  I  bring: 

For  fresh  as  the  morning — thus  would  I  carol  a  song  for  you,  O  sane  and  sacred 
death. 

All  over  bouquets  of  roses, 

O  death!    I  cover  you  over  with  roses  and  early  lilies;  5° 

But  mostly  and  now  the  lilac  that  blooms  the  first, 

Copious,  I  break,  I  break  the  sprigs  from  the  bushes  • 

With  loaded  arms  I  come,  pouring  for  you, 

For  you,  and  the  coffins  all  of  you,  O  death.) 


, 


8 

O  western  orb,  sailing  the  heaven ! 

Now  I  know  what  you  must  have  meant,  as  a  month  since  we  walk'd, 
As  we  walk'd  up  and  down  in  the  dark  blue  so  mystic, 
As  we  walk'd  in  silence  the  transparent  shadowy  night, 
As  I  saw  you  had  something  to  tell,  as  you  bent  to  me  night  after  night, 
As  you  droop'd   from  the  sky  low  down,  as  if  to  my  side,    (while  the  other  stars 

all  look'd  on;)  60 

As  we  wander'd  together  the  solemn  night,    (for  something,  I  know  not  what,  kept 

me  from  sleep;) 
As  the  night  advanced,  and  I  saw  on  the  rim  of  the  west,  ere  you  went,  how  full 

you  were  of  woe ; 

As  I  stood  on  the  rising  ground  in  the  breeze,  in  the  cold  transparent  night, 
As  I  watch'd  where  you  pass'd  and  was  lost  in  the  netherward  black  of  the  night, 
As  my  soul,  in  its  trouble,  dissatisfied,  sank,  as  where  you,  sad  orb, 
Concluded,  dropt  in  the  night,  and  was  gone. 

9 

Sing  on,  there  in  the  swamp ! 

0  singer  bashful  and  tender!    I  hear  your  notes — I  hear  your  call; 

1  hear — I  come  presently — I  understand  you; 

But  a  moment  I  linger — for  the  lustrous  star  has  detain'd  me;  TO 

The  star,  my  departing  comrade,  holds  and  detains  me. 

10 

0  how  shall  I  warble  myself  for  the  dead  one  there  I  loved? 

And  how  shall  I  deck  my  song  for  the  large  sweet  soul  that  has  gone? 
And  what  shall  my  perfume  be,  for  the  grave  of  him  I  love? 

Sea-winds,  blown  from  east  and  west. 

Blown   from  the   eastern   sea,   and   blown   from   the  western   sea,   till   there   on   the 

prairies  meeting : 
These,  and  with  these,  and  the  breath  of  my  chant, 

1  perfume  the  grave  of  him  I  love. 


534  AMERICAN    POETRY 


O  what  shall  I  hang  on  the  chamber  walTsT 

And  what  shall  the  pictures  be  that  I  hang  on  the  walls,  60 

To  adorn  the  burial-house  of  him  I  love? 

Pictures  of  growing  spring,  and  farms,  and  homes, 

With  the  Fourth-month  eve  at  sundown,  and  the  gray  smoke  lucid  and  bright, 

With  floods  of  the  yellow  gold  of  the  gorgeous,  indolent,  sinking  sun,  burning,  ex 
panding  the  air; 

With  the  fresh  sweet  herbage  under  foot,  and  the  pale  green  leaves  of  the  trees 
prolific ; 

In  the  distance  the  flowing  glaze,  the  breast  of  the  river,  with  a  wind-dapple  here 
and  there; 

With  ranging  hills  on  the  banks,  with  many  a  line  against  the  sky,  and  shadows; 

And  the  city  at  hand,  with  dwellings  so  dense,  and  stacks  of  chimneys, 

And  all  the  scenes  of  life,  and  the  workshops,  and  the  workmen  homeward  returning. 


Lo !  body  and  soul !  this  land !  90 

Mighty  Manhattan,  with  spires,  and  the  sparkling  and  hurrying  tides,  and  the  ships; 
The  varied  and  ample  land — the  South  and  the   North   in  the   light — Ohio's   shores, 

and  flashing  Missouri, 
And  ever  the  far-spreading  prairies,  cover'd   with  grass  and  corn. 

Lo !    the  most  excellent  sun,  so  calm  and  haughty; 

The  violet  and  purple  morn,  with  just- felt  breezes; 

The  gentle,  soft-born,  measureless  light; 

The  miracle,  spreading,  bathing  all — the  fulfill'd  noon; 

The   coming  eve,    delicious — the   welcome   night,   and   the   stars, 

Over  my  cities  shining  all,  enveloping  man  and  land. 


Sing  on!   sing  on,  you  gray-brown  bird!  100 

Sing  from  the  swamps,  the  recesses — pour  your  chant  from  the  bushes; 
Limitless  out  of  the  dusk,  out  of  the  cedars  and  pines. 

Sing  on,    dearest   brother — warble   your   reedy   song; 
Loud  human  song,  with  voice  of  uttermost  woe. 

<» 

O  liquid,  and  free,  and  tender ! 
O  wild  and  loose  to  my  soul !  O  wondrous  singer ! 
You  only  I  hear  .  .  :  yet  the  star  holds  me,    (but  will  soon  depart;) 
Yet  the  lilac,  with  mastering  odor,  holds  me. 


Now  while  I   sat  in  the  day,  and  look'cMorth, 

In  the  close  of  the   day,   with   its  light,   and   the   fields   of   spring,   and   the    farmer 
preparing  his  crops,  «o 

In  the  large  unconscious  scenery 'of  my  land,  with  its  lakes  and   forests, 
In  the  heavenly  aerial  beauty,    (after  the  perturb' d  winds,  and  the  storms;) 
Under  the  arching  heavens  of  the  afternoon  swift  passing,  and  the  voices  of  chil 
dren  and  women, 

The  many-moving  sea-tides, — and  I  saw  the  ships  how  they  sail'd, 
And  the  summer  approaching  with   richness,   and  the  fields  all   busy  with   labor, 
And  the   infinite   separate   houses,   how  they  all   went  on,   each   with   its    meals   and 
minutia  of  daily  usages; 


WALT   WHITMAN  535 

And  the  streets,   how  their  throbbings  throbb'd,   and  the  cities  pent — lo !   then  and 

there, 

Falling  upon  them  all,  and  among  them  all,  enveloping  me  with  the  rest, 
Appear'd  the  cloud,  appear'd  the  long  black  trail; 
And  I  knew  Death,  its  thought,  and  the  sacred  knowledge  of  death.  I2° 


Then  with  the  knowledge  of  death  as  walfcmg  one  side  of  me, 

And  the  thought  of  death  close-walking  the  other  side  of  me, 

And  I  in  the  middle,  as  with  companions,  and  as  holding  the  hands  of  companions, 

I  fled  forth  to  the  hiding  receiving  night,  that  talks  not, 

Down  to  the  shores  of  the  water,  the  path  by  the  swamp  in  the  dimness, 

To  the  solemn   shadowy   cedars,  and  ghostly   pines   so   still. 

And  the  singer  so  shy  to  the  rest  receiv'd  me; 

The  gray-brown  bird  I  know,  receiv'd  us  comrades  three; 

And  he  sang  what  seem'd  the  carol  of  death,  and  a  verse  for  him  I  love. 

From  deep  secluded  recesses,  J3° 

From  the  fragrant  cedars,  and  the  ghostly  pines  so  still, 
Came  the  carol  of  the  bird. 

And  the  charm  of  the  carol  rapt  me, 

As  I  held,  as  if  by  their  hands,  my  comrades  in  the  night; 

And  the  voice  of  my  spirit  tallied  the  song  of  the  bird. 

DEATH    CAROL 

16 

Come,  lovely  and  soothing  Death, 

Undulate  round  the  world,  serenely  arriving,  arriving, 

In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each, 

Sooner  or  later,  delicate  Death. 

Prais'd  be  the  fathomless  universe,  14° 

For  life  and  joy,  and  for  objects  and  knowledge  curious; 
And  for  love,  sweet  love — But  praise!   praise!    praise! 
For  the  sure-enwinding  arms   of  cool-enfolding  Death. 

Dark  Mother,  always  gliding  near,  with  soft  feet, 

Have  none  chanted  for  thee  a  chant  of  fullest  welcome? 

Then  I  chant  it  for  thee — /  glorify  thee  above  all; 

I  bring  thee  a  song  that  when  thou  must  indeed  come,  come  unfalteringly. 

Approach,  strong  Deliver  ess! 

When^  it  is  so— when  thou  hast  taken  them,  I  joyously  sing  the  dead, 

Lost  in  the  loving,  floating  ocean  of  thee,  150 

Laved  in  the  flood  of  thy  bliss,  O  Death. 

From  me  to  thee  glad  serenades, 

Dances  for  thee  I  propose,  saluting  thee — adornments  and  feastings  for  thee; 
And  the  sights  of  the  open  landscapes,  and  the  high-spread  sky,  are  fitting, 
And  life  and  the  fields,  and  the  huge  and  thoughtful  night. 

The  night,  in  silence,  under  many  a  star; 

The  ocean  shore,  and  the  husky  whispering  wave,  whose  voice  I  know; 

And  the  soul  turning  to  thee,  O  vast  and  well-veil'd  Death, 

And  the  body  gratefully  nestling  close  to   thee. 


536  AMERICAN   POETRY 

Over  the  tree-tops  I  float  thee  a  song!  l6° 

Over  the  rising  and  sinking  waves — over  the  myriad  fields,  and  the  prairies  wide; 
Over  the  dense-pack'd  cities  all,  and  the  teeming  wharves  and  ways, 
I  float  this  carol  with  joy,  with  joy  to  thee,  O  Death! 

17 

To  the  tally  of  my  soul, 

Loud  and  strong  kept  up  the  gray-brown  bird, 
With  pure,  deliberate  notes,  spreading,  filling  the  night. 

Loud  in  the  pines  and  cedars  dim, 

Clear  in  the  freshness  moist,  and  the  swamp-perfume; 

And  I  with  my  comrades  there  in  the  night. 

While  my  sight  that  was  bound  in  my  eyes  unclosed,  J7° 

As  to  long  panoramas  of  visions. 

18 

I  saw  askant  the  armies; 

And  I  saw,  as  in  noiseless  dreams,  hundreds  of  battle-flags; 
Borne  through  the  smoke  of  the  battles,  and  pierc'd  with  missiles,  I  saw  them, 
And  carried  hither  and  yon  through  the  smoke,  and  torn  and  bloody; 
And  at  last  but  a  few  shreds  left  on  the  staffs,  (and  all  in  silence,) 
And  the  staffs  all  splinter'd  and  broken. 

I  saw  battle-corpses,  myriads  of  them, 

And  the  white  skeletons  of  young  men — I  saw  them ; 

I  saw  the  debris  and  debris  of  all  the  dead  soldiers  of  the  war;  »8o 

But  I  saw  they  were  not  as  was  thought; 

They  themselves  were  fully  at  rest — they  suffer'd  not; 

The  living  remain'd  and  suffer'd — the  mother  suffer'd, 

And  the  wife  and  the  child,  and  the  musing  comrade  suffer'd, 

And  the  armies  that  remain'd  suffer'd. 

19 

Passing  the  visions,  passing  the  night; 
Passing,  unloosing  the  hold  of  my  comrades'  hands; 
Passing  the  song  of  the  hermit  bird,  and  the  tallying  song  of  my  soul, 
(Victorious  song,  death's  outlet  song,  yet  varying,  ever-altering  song, 
As  low  and  wailing,  yet  clear  the  notes,  rising  and  falling,  flooding  the  night,          '9° 
Sadly  sinking  and  fainting,  as  warning  and  warning,  and  yet  again  bursting  with  joy, 
Covering  the  earth,  and  filling  the  spread  of  the  heaven, 
As  that  powerful  psalm  in  the  night  I  heard  from  recesses,) 
Passing,  I  leave  thee,  lilac  with  heart-shaped  leaves; 
I  leave  thee  there  in  the  door-yard,  blooming,  returning  with  spring. 
I  cease  from  my  song  for  thee; 

From  my  gaze  on  thee  in  the  west,  fronting  the  west,  communing  with  thee, 
O  comrade  lustrous,  with  silver  face  in  the  night. 

20 

Yet  each  I  keep,  and  all,  retrievements  out  of  the  night; 

The  song,  the  wondrous  chant  of  the  gray-brown  bird,  20° 

And  the  tallying  chant,  the  echo  arous'd  in  my  soul, 

With  the  lustrous  and  drooping  star,  with  the  countenance  full  of  woe, 

With  the  lilac  tall,  and  its  blossoms  of  mastering  odor; 

With  the  holders  holding  my  hand,  nearing  the  call  of  the  bird, 


-      WALT   WHITMAN  537 

Comrades  mine,  and  I  in  the  midst,  and  their  memory  ever  I  keep—  for  the  dead 

I  loved  so  well; 

For  the  sweetest,  wisest  soul  of  all  my  days  and  lands  .  .  .  and  this  for  his  dear  sake  ; 
Lilac  and  star  and  bird,  twined  with  the  chant  of  my  soul, 
There  in  the  fragrant  pines,  and  the  cedars  dusk  and  dim. 

First  published  in  "When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Door-yard  Bloom'd,"   1865-6. 


O  CAPTAIN!    MY  CAPTAIN!     |  S 

1 

O  Captain!    my  Captain!   our  fearful  trip  is  done; 
The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought  is  won  ; 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and  daring: 
But  O  heart!  heart!  heart! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 
Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 


O  Captain!    my  Captain!    rise  up  and  hear  the  bells; 
Rise  up — for  you  the  flag  is  flung — for  you  the  bugle  trills; 
For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths — for  you  the  shores  a-crowding; 
For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces  turning; 
Here  Captain !    dear  father  ! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head; 
It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck, 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 


My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still; 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will ; 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed  and  done; 
From  fearful  trip,  the  victor  ship,  comes  in  with  object  won:  *» 

Exult,  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells ! 
But  I,  with  mournful  tread, 
Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

First  published  in  "When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Door-yard  Bloom'd,"   1865-6. 

ONE'S-SELF  I    SING 

One's-self  I  sing — a  simple,  separate  Person; 

Yet  utter  the  word  Democratic,  the  word  En-masse. 

Of  Physiology  from  top  to  toe  I  sing; 

Not  physiognomy  alone,  nor  brain  alone,  is  worthy  for  the  muse 

— I  say  the  Form  complete  is  worthier  far; 
The  Female  equally  with  the  male  I  sing. 

Of  Life  immense  in  passion,  pulse,  and  power, 

Cheerful — for  freest  action  form'd,  under  the  laws  divine, 

The  Modern  Man  I  sing. 

1870. 


538  AMERICAN    POETRY 

THE   SINGER   IN   THE   PRISON 

1 

O  sight  of  shame,  and  pain,  and  dole! 
O  fearful  thought — a  convict  Soul! 

Rang  the  refrain  along  the  hall,  the  prison, 

Rose  to  the  roof,  the  vaults  of  heaven  above, 

Pouring  in  floods  of  melody,  in  tones  so  pensive,  sweet  and  strong,  the  like  whereof 

was  never  heard, 

Reaching  the  far-off  sentry,  and  the  armed  guards,  who  ceas'd  their  pacing, 
Making  the  hearer's  pulses  stop  for  extasy  and  awe. 


O  sight  of  pity,  gloom,  and  dole! 
O  pardon  me,  a  hapless  Soul! 

The  sun  was  low  in  the  west  one  winter  day, 

When  down  a  narrow  aisle,  amid  the  thieves  and  outlaws  of  the  land, 

(There  by  the  hundreds  seated,  sear-faced  murderers,  wily  counterfeiters, 

Gather' d  to  Sunday  church  in  prison  walls — the  keepers  round, 

Plenteous,  well-arm'd,  watching,  with  vigilant  eyes,) 

All  that  dark,  cankerous  blotch,  a  nation's  criminal  mass, 

Calmly  a  Lady  walk'd,  holding  a  little  innocent  child  by  either  hand, 

Whom,  seating  on  their  stools  beside  her  on  the  platform, 

She,  first  preluding  with  the  instrument,  a  low  and  musical  prelude, 

In  voice  surpassing  all,  sang  forth  a  quaint  old  hymn. 


THE  HYMN. 

A  Soul,  confined  by  bars  and  bands,  ao 

Cries,  Help !    O  help !    and  wrings  her  hands ; 
Blinded  her  eyes — bleeding  her  breast, 
Nor  pardon  finds,  nor  balm  of  rest. 

O  sight  of  shame,  and  pain,  and  dole! 
O  fearful  thought — a  convict  Soul! 

Ceaseless,  she  paces  to  and  fro; 
O  heart-sick  days !    O  nights  of  wo ! 
Nor  hand  of  friend,  nor  loving  face; 
Nor  favor  comes,  nor  word  of  grace. 

O  sight  of  pity,  gloom,  and  dole!  3f> 

O  pardon  me,  a  hapless  Soul! 

It  was  not  I  that  sinn'd  the  sin, 
The  ruthless  Body  dragg'd  me  in ; 
Though  long  I  strove  courageously, 
The  Body  was  too  much  for  me. 

O  Life!    no  life,  but  bitte 

O  burning,  beaten,  Jbaffled  Soul!  ' 

(Dear  prison'd  Soul,  bear  up  a  space, 
For  soon  or  late  the  certain  grace; 
To  set  thee  free,  and  bear  thee  home, 
The  Heavenly  Pardoner,  Death  shall  come. 

Convict  no  more — nor  shame,  nor  dole! 
Depart!  a  God-enfranchis'd  Soul!) 


WALT   WHITMAN  539 

4 

The  singer  ceas'd; 

One  glance  swept  from  her  clear,  calm  eyes,  o'er  all  those  upturn'd  faces ; 
Strange  sea  of  prison  faces — a  thousand  varied,  crafty,  brutal,  seam'd  and  beauteous 

faces ; 

Then  rising,  passing  back  along  the  narrow  aisle  between  them, 
While  her  gown  touch'd  them,  rustling  in  the  silence, 
She  vanish'd  with  her  children  in  the  dusk. 


While  upon  all,  convicts  and  armed  keepers,  ere  they  stirr'd,  5» 

(Convict  forgetting  prison,  keeper  his  loaded  pistol,) 

A  hush  and  pause  fell  down,  a  wondrous  minute, 

With  deep,  half-stifled  sobs,  and  sound  of  bad  men  bow'd,  and  moved  to  weeping, 

And  youth's  convulsive  breathings,  memories  of  home, 

The  mother's  voice  in  lullaby,  the  sister's  care,  the  happy  childhood, 

The  long-pent  spirit  rous'd  to  reminiscence ; 

— A  wondrous  minute  then — But  after,  in  the  solitary  night,  to  many,  many  there, 

Years   after — even  in  the  hour  of  death — the  sad  refrain — the  tune,  the  voice,  the 

words, 

Resumed — the  large,  calm  Lady  walks  the  narrow  aisle, 
The  wailing  melody  again — the  singer  in  the  prison  sings  :  60 

O  sight  of  shame,  and  pain,  and  dole! 
O  fearful  thought — a  convict  Soul! 

1870. 

ETHIOPIA   SALUTING  THE   COLORS 

(A  REMINISCENCE  OF  1864.) 
1 

Who  are  you,  dusky  woman,  so  ancient,  hardly  human, 

With  your  woolly-white  and  turban'd  head,  and  bare  bony  feet? 

Why,  rising  by  the  roadside  here,  do  you  the  colors  greet? 


('Tis  while  our  army  lines  Carolina's  sand  and  pines, 
Forth  from  thy  hovel  door,  thou,  Ethiopia,  com'st  to  me, 
As,  under  doughty  Sherman,  I  march  toward  the  sea.) 


Me,  master,  years  a  hundred,  since  from  my  parents  sunder'd, 
A  little  child,  they  caught  me  as  the  savage  beast  is  caught; 
Then  hither  me,  across  the  sea,  the  cruel  slaver  brought. 


No  further  does  she  say,  but  lingering  all  the  day,  10 

Her  high-borne  turban'd  head  she  wags,  and  rolls  her  darkling  eye, 
And  curtseys  to  the  regiments,  the  guidons  moving  by. 

5 

What  is  it,  fateful  woman — so  blear,  hardly  human? 

Why  wag  your  head,  with  turban  bound — yellow,  red  and  green? 

Are  the  things  so  strange  and  marvelous,  you  see  or  have  seen? 

1870. 


540  AMERICAN    POETRY 

THE   BASE   OF  ALL  METAPHYSICS 

And  now,  gentlemen, 

A  word  I  give  to  remain  in  your  memories  and  minds, 

As  base,  and  finale  too,  for  all  metaphysics. 

(So,  to  the  students,  the  old  professor, 
At  the  close  of  his  crowded  course.) 

Having  studied  the  new  and  antique,  the  Greek  and  Germanic  systems, 

Kant  having  studied  and  stated — Fichte  and  Schelling  and  Hegel, 

Stated  the  lore  of  Plato — and  Socrates,  greater  than  Plato, 

And  greater  than  Socrates  sought  and  stated — Christ  divine  having  studied  long, 

I  see  reminiscent  to-day  those  Greek  and  Germanic  systems,  10 

See  the  philosophies  all — Christian  churches  and  tenets  see, 

Yet  underneath  Socrates  clearly  see — and  underneath  Christ  the  divine  I  see, 

The  dear  love  of  man  for  his  comrade — the  attraction  of  friend  to  friend, 

Of  the  well-married  husband  and  wife — of  children  and  parents, 

Of  city  for  city,  and  land  for  land. 

1870. 

O   STAR  OF  FRANCE! 
1870-71. 

1 

O  Star  of  France! 

The  brightness  of  thy  hope  and  strength  and  fame, 

Like  some  proud  ship  that  led  the  fleet  so  long, 

Beseems  to-day  a  wreck,  driven  by  the  gale — a  mastless  hulk; 

And  'mid  its  teeming,  madden'd,  half-drown'd  crowds, 

Nor  helm  nor  helmsman. 

2 

Dim,  smitten  star! 

Orb  not  of  France  alone — pale  symbol  of  my  soul,  its  dearest  hopes, 
The  struggle  and  the  daring — rage  divine  for  liberty, 

Of  aspirations  toward  the  far  ideal — enthusiast's  dreams  of  brotherhood,  10 

Of  terror  to  the  tyrant  and  the  priest. 

3 

Star  crucified!   by  traitors  sold! 
Star  panting  o'er  a  land  of  death — heroic  land ! 
Strange,  passionate,  mocking,  frivolous  land. 

Miserable !    yet  for  thy  errors,  vanities,  sins,  I  will  not  now  rebuke  thee ; 
Thy  unexampled  woes  and  pangs  have  quell' d  them  all, 
And  left  thee  sacred. 

In  that  amid  thy  many  faults,  thou  ever  aimedst  highly, 

In  that  thou  wouldst  not  really  sell  thyself,  however  great  the  price, 

In  that  thou  surely  wakedst  weeping  from  thy  drugg'd  sleep,  2° 

In  that  alone,  among  thy  sisters,  thou,  Giantess,  didst  rend  the  ones  that  shamed  thee, 

In  that  thou  couldst  not,  wouldst  not,  wear  the  usual  chains, 

This  cross,  thy  livid  face,  thy  pierced  hands  and  feet, 

The  spear  thrust  in  thy  side. 


WALT   WHITMAN  541 


O  star!    O  ship  of  France,  beat  back  and  baffled  long! 
Bear  up,  O  smitten  orb !    O  ship,  continue  on ! 

Sure,  as  the  ship  of  all,  the  Earth  itself, 

Product  of  deathly  fire  and  turbulent  chaos, 

Forth  from  its  spasms  of  fury  and  its  poisons, 

Issuing  at  last  in  perfect  power  and  beauty,  30 

Onward,  beneath  the  sun,  following  its  course, 

So  thee,  O  ship  of  France! 

Finish'd  the  days,  the  clouds  dispell'd, 

The  travail  o'er,  the  long-sought  extrication 

When  lo!    reborn,  high  o'er  the  European  world, 

(In  gladness,  answering  thence,  as  face  afar  to  face,  reflecting  ours,  Columbia,) 

Again  thy  star,  O  France — fair,  lustrous  star, 

In  heavenly  peace,  clearer,  more  bright  than  ever, 

Shall  beam  immortal. 

First  published  in  "As  a  Strong  Bird,"  1872. 

A   CAROL   CLOSING   SIXTY-NINE 

A  carol  closing  sixty-nine — a  resume — a  repetition, 

My  lines  in  joy  and  hope  .continuing  on  the  same, 

Of  ye,  O  God,  Life,  Nature,  Freedom,  Poetry; 

Of  you,  my  Land — your  rivers,  prairies,  States — you,  mottled  Flag  I  love, 

Your  aggregate  retain'd  entire — O  north,  south,  east  and  west,  your  items  all; 

Of  me  myself — the  jocund  heart  yet  beating  in  my  breast, 

The   body    wreck'd,   old,   poor    and   paralyzed — the    strange    inertia    falling   pall-like 

round  me, 

The  burning  fires  down  in  my  sluggish  blood  not  yet  extinct, 
The  undiminish'd  faith — the  groups  of  loving  friends. 

1888. 

GOOD-BYE   MY   FANCY! 
Good-bye  my  Fancy! 
Farewell  dear  mate,  dear  love ! 
I'm  going  away,  I  know  not  where, 

Or  to  what  fortune,  or  whether  I  may  ever  see  you  again, 
So  Good-bye  my  Fancy. 

Now  for  my  last — let  me  look  back  a  moment; 
The  slower  fainter  ticking  of  the  clock  is  in  me, 
Exit,  nightfall,  and  soon  the  heart-thud  stopping. 

Long  have  we  lived,  joy'd,  caress'd  together; 

Delightful ! — now  separation — Good-bye  my  Fancy.  Jn 

Yet  let  me  not  be  too  hasty, 

Long  indeed  have  we  lived,  slept,  filter'd,  become  really  blended  into  one; 

Then  if  we  die  we  die  together  (yes,  we'll  remain  one), 

If  we  go  anywhere  we'll  go  together  to  meet  what  happens, 

May-be  we'll  be  better  off  and  blither,  and  learn  something, 

May-be  it  is  yourself  now  really  ushering  me  to  the  true  songs,   (who  knows?) 

May-be  it  is  you  the  mortal  knob  really  undoing,  turning — so  now  finally, 

Good-bye — and  hail!   my  Fancy. 

1891. 


RICHARD    HENRY    STODDARD 
(1825-1903) 


THE   WITCH'S.  WHELP 

Along  the  shore  the  slimy  brine-pits  yawn, 
Covered  with  thick  green  scum;  the  bil 
lows  rise, 
And  fill  them  to  the  brim  with  clouded 

foam, 
And   then    subside,    and   leave   the    scum 

again. 

The  ribbed  sand  is  full  of  hollow  gulfs, 
Where   monsters    from   the   waters   come 

and  lie. 
Great   serpents    bask    at   noon    along   the 

rocks, 

To  me  no  terror ;  coil  on  coil  they  roll  8 
Back  to  their  holes  before  my  flying  feet. 
The  Dragon  of  the  Sea,  my  mother's  god, 
Enormous  Setebos,  comes  here  to  sleep; 
Him  I  molest  not ;  when  he  flaps  his  wing 
A  whirlwind  rises,  when  he  swims  the 

deep 

It  threatens  to  engulf  the  trembling  isle. 
Sometimes   when   winds    do   blow,   and 

clouds  are  dark, 
I   seek  the  blasted  wood  whose  barkless 

trunks 
Are    bleached    with    summer    suns;    the 

creaking  trees 
Stoop  down  to  me,  and  swing  me  right 

and  left 
Through    crashing   limbs,   but    not    a    jot 

care  I, 
The  thunder  breaks  above,  and  in  their 

lairs  *> 

The  panthers  roar;  from  out  the  stormy 

clouds 
Whose   hearts   are   fire   sharp    lightnings 

rain  around 

And  split  the  oaks ;  not  faster  lizards  run 
Before  the  snake  up  the  slant  trunks  than 

Not  faster  down,  sliding  with  hands  and 
feet. 

I  stamp  upon  the  ground,  and  adders 
rouse, 

Sharp-eyed,  with  poisonous  fangs;  be 
neath  the  leaves 

They  couch,  or  under  rocks,  and  roots  of 
trees 


Felled    by    the    winds;    through    briery 

undergrowth 
They  slide  with  hissing  tongues,  beneath 

my  feet  3<> 

To  writhe,  or  in  my  fingers  squeezed  to 

death. 

There  is  a  wild  and  solitary  pine; 
Deep  in  the  meadows ;  all  the  island  birds 
From   far  and  near  fly  there,  and  learn 

new  songs. 
Something    imprisoned    in    its    wrinkled 

bark 
Wails  for  its   freedom;  when  the  bigger 

light 
Burns  in  mid-heaven,  and  dew  elsewhere 

is  dried, 
There  it  still   falls;  the  quivering  leaves 

are  tongues 

And  load  the  air  with  syllables  of  woe. 
One  day  I  thrust  my  spear  within  a  cleft 
No  wider  than  its  point,  and  something 

shrieked,  4» 

And   falling  cones  did  pelt  me  sharp  as 

hail: 
I  picked  the  seeds  that  grew  between  their 

plates, 

And  strung  them  round  my  neck  with  sea- 
mew  eggs. 
Hard    by    are    swamps    and    marshes, 

reedy  fens 
Knee    deep    in    water;    monsters    wade 

therein 
Thick-set   with   plated   scales ;    sometimes 

in  troops 
They  crawl  on  slippery  banks;  sometimes 

they  lash 
The  sluggish  waves  among  themselves  at 

war. 
Often  I  heave  great  rocks  from  off  the 

crags,  so 

Deep  in  their  drowsy  eyes,  at  which  they 

howl 
And  chase  me  inland;  then  I  mount  their 

humps 

And  prick  them  back  again,  unwieldy,  slow. 
At  night  the  wolves   are  howling  round 

the  place, 
And    bats    sail   there   athwart   the   silver 

light, 


542 


RICHARD    HENRY    STODDARD 


543 


Flapping  their  wings;  by  day  in  hollow 

trees 
They  hide,  and  slink  into  the  gloom  of 

dens. 

We  live,  my  mother  Sycorax  and  I, 
In  caves  with  bloated  toads  and  crested 

snakes.^ 
She  can  make  charms,  and  philters,  and 

brew  storms,  6° 

And  call  the  great  Sea  Dragon  from  his 

deeps. 

Nothing  of  this  know  I,  nor  care  to  know. 
Give  me  the  milk  of  goats  in  gourds  or 

shells, 
The  flesh  of  birds  and  fish,  berries  and 

fruit, 
Nor  want  I  more,  save  all  day  long  to 

lie, 
And  hear,  as  now,  the  voices  of  the  sea. 


TO  A  CELEBRATED   SINGER 

Oft   have   I   dreamed   of   music   such   as 

thine, 

The  wedded  melody  of  lute  and  voice, 
Immortal  strains  that  made  my  soul  re 
joice, 

And  woke  its  inner  harmonies  divine. 
And    where    Sicilia    smooths    the    ruffled 

seas, 

And  Enna  hollows  all  its  purple  vales, 
Thrice  have  I  heard  the  noble  nightin 
gales, 
All  night  entranced  beneath  the  bloomy 

trees. 
But    music,    nightingales,    and    all    that 

Thought 

Conceives  of  song  are  naught  I0 

To  thy  rich  voice,  which  echoes  in  my 

brain, 

And  fills  my  longing  heart  with  a  melo 
dious  pain ! 

A  thousand  lamps  were  lit,  I   saw  them 

not, 
Nor  saw  the  thousands  round  me  like 

a  sea; 
All  things,  all  thoughts,  all  passions  were 

forgot — 

I  only  thought  of  thee ! 
Meanwhile   the   music   rose   sublime   and 

strong, 
But  sunk  beneath  thy  voice,  which  rose 

alone, 
Above  its   crumbled   fragments  to  thy 

throne, 
Above  the  clouds  of  Song.  20 


Henceforth  let  Music  seal  her  lips,  and  be 
The  silent  ministrant  of  Poesy. 
For  not  the  delicate  reed  that  Pan  did  play 
To  partial  Midas,  at  the  match  of  old, 
Nor  yet  Apollo's  lyre  with  chords   of 

gold, 
That  more  than  won  the  crown  he  lost 

that  day, 
Nor  even  the  Orphean  lute,  that  half  set 

free 
(O,  why  not  all!)  the  lost  Eurydice, 

Were  fit  to  join  with  thee; 
Much    less    our    instruments    of    meaner 
sound,  3° 

That    track    thee    slowly    o'er    enchanted 

ground, 

Unfit  to  lift  the  train  thy  music  leaves, 
Or  glean  around  its  sheaves. 

I  strive  to  disentangle  in  my  mind 
Thy    many-knotted   threads    of    softest 

song, 
Whose  memory  haunts  me  like  a  voiceless 

wind 

Whose  silence  does  it  wrong. 
No  singly  tone  thereof,  no  perfect  sound, 
Lingers,  but   dim   remembrance  of  the 

whole, 

A  sound  which  was  a  Soul,  4° 

The   Soul  of  Sound  diffused,  an  atmos 
phere  around : 
So  soft,  so  sweet,  so  mellow,  rich,  and 

deep, 
So    like    a    heavenly    soul's    ambrosial 

breath, 
It   would   not   wake,   but   only   deepen 

Sleep 

Into  diviner  Death! 

Softer  and  sweeter  than  the  jealous  flute, 
Whose  soft,  sweet  voice  grew  harsh  be 
fore  its  own, 
It  stole  in  mockery  its  every  tone, 

And  left  it  lone  and  mute. 
It  flowed  like  liquid  pearl  through  golden 
cells,  so 

It  jangled  like  a  string  of  golden  bells, 
It  trembled  like  a  wind  in  golden  strings. 
It    dropped    and   rolled    away    in    golden 

rings : 

Then  it  divided  and  became  a  shout, 
That  Echo  chased  about, 
However  wild  and  fleet, 
Until  it  trod  upon  its  heels  with  flying 

feet. 
At  last  it  sank  and  sank  from  deep  to 

deep, 

Below  the  thinnest  word, 
And  sank  till  naught  was  heard        6° 
But  charmed  Silence  sighing  in  its  sleep ! 


544 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Powerless  and  mute  beneath  thy  mighty 

spell, 

My  heart  was  lost  within  itself  and  thee, 
As  when  a  pearl  is  melted  in  its  shell, 

And  sunken  in  the  sea. 
I  sank  and  sank  beneath  thy  song,  but  still 
I  thirsted  after  more  the  more  I  sank, 
A  flower  that  drooped  with  all  the  dew 

it  drank, 

But  still  upheld  its  cup  for  Heaven  to  fill. 
My  inmost  soul  was  drunk  with  melody,  7° 
Which  thou  didst  pour  around, 
To  crown  the  feast  of  sound, 
And  lift  in  light  to  all,  but  chief  to  me, 

Whose  spirit,  uncontrolled, 
Drained  all  the  fiery  wine,  and  clutched 
its  cup  of  gold! 


"HOW  ARE  SONGS  BEGOT  AND 
BRED?" 

How  are  songs  begot  and  bred? 
How  do  golden  measures  flow? 
From  the  heart,  or  from  the  head? 
Happy  Poet,  let  me  know. 

Tell  me  first  how  folded  flowers 
Bud  and  bloom  in  vernal  bowers ; 
How  the  south  wind  shapes  its  tune, 
The  harper,  he,  of  June. 

None  may  answer,  none  may  know, 
Winds  and  flowers  come  and  go,  I0 

And  the  selfsame  canon  bind 
Nature  and  the  Poet's  mind. 


"THE   YELLOW   MOON   LOOKS 
SLANTLY   DOWN" 

The  yellow  Moon  looks  slantly  down, 
Through  seaward  mists,  upon  the  town; 
And  ghost-like  there  the  moonshine  falls 
Between  the  dim  and  shadowy  walls. 

I  see  a  crowd  in  every  street 

But  cannot  hear  their  falling  feet; 

They  float  like  clouds  through  shade  and 

light, 
And  seem  a  portion  of  the  Night. 

The  ships  have  lain  for  ages  fled 

Along  the  waters,  dark  and  dead ;  '° 

The  dying  waters  wash  no  more 

The  long,  black  line  of  spectral  shore. 

There  is  no  life  on  land  or  sea, 
Save  in  the  quiet  Moon  and  me; 
Nor  purs  is  true,  but  only  seems. 
Within  some  dead  old  World  of  Dreams. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  YOUTH 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses, 
There  are  balms  for  all  our  pain : 
But  when  youth,  the  dream,  departs, 
It  takes  something  from  our  hearts, 
And  it  never  comes  again. 

We  are  stronger,  and  are  better, 

Under  manhood's  sterner  reign : 
Still  we  feel  that  something  sweet 
Followed  youth,  with  flyipg  feet, 
And  will  never  come  again. 

Something  beautiful  is  vanished, 

And  we  sigh  for  it  in  vain : 
We  behold  it  everywhere, 
On  the  earth,  and  in  the  air, 
But  it  never  comes  again. 


You  may  drink  to  your,  leman  in  gold, 
In  a  great  golden  goblet  of  wine; 

She's  as  ripe  as  the  wine,  and  as  bold 

As  the  glare  of  the  gold : 
But  this  little  lady  of  mine, 
I  will  not  profane  her  in  wine. 

I  go  where  the  garden  so  still  is, 
(The  moon  raining  through) 

To  pluck  the  white  bowls  of  the  lilies, 
And  drink  her  in  dew ! 


The  sky  is  a  drinking-cup, 
That  was  overturned  of  old, 

And  it  pours  in  the  eyes  of  men 
Its  wine  of  airy  gold. 

We  drink  that  wine  all  day, 
Till  the  last  drop  is  drained  up, 

And  are  lighted  off  to  bed 
By  the  jewels  in  the  cup! 

The  gray  old  Earth  goes  on 

At  its  ancient  pace, 
Lifting  its  thunder-voice 
In  the  choir  of  space; 
And  the  years  as  they  go 
Are  singing  slow, 
Solemn  dirges,  full  of  wo. 

Tyrants  sit  upon  their  thrones, 

And  will  not  hear  the  people's  moans, 

Nor  hear  their  clanking  chains :         .  ' 
Or  if  they  do  they  add  thereto, 

And  mock,  not  ease  their  pains. 

But  little  liberty  remains, 
There  is  but  little  room  for  thee, 
In  this  wide  world,  O  Liberty! 
But  where  thy  foot  has  once  been  set 

Thou  wilt  remain,  though  oft  unseen : 


RICHARD   HENRY   STODDARD 


545 


And  grow  like  thought,  and   move  like 

wind, 
Upon  the  troubled  sea  of  Mind, 

No  longer  now  serene.  *° 

Thy  life  and  strength  thou  dost  retain, 
Despite  the  cell,  the  rack,  the  pain, 
And  all  the  battles  won  in  vain; 

And  even  now  thou  see'st  the  hour 
That  lays  in  dust  the  thrones  of  Power : 
When  man  shall  once  again  be  free, 
And  Earth  renewed,  and  young  like  thee, 

0  Liberty!    O  Liberty! 

THE   DIVAN 
(Persia.) 

A  little  maid  of  Astrakan, 

An  idol  on  a  silk  divan ; 

She  sits  so  still,  and  never  speaks, 

She  holds  a  cup  of  mine; 
'T  is  full  of  wine,  and  on  her  cheeks 

Are  stains  and  smears  of  wine. 

Thou  little  girl  of  Astrakan, 

1  join  thee  on  the  silk  divan : 
There  is  no  need  to  seek  the  land, 

The  rich  bazaars  where  rubies  shine;  I0 
For  mines  are  in  that  little  hand, 
And  on  those  little  cheeks  of  thine. 


The  sky  is  thick  upon  the  sea, 
The  sea  is  sown  with  rain, 

And  in  the  passing  gusts  we  hear 
The  clanging  of  the  crane. 

The  cranes  are  flying  to  the  south, 
We  cut  the  northern  foam : 

The  dreary  land  they  leave  behind 
Must  be  our  future  home. 

Its  barren  shores  are  long  and  dark, 
And  gray  its  autumn  sky; 

But  better  these  than  this  gray  sea, 
If  but  to  land — and  die! 


"POEMS  OF  THE  ORIENT"  * 

We  read  your  little  book  of  Orient  lays, 
And  half  believe  old  superstitions  true; 
No  Saxon  like  ourselves,  an  Arab,  you, 
Stolen  in  your  babyhood  by  Saxon  fays. 
That  you  in  fervid  songs  recall  the  blaze 

1  Addressed  to  Bayard  Taylor,  whose  volume, 
"Poems  of  the  Orient,"  was  published  by  Tick- 
nor  and  Fields  in  the  Autumn  of  1853.  A 
quarter  of  a  century  later,  just  after  the  death 
of  his  friend,  Stoddard  wrote  "Reminiscences 
of  Bayard  Taylor,"  for  The  Atlantic  Monthly 
of  February,  1879. 


Of    eastern    suns,    behold    the    deep-blue 

skies, 
Lie  under  rustling  palms,  breathe  winds 

of  spice, 

And  dream  of  veiled  sultanas,  is  no  praise. 
All  this  is  native  to  you  as  the  air;  9 
You  but  regain  the  birthright  lost  of  yore : 
The  marvel  is  it  now  becomes  your  own. 
We  wind  the  turban  round  our  Prankish 

hair, 
Spring  on  our  steeds  that  paw  the  desert's 

floor, 
And  take  the  sandy  solitude  alone. 

IMOGEN 

Unknown  to  her  the  maids  supplied 
Her  wants,  and  gliding  noiseless  round 
Passed  out  again,  while  Leon's  hound 
Stole  in  and  slumbered  at  her  side : 
Then  Cloten  came,  a  silly  ape, 

And  wooed  her  in  his  boorish  way, 
Barring  the  door  against  escape; 

But  the  hound  woke,  and  stood  at  bay, 
Defiant  at  the  lady's  feet, 
And  made  the  ruffian  retreat.  10 

Then  for  a  little  moment's  space 
A  smile  did  flit  across  the  face 
Of  Lady  Imogen. 

Without  the  morning  dried  the  dews 
From  shaven  lawns  and  pastures  green: 
Meantime  the  court  dames  and  the  queen 
Did  pace  the  shaded  avenues : 
And  Cymbeline  amid  his  train 

Rode  down  the  winding  palace  walks, 
Behind  the  hounds  that  snuffed  the  plain, 
And  in  the  track  of  wheeling  hawks;  21 
And  soon  in  greenwood  shaws  anear 
They  blew  their  horns, and  chased  the  deer. 
But  she  nor  saw  nor  heard  it  there, 
But  sat,  a  statue  of  despair, 
The  mournful  Imogen. 

She  shook  her  ringlets  round  her  head, 
And   clasped   her   hands,   and   thought, 

and  thought, 

As  every  faithful  lady  ought, 
Whose  lord  is  far  away — or  dead.          3° 
She  pressed  in  books  his  faded  flowers, 
That  never  seemed  so  sweet  before; 
Upon  his  picture  gazed  for  hours. 

And  read  his  letters  o'er  and  o'er, 
Dreaming  about  the  loving  Past, 
Until  her  tears  were  flowing  fast. 

With  aches  of  heart,  and  aches  of 

brain, 

Bewildered  in  the  realms  of  pain, 
The  wretched  Imogen! 


546 


AMERICAN   POETRY 


She  tried  to  rouse  herself  again,  40 

Began  a  broider  quaint  and  rich, 
But  pricked  her  fingers  every  stitch, 
And  left  in  every  bud  a  stain. 
She  took  her  distaff,  tried  to  spin, 

But  tangled  up  the  golden  thread: 
She  touched  her  lute,  but  could  not  win 

A  happy  sound,  her  skill  had  fled. 
The  letters  in  her  books  were  blurred, 
She  could  not  understand  a  word. 

Bewildered  still,  and  still  in  tears,   so 
The  dupe  of  hopes,  the  prey  of  fears, 
The  weeping  Imogen! 

Her  curtains  opened  in  the  breeze 
And  showed  the  slowly-setting  sun, 
Through   vines    that   up   the    sash    did 

run, 

And  hovering  butterflies  and  bees. 
A  silver  fountain  gushed  below, 

Where  swans  superbly  swam  the  spray: 
And  pages  hurried  to  and  fro, 

And  trim  gallants  with  ladies  gay,      60 
And  many  a  hooded  monk  and  friar 
Went  barefoot  by  in  coarse  attire. 
But  like  a  picture,  or  a  dream, 
The  outward  world  did  only  seem, 
To  thoughtful  Imogen. 

When  curfews  rang,  and  day  was  dim, 
She  glided  to  her  chapel  desk, 
Unclasped  her  missal  arabesque, 
And  sang  the  solemn  vesper  hymn : 
Before  the  crucifix  knelt  down,  70 

And  told  her  beads,  and  strove  to  pray; 
But  Heaven  was  deaf,  and  seemed  to 

frown, 

And  push  her  idle  words  away : 
And  when  she  touched  the  holy  urn 
The  icy  water  seemed  to  burn ! 

No  faith  had  she  in  saints  above, 
She  only  wanted  human  love, 
The  pining  Imogen. 

The  pale   moon   walked   the   waste   o'er- 

head, 

And  filled  the  room  with  sickly  light;  8° 
Then  she  arose  in  piteous  plight, 
Disrobed  herself,  and  crept  to  bed. 
The  wind  without  was  loud  and  deep, 

The  rattling  casements  made  her  start: 
At  last  she  slept,  but  in  her  sleep 

She  pressed  her  fingers  o'er  her  heart, 
And  moaned,  and  once  she  gave  a  scream, 
To  break  the  clutches  of  a  dream. 

Even  in  her  sleep  she  could  not  sleep', 
For  ugly  visions  made  her  weep,      9° 
The  troubled  Imogen. 


(Persia.) 

We  parted  in  the  streets  of  Ispahan. 
I  stopped  my  camel  at  the  city  gate; 
Why  did  I  stop?  I  left  my  heart  behind. 

I  heard  the  sighing  of  thy  garden  palms, 
I  saw  the  roses  burning  up  with  love, 
I  saw  thee  not :  thou  wert  no  longer  there. 

We  parted  in  the  streets  of  Ispahan. 

A  moon   has  passed   since  that  unhappy 

day; 
It   seems  an  age :   the  days   are  long  as 

years. 

I  send  thee  gifts  by  every  caravan,  I0 
I  send  thee  flasks  of  attar,  spices,  pearls, 
I  write  thee  loving  songs  on  golden  scrolls. 

I  meet  the  caravans  when  they  return. 
"What  news?"  I  ask.     The  drivers  shake 

their  heads. 
We  parted  in  the  streets  of  Ispahan. 


Day  and  night  my  thoughts  incline 
To  the  blandishments  of  wine: 
Jars  were  made  to  drain,  I  think, 
Wine,  I  know,  was  made  to  drink. 

When  I  die,  (the  day  be  far!) 
Should  the  potters  make  a  jar 
Out  of  this  poor  clay  of  mine,     . 
Let  the  jar  be  filled  with  wine! 


I  am  a  white  falcon,  hurrah ! 

My  home  is  the  mountains  so  high ; 
But  away  o'er  the  lands  and  the  waters, 

Wherever  I  please,  I  can  fly. 

I  wander  from  city  to  city, 

I  dart  from  the  wave  to  the  cloud, 

And  when  I  am  dead  I  shall  slumber 
With  my  own  white  wings  for  a  shroud 


Break  thou  my  heart,  ah,  break  it, 

If  such  thy  pleasure  be; 
Thy  will  is  mine,  what  say  I? 

'T  is  more  than  mine  to  me. 

And  if  my  life  offend  thee, 
My  passion  and  my  pain, 

Take  thou  my  life,  ah,  take  it, 
But  spare  me  thy  disdain ! 


RICHARD    HENRY    STODDARD 


547 


(Keaa.) 

Millions  of  flowers  are  blowing  in  the 
fields. 

On  the  blue  river's  brink  the  peony 

Burns  red,  and  where  doves  coo  the  lute 
is  heard, 

And  hoarse  black  crows  caw  to  the  east 
ern  wind. 

Under  the  plane-tree  in  the  shaded  grove, 
Screened    from   the   light   and   heat,   the 

idler  sits, 
Brooding  above   his   chess-board   all   day 

long, 
Nor  marks,  so  deep  his  dreams,  how  fast 

the  sun 
Descends  at  evening  to  its  western  house. 

When  autumn  comes  men  close  their 
doors  and  read,  I0 

Or  at  the  window  loll  to  catch  the  breeze 
Freighted  with    fragrance    from  the  cin 
namon. 

The  snow  is  falling  on  the  balustrade 

Like  dying  petals,  and  the  icicle 

Hangs  like  a  gem;  all  crowd  around  the 

fire: 
Rich    men    now    drink    their    wine    with 

merry  hearts, 
And  sing  old   songs,  nor  heed  the  blast 

without. 


WITHOUT  AND   WITHIN 
I 

The  night  is  dark,  and  the  winter  winds 
Go  stabbing  about  with  their  icy  spears ; 

The  sharp  hail  rattles  against  the  panes, 
And  melts  on  my  cheek  like  tears. 

'T  is  a  terrible  night  to  be  out  of  doors. 

But  some  of  us  must  be,  early  and  late; 
We  needn't  ask  who,  for  don't  we  know 

It  has  all  been  settled  by  Fate? 

Not  woman,  but  man.     Give  woman  her 

flowers, 

Her  dresses,  her  jewels,  or   what   she 

demands;  10 

The  work  of  the  world  must  be  done  by 

man, 
Or  why  has  he  brawny  hands? 


As  I  feel  my  way  in  the  dark  and  cold, 
I    think    of    the    chambers    warm    and 

bright, 
The  nests  where  these  delicate  birds  of 

ours 
Are  folding  their  wings  to-night. 

Through    the    luminous    windows,    above 

and  below, 

I  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  life  they  lead : 
Some   sew,   some   sing,   others   dress   for 

the  ball, 
While  others,  fair  students,  read.        *> 

There  's  the  little  lady  who  bears  my  name, 
She  sits  at  my  table  now,  pouring  her 
tea; 

Does  she  think  of  me  as  I  hurry  home, 
Hungry  and  wet?     Not  she. 

She  helps  herself  to  the  sugar  and  cream 
In    a    thoughtless,    dreamy,    nonchalant 
way; 

Her  hands  are  white  as  the  virgin  rose 
That  she  wore  on  her  wedding  day. 

My  clumsy  fingers  are  stained  with  ink, 
The  badge  of  the  Ledger,  the  mark  of 
Trade;  30 

But  the  money  I  give  her  is  clean  enough, 
In  spite  of  the  way  it  is  made. 

I  wear  out  my  life  in  the  counting-room 
Over  day-book  and  cash-book,   Bought 
and  Sold; 

My  brain  is  dizzy  with  anxious  thought, 
My  skin  is  as  sallow  as  gold. 

How  does  she  keep  the  roses  of  youth 
Still  fresh  in  her  cheek?    My  roses  are 
flown. 

It  lies  in  a  nutshell — why  do  I  ask? 
A  woman's  life  is  her  own.  40 

She  gives  me  a  kiss  when  we  part   for 

the  day, 

Then  goes  to  her  music,  blithe  as  a  bird ; 
She  reads  it  at  sight,  and  the  language, 

too, 
Though  I  know  never  a  word. 

She    sews    a    little,    makes    collars    and 

sleeves, 
Or  embroiders  me  slippers  (always  too 

small,) 

Nets  silken  purses  (for  me  to  fill,) 
Often  does  nothing  at  all 


548 


But    dream    in    her    chamber,    holding   a 

flower, 

Or   reading  my  letters  —  she  'd   better 
read  me.  50 

Even  now,  while  I  am  freezing  with  cold, 
She  is  cosily  sipping  her  tea. 

If  I  ever  reach  home  I  shall  laugh  aloud 
At  the  sight  of  a  roaring  fire  once  more; 

She  must  wait,  I  think,  till  I  thaw  myself, 
For  the  nightly  kiss  at  the  door. 

I  '11  have  with  my  dinner  a  bottle  of  port, 
To  warm  up  my  blood  and  soothe  my 
mind  ; 

Then  a  little  music,  for  even  I 
Like  music — when  I  have  dined.          6° 

I  '11  smoke  a  pipe  in  the  easy-chair, 
And    feel   her    behind    me   patting   my 
head; 

Or  drawing  the  little  one  on  my  knee, 
Chat  till  the  hour  for  bed. 


Will  he  never  come?  I  have  watched  for 

him 
Till  the  misty  panes  are  roughened  with 

sleet ; 

I  can  see  no  more :  shall  I  never  hear 
The  welcome  sound  of  his  feet? 

I  think  of  him  in  the  lonesome  night, 
Tramping  along  with  a  weary  tread,    7° 

And  wish  he  were  here  by  the  cheery  fire, 
Or  I  were  there  in  his  stead. 

I  sit  by  the  grate,  and  hark  for  his  step, 
And  stare  in  the  fire  with  a  troubled 

mind; 
The  glow  of  the  coals  is  bright  in  my 

face, 
But  my  shadow  is  dark  behind. 

I  think  of  woman,  and  think  of  man, 
The  tie  that  binds  and  the  wrongs  that 
part, 

And  long  to  utter  in  burning  words 
What  I  feel  to-night  in  my  heart.      8° 

No  weak  complaint  of  the  man  I  love, 
No  praise  of  myself,  or  my  sisterhood; 

But — something  that  women  understand — 
By  men  never  understood. 

Their  natures  jar  in  a  thousand  things; 
Little    matter,    alas,    who    is    right    or 

wrong, 
She   goes   to  the   wall.     "She   is   weak," 

they  say — 
It  is  that  which  makes  them  strong. 


Wherein  am  I  weaker  than  Arthur,  pray? 

He    has,    as    he    should,    a    sturdier 

frame,  9° 

And  he  labors  early  and  late  for  me, 

But  I — I  could  do  the  same. 

My  hands  are  willing,  my  brain  is  clear, 
The    world    is    wide,    and   the   workers 

few; 
But   the   work   of   the  world  belongs   to 

man, 
There  is  nothing  for  woman  to  do ! 

Yes,  she  has  the  holy  duties  of  home, 
A  husband  to  love,  and  children  to  bear, 

The  softer  virtues,  the  social  arts, — 
In  short,  a  life  without  care !  I0° 

So  our  masters  say.     But  what  do  they 

know 
Of  our  lives  and  feelings  when  they  are 

away? 

Our  household  duties,  our  petty  tasks, 
The  nothings  that  waste  the  day? 

Nay,  what  do  they  care  ?    'T  is  enough  for 

them 
That    their    homes    are    pleasant;    they 

seek  their  ease: 

One  takes  a  wife  to  flatter  his  pride, 
Another  to  keep  his  keys. 

They  say  they  love  us ;  perhaps  they  do, 

In  a  masculine  way,  as  they  love  their 

wine:  «o 

But  the  soul  of  woman  needs  something 

more, 
Or  it  suffers  at  times  like  mine. 

Not  that  Arthur  is  ever  unkind 
In  word  or  deed,  for  he  loves  me  well; 

But  I  fear  he  thinks  me  as  weak  as  the 

rest — 
(And  I  may  be,  who  can  tell?) 

I  should  die  if  he  changed,  or  loved  me 
less, 

For  I  live  at  best  but  a  restless  life; 
Yet  he  may,  for  they  say  the  kindest  men 

Grow  tired  of  a  sickly  wife.  I2° 

O,  love  me,  Arthur,  my  lord,  my  life, 
If  not  for  my  love,  and  my  womanly 

fears, 
At  least  for  your  child.     But  I  hear  his 

step — 
He  must  not  find  me  in  tears. 


RICHARD   HENRY    STODDARD 


549 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN 
A  H oration  Ode 

Not  as  when  some  great  Captain  falls 
In  battle,  where  his  Country  calls, 
Beyond  the  struggling  lines 
That  push  his  dread  designs 

To  doom,  by  some  stray  ball  struck  dead : 
Or,  in  the  last  charge,  at  the  head 
Of  his  determined  men, 
Who  must  be  victors  then. 

Nor  as  when  sink  the  civic  great, 
The  safer  pillars  of  the  State,  ™ 

Whose  calm,  mature,  wise  words 
Suppress  the  need  of  swords. 

With  no  such  tears  as  e'er  were  shed 

Above  the  noblest  of  our  dead 
Do  we  to-day  deplore 
The  Man  that  is  no  more. 

Our  sorrow  hath  a  wider  scope. 
Too  strange  for  fear,  too  Vast  for  hope, 
A  wonder,  blind  and  dumb, 
That  waits — what  is  to  come !  x 

Not  more  astounded  had  we  been 
If  Madness,  that  dark  night,  unseen, 
Had  in  our  chambers  crept, 
And  murdered  while  we  slept! 

We  woke  to  find  a  mourning  earth, 
Our  Lares  shivered  on  the  hearth, 
The  roof-tree   fallen,  all 
That  could  affright,  appall ! 

Such  thunderbolts,  in  other  lands, 
Have  smitten  the  rod  from  royal  hands,  3° 
But  spared,  with  us,  till  now, 
Each  laurelled  Caesar's  brow. 

No  Caesar  he  whom  we  lament, 

A  Man  without  a  precedent, 

Sent,  it  would  seem,  to  do 
His  work,  and  perish,  too. 

Not  by  the  weary  cares  of  State, 
The  endless  tasks,  which  will  not  wait, 
Which,  often  done  in  vain, 
Must  yet  be  done  again :  4° 

Not  in  the  dark,  wild  tide  of  war, 
Which  rose  so  high,  and  rolled  so  far, 

Sweeping  from  sea  to  sea 

In  awful  anarchy; 


Four  fateful  years  of  mortal  strife, 
Which  slowly  drained  the  nation's  life, 
(Yet  for  each  drop  that  ran 
There  sprang  an  armed  man!) 

Not  then ;  but  when,  by  measures  meet, 
By  victory,  and  by  defeat,  5° 

By  courage,  patience,  skill, 
The  people's  fixed  "We  will!" 

Had  pierced,  had  crushed  Rebellion  dead, 
Without  a  hand,  without  a  head, 

At  last,  when  all  was  well, 
He  fell,  O  how  he  fell ! 

The  time,  the  place,  the  stealing  shape, 
The  coward  shot,  the  swift  escape. 

The  wife,  the  widow's  scream — 
It  is  a  hideous  Dream !  <*> 

A    dream?      What    means    this    pageant, 
then? 

These  multitudes  of  solemn  men, 

Who  speak  not  when  they  meet, 
But  throng  the  silent  street? 

The  flags  half-mast  that  late  so  high 

Flaunted  at  each  new  victory? 

(The  stars  no  brightness  shed, 
But  bloody  looks  the  red!) 

The  black  festoons  that  stretch  for  miles, 
And  turn  the  streets  to  funeral  aisles?    7° 
(No  house  too  poor  to  show 
The  nation's  badge  of  woe.) 

The  cannon's  sudden,  sullen  boom, 
The  bells  that  toll  of  death  and  doom, 
The  rolling  of  the  drums, 
The  dreadful  car  that  comes? 

Cursed  be  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
The  frenzied  brain  that  hatched  the  plot, 
Thy  country's  Father  slain 
Be  thee,  thou  worse  than  Cain !  8° 

Tyrants  have  fallen  by  such  as  thou, 
And  good  hath  followed — may  it  now ! 
(God  lets  bad  instruments 
Produce  the  best  events.) 

But  he,  the  man  we  mourn  to-day, 
No  tyrant  was :  so  mild  a  sway 

In  one  such  weight  who  bore 
Was  never  known  before. 

Cool  should  he  be,  of  balanced  powers, 
The  ruler  of  a  race  like  ours,  9° 

Impatient,  headstrong,  wild, 
The  Man  to  guide  the  Child. 


550 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


And  this  he  was,  who  most  unfit 
(So  hard  the  sense  of  God  to  hit,) 
Did  seem  to  fill  his  place, 
With  such  a  homely  face. 

Such  rustic  manners,  speech  uncouth, 
(That  somehow  blundered  out  the  truth,) 
Untried,  untrained  to  bear 
The  more  than  kingly  care.        10° 

Ay !   And  his  genius  put  to  scorn 
The  proudest  in  the  purple  born, 

Whose  wisdom  never  grew 
To  what,  untaught,  he  knew. 

The  People,  of  whom  he  was  one. 
No  gentleman,  like  Washington, 

(Whose    bones,    methinks,    make 
room, 

To  have  him  in  their  tomb!) 

A  laboring  man,  with  horny  hands,      I09 
Who  swung  the  axe,  who  tilled  his  lands, 
Who   shrank   from  nothing  new, 
But  did  as  poor  men  do. 

One  of  the  People!     Born  to  be 

Their  curious  epitome; 

To  share  yet  rise  above 
Their  shifting  hate  and  love. 

Common  his  mind  (it  seemed  so  then), 
His  thoughts  the  thoughts  of  other  men  : 
Plain  were  his  words,  and  poor, 
But  now  they  will  endure !        I2° 

No  hasty  fool,  of  stubborn  will, 
But  prudent,  cautious,  pliant  still; 

Who  since  his  work  was  good 
Would  do  it  as  he  could. 

Doubting,  was  not  ashamed  to  doubt, 
And,  lacking  prescience,  went  without : 
Often   appeared  to   halt, 
And  was,  of  course,  at  fault; 

Heard  all  opinions,  nothing  loath, 
And,  loving  both  sides,  angered  both :     J3Q 
Was — not  like  Justice,  blind, 
But,  watchful,  clement,  kind. 

No  hero  this  of  Roman  mould, 
Nor  like  our  stately  sires  of  old: 
Perhaps  he  was  not  great, 
But  he  preserved  the  State ! 

O  honest  face,  which  all  men  knew ! 
O  tender  heart,  but  known  to  few ! 

O  wonder  of  the  age, 

Cut  off  by  tragic  rage !  H° 


Peace!     Let  the  long  procession  come, 
For  hark,  the  mournful,  muffled  drum, 
The  trumpet's  wail  afar, 
And  see,  the  awful  car! 

Peace !     Let  the  sad  procession  go, 
While  cannon  boom  and  bells  toll  slow. 
And  go,  thou  sacred  car, 
Bearing  our  woe  afar! 

Go,  darkly  borne,  from  State  to  State, 
Whose  loyal,  sorrowing  cities  wait        JS° 
To  honor  all  they  can 
The  dust  of  that  good  man. 

Go,  grandly  borne,  with  such  a  train 
As  greatest  kings  might  die  to  gain. 
The  just,  the  wise,  the  brave, 
Attend  thee  to  the  grave. 

And  you,  the  soldiers  of  our  wars, 
Bronzed  veterans,  grim  with  noble  scars, 

Salute  him  once  again, 

Your  late  commander — slain !    l6° 

Yes,  let  your  tears  indignant  fall, 
But  leave  your  muskets  on  the  wall; 
Your  country  needs  you  now 
Beside  the  forge — the  plough. 

(When  Justice  shall  unsheathe  her  brand, 
If  Mercy  may  not  stay  her  hand, 
Nor  would  we  have  it  so, 
She  must  direct  the  blow.) 

And  you,  amid  the  master-race, 
Who  seem  so  strangely  out  of  place,  '7° 
Know  ye  who  cometh?     He 
Who  hath  declared  ye  free. 

Bow  while  the  body  passes — nay, 
Fall  on  your  knees,  and  weep,  and  pray ! 
Weep,  weep — I  would  ye  might — 
Your  poor  black  faces  white ! 

And,  children,  you  must  come  in  bands, 
With  garlands  in  your  little  hands, 
Of  blue  and  white  and  red, 
To  strew  before  the  dead.          l8° 

So  sweetly,  sadly,  sternly  goes 

The  Fallen  to  his  last  repose. 

Beneath  no  mighty  dome, 
But  in  his  modest  home; 

The  churchyard  where  his  children  rest, 
The  quiet  spot  that  suits  him  best, 

There  shall  his  grave  be  made, 
And  there  his  bones  be  laid. 


RICHARD    HENRY    STODDARD 


551 


And  therje  his  countrymen  shall  come, 
With  memory  proud,  with  pity  dumb,    '9° 
And  strangers  far  and  near,    / 
For  many  and  many  a  year. 

For  many  a  year  and  many  an  age, 
While  History  on  her  ample  page 

The  virtues  shall  enroll 

On  that  Paternal  Soul. 


VATES    PATRICE 
(November  3,  1794') 

There  came  a  Woman  in  the  night, 
When  winds  were  whist,  and  moonlight 
smiled, 

Where  in  his  mother's  arms,  who  slept, 
There   lay  a  new-born   child. 

She  gazed  at  him  with  loving  looks, 
And  while  her  hand  upon  his  head 

She  laid,  in  blessing  and  in  power, 
In  slow,  deep  words  she  said : 

"This  child  is  mine.     Of  all  my  sons 
Are  none  like  what  the  lad  shall  be ;    I0 

Though   these   are   wise,   and   those    are 

strong, 
And  all  are  dear  to  me. 

Beyond  their  arts  of  peace  and  war 
The  gift  that  unto  him  belongs, 

To  see  my  face,  to  read  my  thoughts, 
To  learn  my  silent  songs. 

The  elder  sisters  of  my  race 

Shall  taunt  no  more  that  I  am  dumb; 

Hereafter  I  shall  sing  through  him, 
In  ages  yet  to  come."  *> 

She  stooped,  and  kissed  his  baby  mouth, 
Whence  came  a  breath  of  melody, 

As  from  the  closed  leaves  of  a  rose 
The  murmur  of  a  bee. 

Thus  did  she  consecrate  the  child, 
His  more  than  mother  from  that  hour, 

Albeit  at  first  he  knew  her  not, 
Nor  guessed  his  sleeping  power. 

But  not  the  less  she  hovered  near, 
And  touched  his  spirit  unawares;        3° 

Burned  in  the  red  of  morning  skies, 
And  breathed  in  evening  airs. 

Unfelt  in  his,  her  guiding  hand 
Withdrew  him-  from  the  halls  of  men, 

To  where  her  secret  bowers  were  built, 
In  wood,  and  grove,  and  glen. 

^he  birth-date   of   William   Cullen    Bryant. 


Sometimes  he  caught  a  transient  glimpse 
Of  her  broad  robe,  that  swept  before, 

Deep  in  the  heart  of  ancient  woods, 
Or  by  the  sounding  shore.  4° 

One  prosperous  day  he  chanced  to  see 
(Be  sure  't  was  in  a  lonely  place) 

Her  glance  of  pride,  that  sought  his  own, 
At  last  her  noble  face. 

Not  as  it  fronts  her  children  now, 
With  clouded  brows,  and  looks  of  ire, 

And  eyes  that  would  be  blind  with  tears 
But  for  their  quenchless  fire ! 

But  happy,  gracious,  beautiful, 

And  more  imperial  than  a  queen;        so 
A  Woman  of  majestic  mould, 

And  most  maternal  mien. 

And  he  was  happy.     For  in  her 

("For   he,"    she    said,    "shall   read   my 
mind,") 

He  saw  the  glory  of  the  earth, 
The  hope  of  human  kind. 

Thenceforth,  wherever  he  might  walk, 
Through  forest  aisles,  or  by  the  sea; 

Where  floats  the  flowerlike  butterfly, 
And  hums  the  drowsy  bee;  <*> 

By  rock-ribbed  hills,  and  pensive  vales 
That  stretch  in  light  and  shade  between, 

And  by  the  soft-complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green : 

He  felt  her  presence  everywhere, 
To-day  was  glad,  to-morrow  grave; 

And  what  she  gave  to  him  in  thought, 
To  us  in  song  he  gave : 

In  stately  songs,  in  solemn  hymns, 

(Few  are  so  clear,  and  none  so  high.)  7° 

That  mirrored  her,  in  calm  and  storm, 
As  mountain  lakes  the  sky. 

And  evermore  one  shape  appeared, 
To  comfort  now,  and  now  command, 

A  bearded  Man,  with  many  scars, 
Who  bore  a  battle-brand. 

And  she  was  filled  with  serious  joy, 
To  know  her  poet  followed  him; 

Not  losing  heart,  nor  bating  hope, 
When  others'  faith  was  dim.  80 

And  as  the  years  went  slowly  by, 
And  she  grew  stronger  and  more  wise, 

Stretching  her  hands  o'er  broader  lands, 
And  grander  destinies; 

And  he,  our  poet,  poured  his  hymns, 
Serene,  prophetic,  sad,  as  each 

Became  a  part  of  her  renown, 
And  of  his  native  speech; 


552 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


She  wove,  by  turns,  a  wreath  for  him, 
The  business  of  her  idle  hours;  9° 

And  here  were  sprigs  of  mountain  pine, 
And  there  were  prairie  flowers. 

And  now,  even  in  her  sorest  need, 
Pale,  bleeding,  faint  in  every  limb, 

She  still  remembers  what  he  is, 
And  comes  to  honor  him. 

For  hers,  not  ours,  the  songs  we  bring, 
The  flowers,  the  music  and  the  light; 

And  't  is  her  hand  that  lays  the  wreath 
On  his  gray  head  to-night !  I0° 

1864? 

THE    COUNTRY    LIFE 

Not  what  we  would,  but  what  we  must, 

Makes  up  the  sum  of  living; 
Heaven  is  both  more  and  less  than  just 

In  taking  and  in  giving. 
Swords  cleave  to  hands  that  sought  the 

plough, 
And  laurels  miss  the  soldier's  brow. 

Me,  whom  the  city  holds,  whose  feet 
Have  worn  its  stony  highways, 

Familiar  with  its  loneliest  street — 
Its  ways  were  never  my  ways.  I0 

My  cradle  was  beside  the  sea, 

And  there,  I  hope,  my  grave  will  be. 

Old  homestead !    In  that  old,  gray  town, 
Thy  vane  is  seaward  blowing, 

Thy  slip  of  garden  stretches  down 
To  where  the  tide  is  flowing : 

Below  they  lie,  their  sails  all  furled, 

The  ships  that  go  about  the  world. 

Dearer  that  little  country  house, 
Inland,  with  pines  beside  it;  2° 

Some  peach-trees,  with  unfruitful  boughs, 
A  well,  with  weeds  to  hide  it : 

No  flowers,  or  only  such  as  rise 

Self-sown,  poor  things,  which  all  despise. 

Dear  country  home !  Can  I  forget 
The  least  of  thy  sweet  trifles? 

The  window-vines  that  clamber  yet, 
Whose  blooms  the  bee  still  rifles? 

The  roadside  blackberries,  growing  ripe, 

And  in  the  woods  the  Indian  Pipe?        3ft 

Happy  the  man  who  tills  his  field, 

Content  with  rustic  labor  ; 
Earth  does  to  him  her  fulness  yield, 

Hap  what  may  to  his  neighbor. 
Well  days,  sound  nights,  O  can  there  be 
A  life  more  rational  and  free? 


Dear  country  life  of  child  and  man ! 

For  both  the  best,  the  strongest, 
That  with  the  earliest  race  began, 

And  hast  outlived  the  longest.  4° 

Their  cities  perished  long  ago, 
Who  the  first  farmers  were  we  know. 

Perhaps  our  Babels  too  will  fall, 

If  so,  no  lamentations, 
For  Mother  Earth  will  shelter  all, 

And  feed  the  unborn  nations; 
Yes,  and  the  swords  that  menace  now 
Will  then  be  beaten  to  the  plough. 


A   CATCH 

Once  the  head  is  gray, 
And  the  heart  is  dead, 

There  's  no  more  to  do, 
Make  the  man  a  bed 

Six  foot  under  ground, 

There  he  '11  slumber  sound. 

Golden  was  my  hair, 
And  my  heart  did  beat 

To  the  viol's  voice 
Like  the  dancers'  feet. 

Not  colder  now  his  blood 

Who  died  before  the  flood. 

Fair,  and  fond,  and  false, 
Mother,  wife,  and  maid, 

Never  lived  a  man 
They  have  not  betrayed. 

None  shall  'scape  my  mirth 

But  old  Mother  Earth. 

Safely  housed  with  her, 

With  no  company 
But   my   brother   Worm, 

Who  will  feed  on  me, 
I  shall  slumber  sound, 
Deep  down  under  ground. 


THE   KING   IS   COLD 

Rake  the  embers,  blow  the  coals, 
Kindle  at  once  a  roaring  fire. 
Here  's  some  paper.    'T  is  nothing,  Sire. 
Light    it.      (They   've    saved   a   thousand 

souls !) 

Run  for  fagots,  you  scurvy  knaves, 
There    are    plenty    out    in    the    public 

square, 

You  know  they  fry  the  heretics  there  : 
(But     God     remembers     their     nameless 
graves!) 


RICHARD    HENRY    STODDARD 


553 


Fly,  fly,  or  the  King  may  die ! 

Ugh !  his  royal  feet  are  like  snow,      10 
And  the  cold  is  mounting  up  to  his  heart, 

(But  that  was   frozen   long  ago!) 
Rascals,  varlets,  do  as  you  're  told — 
The  King  is  cold. 

His  bed  of  state  is  a  grand  affair, 
With    sheets   of   satin   and   pillows   of 

down, 

And  close  beside  it  stands  the  crown ; 
But    that    won't    keep    him    from    dying 

there. 

His  hands  are  wrinkled,  his  hair  is  gray, 
And  his  ancient  blood  is  sluggish  and 
thin;  » 

When  he  was  young  it  was  hot  with  sin, 
But  that  is  over  this  many  a  day. 
Under  these  sheets  of  satin  and  lace 

He  slept  in  the  arms  of  his  concubines; 
Now  they  rouse  with  the  Prince  instead, 

Drinking  the  maddest,  merriest  wines. 
It  's  pleasant  to  hear  such  catches  trolled, 
Now  the  King  is  cold. 

What  shall  I  do  with  his  Majesty  now? 
For,  thanks  to  my  potion,  the  man  is 
dead.  30 

Suppose  I  bolster  him  up  in  bed, 
And  fix  the  crown  again  on  his  brow? 
That    would    be    merry !      But    then    the 

Prince 
Would   tumble   it   down,   I   know,   in   a 

trice : 
It  would  puzzle  the   Devil  to  name  a 

vice 
That  would  make  his  excellent  Highness 

wince. 

But  hark,  he  's  coming,  I  know  his  step : 
He  's  stealing  to  see  if  his  wishes  are 

true. 

Ah,  Sire,  may  your  father's  end  be  yours. 

(With  just  such  a  son  to  murder  you!) 

Peace    to    the    dead!      Let    the    bells    be 

tolled,  41 

The  King  is  cold ! 

THE    FLOWER    OF    LOVE    LIES 
BLEEDING 

I  met  a  little  maid  one  day, 

All    in   the   bright   May   weather ; 
She  danced,  and  brushed  the  dew  away 

As  lightly  as  a  feather. 
She  had  a  ballad  in  her  hand 

That   she  had   just  been  reading, 
But  was  too  young  to  understand 
That   ditty  of   a  distant   land, 

"The  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding." 


She  tripped  across  the  meadow  grass,     I0 
To  where  a  brook  was  flowing, 

Across  the  brook  like  wind  did  pass, 
Wherever    flowers    were   growing 

Like  some  bewildered  child  she  flew, 
Whom  fairies  were  misleading : 
"Whose  butterfly,"   I   said,   "are  you? 

And  what  sweet  thing  do  you  pursue?" 
"The  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding. 

"I've  found  the  wild  rose  in  the-  hedge, 

And  found  the  tiger-lily,  x 

The  blue  flag  by  the  water's  edge, 

The  dancing  daffodilly, 
King-cups  and  pansies,  every  flower 

Except  the  one  I'm  needing ; 
Perhaps  it  grows  in  some  dark  bower, 
And  opens  at  a  later  hour, 

This  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding." 

"I  wouldn't  look  for  it,"  I  said, 

"For  you  can  do  without  it. 
There  's  no  such  flower."    She  shook  her 
head.  30 

"But  I  have  read  about  it !" 
I  talked  to  her  of  bee  and  bird, 

But  she  was  all  unheeding: 
Her  tender   heart  was  strangely  stirred, 
She  harped  on  that  unhappy  word, 

"The  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding!" 

"My  child,"  I  sighed,  and  dropped  a  tear, 

"I  would  no  longer  mind  it; 
You  '11  find  it  some  day,  never  fear, 

For  all  of  us  must  find  it.  40 

I  found  it  many  a  year  ago, 

With  one  of  gentle  breeding; 
You  and  the  little  lad  you  know, 
I  see  why  you  are  weeping  so — 

Your  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding!" 


"WHAT   HARMONIOUS   IS   WITH 
THEE" 

What  harmonious  is  with  thee, 
O  Universe !  is  so  with  me, 
Nothing  too  early,  or  too  late, 
That  is  at  thy  appointed  date. 
Everything  is  fruit  to  me, 

Which  thy  seasons,   Nature,  bring : 
All  things  from  thee,  and  all  in  thee, 

To  thee  returneth   everything. 
"Dear  city  of  Cecropia," 

The  poet  said  its  streets  who  trod :      I0 
Wilt  thou  not  say — be  wise  and  say — 

"Dear  city  of  the  living  God!" 


554 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


"THOUGH   THOU   SHOULDST 
LIVE   A   THOUSAND   YEARS" 

Though    thou    shouldst    live    a   thousand 
years, 

Whatever  fate  gives, 

Or  what  refuses, 

Let  this  support  thee  in  thy   fears, 

Let  this   console  thee   in  thy  tears, 

Man  loses  but  the  life  he  lives, 

And  only  lives  the  life  he  loses. 
Longest  and  shortest  are  but  one : 
The  present  is  the  same  to  all; 

The  past  is  done  with  and  forgot;    I0 
The  future  is  not  yet  begun ; 
Nothing  from  either  can  befall, 

For  none  can  lose  what  he  has  not. 
All  things  from  all  Eternity 
Come    round   and    round   the   whirling 
spheres ; 


It  makes  no  difference  if  we  see 

The  same  things  for  a  hundred  years, 

Or  for  a  million.    They  are  here. 
Who   longest   lives,   who   shortest   dies, 
Loses  the  same  sweet  earth  and  skies, 

For  they  remain — we  disappear.  2I 

"TO   BEAR  WHAT   IS,   TO   BE 
RESIGNED" 

To  bear  what  is,  to  be  resigned, 
The  mark  is  of  a  noble  mind. 
Stir  not  thy  hand,  or  foot,  or  heart, 
Be  not  disturbed,  for  Destiny 
Is  more  attached,  O  man,  to  thee 

Than  to  thyself  thou  art! 
If  patience  had  but  been  thy  guest, 

Thy  destined  portion  would  have  come, 
And  like  a  lover  on  thy  breast 

Have  flung  itself,  and  kissed  thee  dumb ! 


'JOAQUIN"    MILLER 

(1841-1913) 


WITH    WALKER    IN    NICARAGUA* 

VIII 

Years  after,  shelter'd  from  the  sun 

Beneath  a  Sacramento  bay, 

A  black  Muchacho  by  me  lay 

Along  the  long  grass  crisp  and  dun, 

His  brown  mule  browsing  by  his  side, 

And  told  with  all  a  Peon's  pride 

How  he  once  fought;  how  long  and  well, 

Broad  breast  to  breast,  red  hand  to  hand, 

Against  a  foe  for  his  fair  land, 

And  how  the  fierce  invader  fell ;  I0 

And,  artless,  told  me  how  he  died : 

How  walked  he  from  the  prison-wall 
Dress'd  like  some  prince  for  a  parade, 
And  made  no  note  of  man  or  maid, 
But  gazed  out  calmly  over  all. 
He  look'd  far  off,  half  paused,  and  then 
Above  the  mottled  sea  of  men 
He  kiss'd  his  thin  hand  to  the  sun; 
Then  smiled  so  proudly  none  had  known 
But  he  was  stepping  to  a  throne,  *> 

Yet  took  no  note  of  any  one. 

A  nude  brown  beggar  Peon  child, 
Encouraged   as   the   captive   smiled, 
Look'd  up,  half  scared,  half  pitying; 
He  stopp'd,  he  caught  it  from  the  sands, 
Put  bright  coins  in  its  two  brown  hands, 
Then  strode  on  like. another  king. 

Two  deep,  a  musket's  length,  they  stood 
A-front,  in  sandals,  nude,  and  dwn 
As  death  and  darkness  wove  in  one,      30 
Their  thick  lips  thirsting   for  his   blood. 
He  took  each  black  hand  one  by  one, 

1  I  wrote  this  poem  for  John  Brown.  You 
can  see  John  Brown  of  Harper's  Ferry  in  his 
bearing,  for  Walker  was  not  of  imposing  pres 
ence;  also  in  his  tenderness  to  the  colored  child 
on  his  way  to  death.  But  when  about  to  pub 
lish  I  saw  a  cruel  account  of  Gen.  Walker  and 
his  grave  at  Truxilo,  Honduras,  in  a  London 
newspaper.  It  stated  among  other  mean  things 
that  a  board  stood  at  the  head  of  his  grave  with 
this  inscription: 

"Here  lies  buried  W.  W., 

Who  never  more  will  trouble  you,  trouble  you." 
I  by  good  fortune  had  ready  for  my  new  book 
an  account  of  a  ride  through  a  Central  Ameri 
can  forest.  Putting  this  and  the  John  Brown 
poem  together  in  haste  and  anger,  and  working 
them  over,  I  called  the  new  poem  "With  Walker 
in  Nicaragua."  (Author's  Note.) 


And,  smiling  with  a  patient  grace, 
Forgave  them  all  and  took  his  place. 

He  bared  his  broad  brow  to  the  sun, 

Gave  one   long,  last  look  to  the  sky, 

The  white  wing'd  clouds  that  hurried  by. 

The  olive  hills   in  orange  hue; 

A  last  list  to  the  cockatoo 

That  hung  by  beak  from  mango-bough  4° 

Hard  by,  and  hung  and  sung  as  though 

He  never  was  to  sing  again, 

Hung  all  red-crown'd  and  robed  in  green, 

With  belts  of  gold  and  blue  between. 

A  bow,  a  touch  of  heart,  a  pall 
Of  purple  smoke,  a  crash,  a  thud, 
A  warrior's  raiment  rolled  in  blood, 
A  face  in  dust  and — that  was  all. 

Success  had  made  him  more  than  king; 
Defeat  made  him  the  vilest  thing  5° 

In  name,  contempt  or  hate  can  bring; 
So  much  the  leaded  dice  of  war 
Do  make  or  mar  of  character. 

Speak  ill  who  will  of  him.  he  died 
In  all  disgrace ;  say  of  the  dead 
His  heart  was  black,  his  hands  were  red — 
Say  this  much,  and  be  satisfied; 
Gloat  over  it  all  undenied. 
I  simply  say  he  was  my  friend 
When  strong  of  hand  and  fair  of  fame : 
Dead  and  disgraced,  I  stand  the  same    6l 
To  him,  and  so  shall  to  the  end. 

I  lay  this  crude  wreath  on  his  dust, 
Inwove  with  sad,  sweet  memories 
Recall'd  here  by  these  colder  seas. 
I  leave  the  wild  bird  with  his  trust, 
To  sing  and  say  him  nothing  wrong; 
I  wake  no  rivalry  of  song. 

He  lies  low  in  the  levell'd  sand, 
Unshelter'd    from   the  tropic    sun,  TO 

And  now  of  all  he  knew  not  one 
Will  speak  him  fair  in  that  far  land, 
Perhaps  't  was  this  that  made  me  seek, 
Disguised,  his  grave  one  winter-tide; 
A  weakness  for  the  weaker  side, 
A  siding  with  the  helpless  weak. 


555 


556 


A  palm  not'  far  held  out  a  hand, 
Hard  by  £  long  green  bamboo  swung, 
And  bent  like  some  great  bow  unstrung, 
And  quiver'd  like  a  willow  wand;          8° 
Perch'd  on  its  fruits  that  crooked  hang, 
Beneath  a  broad  banana's  leaf. 
A  bird  in  rainbow  splendor  sang 
A  low,  sad  song  of  temper'd  grief. 

No  sod,  no  sign,  no  cross  nor  stone 
But  at  his  side  a  cactus  green 
Upheld  its  lances  long  and  keen; 
It  stood  in  sacred  sands  alone, 
Flat-palmed  and  fierce  with  lifted  spears; 
One  bloom  of  crimson  crown'd  its  head, 
A  drop  of  blood,  so  bright,  so  red,         9* 
Yet  redolent  as  roses'  tears. 

In  my  left  hand  I  held  a  shell, 
All  rosy  lipp'd  and  pearly  red; 
I  laid  it  by  his  lowly  bed, 
For  he  did  love  so  passing  well 
The  grand  songs  of  the  solemn  sea. 

0  shell !  sing  well,  wild,  with  a  will, 
When  storms  blow  loud  and  birds  be  still, 
The  wildest  sea-song  known  to  thee !     I0° 

I  said  some  things  with  folded  hands, 
Soft  whisper'd  in  the  dim  sea-sound, 
And  eyes  held  humbly  to  the  ground, 
And  frail  knees  sunken  in  the  sands. 
He  had  done  more  than  this  for  me, 
And  yet  I  could  not  well  do  more : 

1  turn'd  me  down  the  olive  shore, 
And  set  a  sad  face  to  the  sea. 

London,  1871. 


THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS1 


From  cold  east  shore  to  warm  west  sea 
The  red  men  followed  the  red  sun, 
And  faint  and  failing  fast  as  he, 
They  knew  too  well  their  race  was  run. 

1Tc'hastas;  a  name  given  to  King  John  by 
the  French,  a  corruption  of  chaste;  for  he  was 
a  pure,  just  man  and  a  great  warrior.  He  was 
king  of  the  Rouge  (Red)  River  Indians  of 
Oregon,  and  his  story  is  glorious  with  great 
deeds  in  defense  of  his  people.  When  finally 
overpowered  he  and  his  son  Moses  were  put 
on  a  ship  at  Port  Oxford  and  sent  to  Fort  Al- 
catraz  in  the  Golden  Gate.  In  mid  ocean,  these 
two  Indians,  in  irons,  rose  up,  and,  after  a 
bloody  fight,  took  the  ship.  But  one  had  lost 
a  leg,  the  other  an  arm,  and  so  they  finally  had 
to  let  loose  the  crew  and  soldiers,  tumble  into 
the  hold  and  surrender  themselves  again;  for 


This  ancient  tribe,  press'd  to  the  wave, 
There  fain  had  slept  a  patient  slave, 
And  died  out  as   red  embers   die 
From  flames  that  once  leapt  hot  and  high ; 
But,  roused  to  anger,  a  sudden  flood, 
A  hot  and  hungry  cry  for  blood;  I0 

Half  drowsy  shook  a  feeble  hand, 
Then  sank  back  in  a  tame  repose, 
And  left  him  to  his  fate  and  foes, 
A  stately  wreck  upon  the  strand. 

His  eye  was  like  the  lightning's  wing, 
His  voice  was  like  a  rushing  flood ; 
And  when  a  captive  bound  he  stood 
His  presence  look'd  the  perfect  king. 

'T  was  held  at  first  that  he  should  die: 
I  never  knew  the  reason  why  20 

A  milder  council  did  prevail, 
Save  that  we  shrank  from  blood,  and  save 
That  brave  men  do  respect  the  brave. 
Down  sea  sometimes  there  was  a  sail, 
And  far  at  sea,  they  said,  an  isle, 
And  he  was  sentenced  to  exile; 
In  open  boat  upon  the  sea 
To  go  the  instant  on  the  main, 
And   never   under    penalty 
Of  death  to  touch  the  shore  again.      "J* 
A  troop  of  bearded  buckskinn'd  men 
Bore   him   hard-hurried  to   the   wave, 
Placed  him  swift  in  the  boat ;  and  then 
Swift  pushing  to  the  bristling  sea, 
His  daughter  rush'd  down  suddenly, 
Threw  him  his  bow,  leapt  from  the  shore 
Into  the  boat  beside  the  brave, 
And  sat  her  down  and  seized  the  oar, 
And  never  questioned,  made  replies, 
Or  moved  her  lips,  or  raised  her  eyes.  4° 

His  breast  was  like  a  gate  of  brass, 
His  brow  was  like  a  gather'd  storm; 
There  is  no  chisell'd  stone  that  has 
So  stately  and  complete  a  form 
In  sinew,   arm,  and  every  part, 
In  all  the  galleries  of  art. 

the  ship  was  driving  helpless  in  a  storm  toward 
the  rocks.  The  king  died  a  prisoner,  but  his 

son  escaped  and  never  again  surrendered 

A  daughter  of  the  late  Senator  Nesmith  sends 
me  a  picture  taken  in  1896  of  the  king's  devoted 
daughter,  Princess  Mary,  who  followed  his  for 
tunes  in  all  his  battles.  ...  I  remember 
her  as  an  old  woman  full  forty  years  ago,  tall 
as  a  soldier,  and  most  terrible  in  council.  I 
have  tried  to  picture  her  and  her  people  (in 
Parts  I  and  II)  as  I  once  saw  them  in  a  mid 
night  camp  before  the  breaking  out  of  the  war; 
also  their  actions  and  utterances  scr  like  some 
of  the  old  Israelite  councils  and  prophecies. 
(Author's  Note.) 


"JOAQUIN"    MILLER 


557 


Gray,  bronzed,  and  naked  to  the  waist, 
He  stood  half  halting  in  the  prow, 
With  quiver  bare  and  idle  bow. 
The  warm  sea  fondled  with  the  shore,    so 
And  laid  his  white  face  to  the  sands. 
His  daughter  sat  with  her  sad  face 
Bent  on  the  wave,  with  her  two  hands 
Held  tightly  to  the  dripping  oar; 
And  as  she  sat,  her  dimpled  knee 
Bent  lithe  as  wand  or  willow  tree, 
So  round  and  full,  so  rich  and  free, 
That  no  one  would  have  ever  known 
That  it  had  either  joint  or  bone. 

Her  eyes  were  black,  her   face  was 

brown,  6° 

Her  breasts  were  bare,  and  there  fell 

down 

Such  wealth  of  hair,  it  almost  hid 
The  two,  in  its  rich  jetty  fold — 
Which  I   had  sometimes   fain   forbid, 
They  were  so  richer,  fuller  far 
Than  any  polished  bronzes  are, 
And  richer  hued  than  any  gold. 
On   her   brown   arms    and   her    brown 

hands 

WTere  bars  of  gold  and  golden  bands, 
Rough  hammer'd  from  the  virgin  ore,  70 
So  heavy,  they  could  hold  no  more. 

I  wonder  now,  I  wonder'd  then, 
That  men  who  fear'd  not  gods  nor  men 
Laid  no  rude  hands  at  all  on  her, — 
I  think  she  had  a  dagger  slid 
Down  in  her  silver'd  wampun  belt; 
It  might  have  been,  instead  of  hilt, 
A   flashing   diamond   hurry-hid 
That  I  beheld — I  could  not  know 
For  certain,  we  did  hasten  so ;  8° 

And  I  know  now  less  sure  than  then : 
Deeds  strangle  memories  of  deeds, 
Red  blossoms  wither,  choked  with  weeds, 
And  years  drown  memories  of  men. 
Some  things   have  happened  since  —  and 

then 
This  happen'd  years  and  years  ago. 

"Go,  go !"  the  captain  cried,  and  smote 
With  sword  and  boot  the  swaying  boat, 
Until  it  quiver'd  as  at  sea 
And  brought  the  old  chief  to  his  knee.  9° 
He  turn'd  his  face,  and  turning  rose 
With  hand  raised  fiercely  to  his  foes: 
"Yes,  I  will  go,  last  of  my  race, 
Push'd  by  you  robbers  ruthlessly 
Into  the  hollows  of  the  sea, 
From  this  my  last,  last  resting-place. 


Traditions  of  my  fathers  say 
A  feeble  few  reach'd  for  this  land, 
And  we  reach'd  them  a  welcome  hand 
Of  old,  upon  another  shore;  I0° 

Now  they  are  strong,  we  weak  as  they, 
And  they  have  driven  us  before 
Their  faces,  from  that  sea  to  this : 
Then  marvel  not  if  we  have  sped 
Sometime  an  arrow  as  we  fled, 
So  keener  than  a  serpent's  kiss." 

He  turn'd  a  time  unto  the  sun 
That  lay  half  hidden  in  the  sea, 
As  in  his  hollows  rock'd  asleep, ' 
All  trembled  and  breathed  heavily;       »° 
Then  arch'd  his  arm,  as  you  have  done, 
For  sharp  masts  piercing  through  the 

deep. 

No  shore  or  kind  ship  met  his  eye, 
Or  isle,  or  sail,  or  anything, 
Save  white  sea  gulls  on  dipping  wing, 
And  mobile  sea  and  molten  sky. 

"Farewell ! — push    seaward,    child !"    he 

cried, 

And  quick  the  paddle-strokes  replied. 
Like    lightning    from   the   panther-skin, 
That  bound  his  loins  round  about,         I2° 
He  snatched  a  poison'd  arrow  out, 
That  like  a  snake  lay  hid  within, 
And  twang'd  his  bow.     The  captain  fell 
Prone  on  his  face,  and  such  a  yell 
Of  triumph  from  that  savage  rose 
As  man  may  never  hear  again. 
He  stood  as  standing  on  the  main, 
The  topmast  main,  in  proud  repose, 
And  shook  his  clench'd  fist  at  his  foes, 
And  call'd,  and  cursed  them  every  one.  Jao 
He  heeded  not  the  shouts  and  shot 
That  follow'd  him,  but  grand  and  grim 
Stood  up  against  the  level  sun; 
And,  standing  so,  seem'd  in  his  ire 
So  grander  than  some  ship  on  fire. 

And  when  the  sun  had  left  the  sea, 
That  laves  Abrup,  and  Blanco  laves, 
And  left  the  land  to  death  and  me, 
The  only  thing  that  I  could  see 
Wras,  ever  as  the  light  boat  lay  HO 

High  "lifted  on  the  white-back'd  waves, 
•A  head  as  gray  and  toss'd  as  they. 

We   raised   the   dead,   and   from   his 

hands 
Pick'd  out  some  shells,  clutched  as  he 

lay 

And  two  by  two  bore  him  away, 
And  wiped  his  lips  of  blood  and  sands. 


558 


We  bent  and  scooped  a  shallow  home, 
And  laid  him  warm-wet  in  his  blood, 
Just  as  the  lifted  tide  a-flood 
Came  charging  in  with  mouth  a- foam:  jso 
And  as  we  turn'd,  the  sensate  thing 
Reached  up,  lick'd  out  its  foamy  tongue, 
Lick'd  out  its  tongue  and  tasted  blood: 
The  white  lips  to  the  red  earth  clung 
An  instant,  and  then  loosening 
All  hold  just  like  a  living  thing, 
Drew  back  sad-voiced  and  shuddering, 
All  stained  with  blood,  a  striped  flood. 


KIT   CARSON'S   RIDE 

Room!  room  to  turn  round  in,  to   breathe  and 

be  free, 

To  grow  to  be  giant,  to  sail  as  at  sea 
With  the  speed  of  the  wind  on  a  steed  with  his 

name 

To  the  wind,  without  pathway  or  route  or  a  rein. 
Room!  room  to  be  free  where  the  white  border'd 

sea 

Blows  a  kiss  to  a  brother  as  boundless  as  he; 
Where  the  buffalo  come  like  a  cloud  on  the  plain, 
Pouring  on  like  the  tide  of  a  storm  driven  main, 
And  the  lodge  of  the  hunter  to  friend  or  to  foe 
Offers-  rest;  and  unquestion'd  you  come  or  you 

go.  10 

My  plains  of  America!     Seas  of  wild  lands! 
From  a  land  in  the  seas  in  a  raiment  of  foam, 
That  has  reached  to  a  stranger  the  welcome  of 

home, 
I  turn  to  you,  lean  to  you,  lift  you  my  hands. 

London,   1871. 

Run?   Run?   See  this  flank,  sir,  and  I  do 

love  him  so ! 
But  he  's  blind  as  a  badger.    Whoa,  Pache, 

boy,  whoa. 
No,  you  wouldn't  believe  it  to  look  at  his 

eyes, 
But   he    's    blind,    badger    blind,    and    it 

happen'd  this  wise: 

"We  lay  in  the  grass  and  the  sunburnt 

clover 
That  spread  on  the  ground  like  a  great 

brown  cover     . 
Northward  and  southward,  and  west  and 

away 

To  the  Brazos,  where  our  lodges  lay, 
One  broad  and  unbroken  level  of  brown. 
We  were  waiting  the  curtains  of  night  to 

come  down  >'."-/  I0 

To  cover  us  trio  and  conceal  our  flight 
With  my  brown  bride,  won  from  an  Indian 

town 
That  lay  in  the  rear  the  full  ride  of  a 

night. 


"We   lounged   in   the   grass — her   eyes 

were  in  mine, 
And  her  hand  on  my  knee,  and  her  hair 

was  as  wine 
In   its  wealth  and  its  flood,   pouring  on 

and  all  over 
Her  bosom  wine  red,  and  press'd  never 

by  one. 
Her  touch  was  as  warm  as  the  tinge  of 

the  clover 
Burnt  brown  as  it  reach'd  to  the  kiss  of 

the  sun. 
Her   words   they   were   low   as   the   lute 

throated  dove,  2° 

And  as  laden  with  love  as  the  heart  when 

it  beats 

In  its  hot,  eager  answer  to  earliest  love, 
Or  the  bee  hurried  home  by  its  burthen 

of  sweets. 

"We  lay  low  in  the  grass  on  the  broad 

plain  levels, 
Old  Revels  and  I,  and  my  stolen  brown 

bride ; 

'Forty  full  miles  if  a  foot  to  ride! 
Forty  full  miles  if  a  foot,  and  the  devils 
Of  red  Comanches  are  hot  on  the  track 
When  once  they  strike  it.     Let  the  sun 

go  down 
Soon,   very  soon,'   muttered  bearded   old 

Revels  30 

As  he  peer'd  at  the  sun,  lying  low  on  his 

back, 
Holding  fast  to  his  lasso.    Then  he  jerk'd 

at  his  steed 
And  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  to  me,  to 

my  bride 
While  his  eyes  were  like  flame,  his  face 

like  a  shroud, 
His  form  like  a  king,  and  his  beard  like 

a  cloud, 
And   his  voice   loud   and   shrill,   as   both 

trumpet  and  reed — 
'Pull,  pull  in  your  lassoes,  and  bridle  to 

steed, 
And  speed  you  if  ever  for  life  you  would 

speed. 
Aye,  ride  for  your  lives,  for  your  lives 

you  must  ride ! 

For  the  plain  is  aflame,  the  prairie  on  fire, 
And  the  feet  of  wild  horses  hard  flying 

before  41 

I  hear  like  a  sea  breaking  high  on  the  shore, 
While  the  buffalo  come  like  a  surge  of 

the  sea, 
Driven  far  by  the  flame,  driving  fast  on 

us  three 
As  a  hurricane  comes,  crushing  palms  in 

his  ire.' 


"JOAQUIN"   MILLER 


559 


"We  drew  in  the  lassoes,  seized  saddle 

and  rein, 
Threw  them  on,  cinched  them  on,  cinched 

them  over  again, 
And  again  drew  the  girth ;  and  sprung  we 

to  horse, 
With  head  to  the  Brazos,  with  a  sound 

in  the  air, 
Like  the  surge  of  a  sea,  with  a  flash  in 

the  eye,  5° 

From  that  red  wall  of  flame  reaching  up 

to  the  sky; 
A  red  wall  of  flame  and  a  black  rolling 

sea 

Rushing  fast  upon  us,  as  the  wind  sweep 
ing  free 
And  afar  from  the  desert  blown  hollow 

and  hoarse. 

•  "Not  a  word,  not  a  wail  from  a  lip  was 

let  fall, 
We   broke   not    a   whisper,   we   breathed 

not  a  prayer, 
There  was  work  to  be  done,  there  was 

death  in  the  air, 
And  the  chance  was  as  one  to  a  thousand 

for  all. 

Twenty  miles!   .    .    .  thirty  miles!   .    .    . 

a  dim  distant  speck  .    .    . 
Then  a  long  reaching  line,  and  the  Brazos 

in  sight!  ^ 

And  I  rose  in  my  seat  with  a  shout  of 

delight. 
I  stood  in  my  stirrup  and  look'd  to  my 

right- 
But  Revels  was  gone;  I  glanced  by  my 

shoulder 
And   saw   his   horse   stagger;   I   saw  his 

head  drooping 
Hard  down  on  his  breast,  and  his  naked 

breast  stooping 
Low  down  to  the  mane,  as  so  swifter  and 

bolder 
Ran  reaching  out  for  us  the  red-footed 

fire. 

He  rode  neck  to  neck  with  a  buffalo  bull, 
That  made  the  earth  shake  where  he  came 

in  his  course, 
The    monarch   of    millions,    with    shaggy 

mane  full  TO 

Of  smoke  and  of  dust,  and  it  shook  with 

desire 
Of  battle,  with  rage  and  with  bellowings 

hoarse. 
His    keen,    crooked    horns,    through    the 

storm  of  his  mane, 
Like  black  lances  lifted  and  lifted  again; 


And  I  looked  but  this  once,  for  the  fire 

licked  through, 
And  Revels  was  gone,  as  we  rode  two  and 

two. 

"I  look'd  to   my  left  then — and  nose, 

neck,  and  shoulder 
Sank  slowly,  sank  surely,  till  back  to  my 

thighs, 
And  up  through  the  black  blowing  veil  of 

her  hair 
Did  beam  full  in  mine  her  two  marvellous 

eyes,  80 

With  a  longing  and  love  yet  a  look  of 

despair 
And  of  pity  for  me,  as  she  felt  the  smoke 

fold  her, 
And  flames  leaping  far  for  her  glorious 

hair. 
Her  sinking  horse  falter'd,  plunged,  fell, 

and  was  gone 
As  I  reach'd  through  the  flame  and  I  bore 

her  still  on. 

On!  into  the  Brazos,  she,  Pache,  and  I — 
Poor,  burnt,  blinded  Pache.     I  love  him. 

That  's  why.i 

Oxford  Magazine?   1871? 


ENGLAND 

Thou,  mother  of  brave  men,  of  nations! 

Thou, 
The  white-browed  Queen  of  bold  white- 

bearded  Sea! 

Thou  wert  of  old  ever  the  same  as  now, 
So  strong,  so  weak,  so  tame,  so  fierce,  so 

bound,  so  free, 

A  contradiction  and  a  mystery; 
Serene,   yet   passionate,   in   ways   thine 

own. 
Thy  brave  ships  wind  and  weave  earth's 

destiny. 
The  zones  of  earth,  aye,  thou  hast  set  and 

sown 
All  seas  in  bed  of  blossom'd  sail,  as  some 

great  garden  blown. 

1871? 

*  ".  .  .  I  then  told  Browning  I  had  an  order 
—  it  was  my  first  —  for  a  poem  from  the  Oxford 
Magazine,  and  would  like  to  borrow  the  measure 
and  spirit  of  his  'Good  News'  for  a  prairie  fire 
on  the  plains,  driving  Buffalo  and  all  other  life 
before  it  into  a  river.  'Why  not  borrow  from 
Virgil,  as  I  did?  He  is  as  rich  as  one  of  your 
gold  mines,  while  I  am  but  a  poor  scribe.'  And 

' 


this  was  my  first  of  inner  London." 
Note.) 


(Author's 


560 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


FROM  A   SONG  OF  THE   SOUTH  1 
PART  II,  x.    DAWN 

'T  was  morn,  and  yet  it  was  not  morn; 
'T  was  morn  in  heaven,  not  on  earth: 
A  star  was  singing  of  a  birth, — 
Just  saying  that  a  day  was  born. 

The    marsh    hard   by   that   bound   the 

lake, — 

The  great  stork  sea-lake,  Pontchartrain, 
Shut  off  from  sultry  Cuban  main, — 
Drew  up  its  legs,  as  half  awake: 

Drew    long,   thin   legs,    stork-legs   that 

steep 

In  slime  where  alligators  creep, —  I0 

Drew  long,  green  legs  that  stir  the  grass, 
As  when  the  lost,  lorn  night  winds  pass. 

Then  from  the  marsh  came  croakings 

low; 
Then  louder  croaked  some  sea  -  marsh 

beast ; 

Then,  far  away  against  the  east, 
God's  rose  of  morn  began  to  grow. 

From  out  the  marsh  against  that  east, 
A  ghostly  moss-swept  cypress  stood; 
With  ragged  arms,  above  the  wood 
It  rose,  a  God- forsaken  beast.  2° 

It  seemed  so  frightened  where  it  rose ! 
The  moss-hung  thing,  it  seemed  to  wave 
The  worn-out  garments  of  a  grave, — 
To  wave  and  wave  its  old  grave-clothes. 

Close  by,  a  cow  rose  up  and  lowed 
From  out  a  palm-thatched  milking-shed ; 
A  black  boy  on  the  river  road 
Fled  sudden,  as  the  night  had  fled : 

A  nude  black  boy, — a  bit  of  night 
That  had  been  broken  off  and  lost  3° 

From  flying  night,  the  time  it  crossed 
The  soundless  river  in  its  flight: 

A  bit  of  darkness,  following 
The  sable  night  on  sable  wing, — 
A  bit  of  darkness,  dumb  with  fear, 
Because  that  nameless  tomb  was  near. 

1  The  "Song  of  the  South,"  as  published  in 
the  "Complete  Poems"  of  1904,  is  the  fifth 
revision  of  a  poem  on  the  Mississippi  River, 
originally  written  in  1876.  It  is  a  narrative  in 
1346  lines  in  two  parts,  from  which  Part  II,  x, 
is  selected  as  an  independent  lyric. 


Then  holy  bells  came  pealing  out; 
Then   steamboats  blew,  then  horses 

neighed ; 

Then  smoke  from  hamlets  round  about 
Crept  out,  as  if  no  more  afraid.  4° 

Then  shrill  cocks  here,  and  shrill  cocks 

there, 

Stretched  glossy  necks  and  filled  the  air ; — 
How  many  cocks  it  takes  to  make 
A  country  morning  well  awake ! 

Then  many  boughs,  with  many  birds,— 
Young  boughs  in  green,  old  boughs  in 

gray; 

These  birds  had  very  much  to  say, 
In  their  soft,  sweet,  familiar  words. 

And  all  seemed  sudden  glad;  the  gloom 
Forgot  the  church,  forgot  the  tomb;  so 
And  yet,  like  monks  with  cross  and  bead, 
The  myrtles  leaned  to  read  and  read. 

And  oh,  the  fragrance  of  the  sod! 
And  oh,  the  perfume  of  the  air! 
The  sweetness,  sweetness  everywhere, 
That  rose  like  incense  up  to  God ! 

I  like  a  cow's  breath  in  sweet  spring; 
I  like  the  breath  of  babes  new-born; 
A  maid's  breath  is  a  pleasant  thing, — 
But  oh,  the  breath  of  sudden  morn !       6° 

Of  sudden  morn,  when  every  pore 
Of  Mother  Earth  is  pulsing  fast 
With  life,  and  life  seems  spilling  o'er 
With  love,  with  love  too  sweet  to  last : 

Of  sudden  morn  beneath  the  sun, 
By  God's  great  river  wrapped  in  gray, 
That  for  a  space  forgets  to  run, 
And  hides  his  face,  as  if  to  pray. 

1876. 

QUESTION? 

In  the  days  when  my  mother,  the  Earth, 

was  young, 
And  you  all  were  not,  nor  the  likeness  of 

you, 

She  walk'd  in  her  maidenly  prime  among 
The  moonlit  stars  in  the  boundless  blue. 

Then   the  great  sun   lifted  his   shining 

shield, 
And  he  flash'd  his  sword  as  the  soldiers 

do, 
And  he  moved  like  a  king  full  over  the 

field, 
And  he  look'd,  and  he  loved  her  brave 

and  true. 


'JOAQUIN"    MILLER 


561 


And  looking  afar  from  the  ultimate  rim, 
As  he  lay  at  rest  in  a  reach  of  light,     10 
He  beheld  her  walking  alone  at  night, 
When  the  buttercup  stars  in  their  beauty 
swim. 

So  he  rose  up  flush'd  in  his  love,  and 

he  ran, 
And  he  reach'd  his  arms,  and  around  her 

waist 
He  wound  them  strong  like  a  love-struck 

man, 
And  he  kiss'd  and  embraced  her,  brave 

and  chaste. 

So  he  nursed  his  love  like  a  babe  at 

its  birth, 
And  he  warmed  in  his  love  as  the  long 

years    ran, 
Then    embraced    her    again,    and    sweet 

mother  Earth 
Was  a  mother  indeed,  and  her  child  was 

man.  2° 

The  sun  is  the  sire,  the  mother  is  earth ! 
What  more  do  you  know?     What  more 

do  I  need? 

The  one  he  begot,  and  the  one  gave  birth, 
And  I  love  them  both,  and  let  laugh  at 
your  creed. 

And  who  shall  say  I  am  all  unwise 
In  my  great,  warm  faith?     Time  answers 

us  not: 

The   quick    fool   questions;    but   who    re 
plies  ? 
The  wise  man  hesitates,  hushed  in  thought. 


CROSSING  THE   PLAINS 

What  great  yoked  brutes  with  briskets 

low, 

With  wrinkled  necks  like  buffalo, 
With  round,  brown,  liquid,  pleading  eyes, 
That  turn'd  so  slow  and  sad  to  you, 
That  shone  like  love's  eyes  soft  with  tears, 
That  seem'd  to  plead,  and  make   replies. 
The  while    they   bow'd    their   necks    and 

drew 

The  creaking  load ;  and  looked  at  you. 
Their  sable  briskets  swept  the  ground, 
Their  cloven  feet  kept  solemn  sound.     10 

Two  sullen  bullocks  led  the  line, 
Their  great  eyes  shining  bright  like  wine; 
Two  sullen  captive  kings  were  they, 
That  had  in  time  held-  herds  at  bay, 


And  even  now  they  crush'd  the  sod 
With  stolid  sense  of  majesty, 
And  stately  stepp'd  and  stately  trod, 
As  if  't  were  something  still  to  be 
Kings  even  in  captivity. 


WESTWARD   HO! 

What  strength!  what  strife!  what  rude 

unrest ! 
What    shocks !    what   half-shaped   armies 

met! 

A  mighty  nation  moving  west, 
With  all  it's  steely  sinews  set 
Against  the  living  forests.     Hear 
The  shouts,  the  shots  of  pioneer, 
The  rended  forests,  rolling  wheels, 
As   if   some   half-check'd   army   reels, 
Recoils,  redoubles,  comes  again, 
Loud  sounding  like  a  hurricane.  I0 

O  bearded,  stalwart,  westmost  men, 
So  tower-like,  so  Gothic  built ! 
A  kingdom  won  without  the  guilt 
Of  studied  battle,  that  hath  been 
Your  blood's  inheritance.    .    .    .   Your 

heirs 

Know  not  your  tombs  :  The  great  plough 
shares 

Cleave  softly  through  the  mellow  loam 
Where  you  have  made  eternal  home, 
And  set  no  sign.     Your  epitaphs 
Are  writ  in  furrows.     Beauty  laughs      x 
While  through  the  green   ways   wander 
ing 

Beside  her  love,  slow  gathering 
White  starry-hearted  May-time  blooms 
Above  your  lowly  level'd  tombs ; 
And  then  below  the  spotted  sky 
She  stops,  she-  leans,  she  wonders  why 
The  ground  is  heaved  and  broken  so, 
And  why.  the  grasses  darker  grow 
And  droo'p  and  trail  like  wounded  wing. 

Yea,  Time,  the  grand  old  harvester,    3° 
Has    gathered    you    from    wood    and 

plain, 

We  call  to  you  again,  again; 
The  rush  and  rumble  of  the  car 
Comes  back  in  answer.    Deep  and  wide 
The    wheels    of    progress    have    passed 

on; 

The  silent  pioneer  is  gone. 
His  ghost  is  moving  down  the  trees, 
And  now  we  push  the  memories 
Of  bluff,  bold  men  who  dared  and  died 
In  foremost  battle,  quite  aside  4<> 


562 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


THE    SIOUX    CHIEF'S    DAUGHTER 

Two  gray  hawks  ride  the  rising  blast; 
Dark  cloven  clouds  drive  to  and  fro 
By  peaks  pre-eminent  in  snow ; 
A  sounding  river  rushes  past, 
So  wild,  so  vortex-like,  and  vast. 

A  lone  lodge  tops  the  windy  hill; 
A  tawny  maiden,  mute  and  still. 
Stands  waiting  at  the  river's  brink, 
As  eager,  fond  as  you  can  think. 
A  mighty  chief  is  at  her  feet;  I0 

She  does  not  heed  him  wooing  so — 
She  hears  the  dark,  wild  waters  flow; 
She  waits  her  lover,  tall  and  fleet, 
From  out  far  beaming  hills  of  snow. 

He  comes !     The  grim  chief  springs  in 

air —   . 

His  brawny  arm,  his  blade  is  bare. 
She  turns ;    she    lifts    her   round,    brown 

hand; 

She  looks  him  fairly  in  the  face; 
She  moves  her  foot  a  little  pace 
And  says,  with  calmness  and  command,  2° 
"There  's  blood  enough  in  this  lorn  land. 

"But  see!  a  test  of  strength  and  skill, 
Of  courage  and  fierce  fortitude; 
To  breast  and  wrestle  with  the  rude 
And  storm-born  waters,  now  I  will 
Bestow  you  both. 

" Stand  either  side! 

And  you,  my  burly  chief,  I  know 
Would  choose  my  right.     Now  peer  you 

low 

Across  the  waters  wild  and  wide.          3° 
See !  leaning  so  this  morn  I  spied 
Red  berries  dip  yon  farther  side. 

"See,  dipping,  dripping  in  the  stream ! 
Twin  boughs  of  autumn  berrries  gleam! 

"Now  this,  brave  men,  shall  be  the  test : 
Plunge  in  the  stream,  bear  knife  in  teeth 
To  cut  yon  bough  for  bridal  wreath. 
Plunge  in !  and  he  who  bears  him  best, 
And  brings  yon  ruddy  fruit  to  land 
The    first,    shall   have   both    heart   and 
hand."  4° 

Two  tawny  men,  tall,  brown  and  thewed 
Like  antique  bronzes  rarely  seen, 
Shot  up  like  flame. 

She  stood  between 
Like  fixed,  impassive  fortitude. 


Then  one  threw  robes  with  sullen  air, 
And  wound  red  fox-tails  in  his  hair; 
But  one  with  face  of  proud  delight 
Entwined  a  wing  of  snowy  white. 

She  stood  between.     She  sudden  gave 
The  sign  and  each  impatient  brave          si 
Shot  sudden  in  the  sounding  wave ; 
The  startled  waters  gurgled  round; 
Their  stubborn  strokes  kept  sullen  sound. 

Oh,  then  uprose  the  love  that  slept ! 
Oh,  then  her  heart  beat  loud  and  strong ! 
Oh,  then  the  proud  love  pent  up  long 
Broke  forth  in  wail  upon  the  air ! 
And  leaning  there  she  sobbed  and  wept, 
With  dark  face  mantled  in  her  hair.      6° 

She  sudden  lifts  her  leaning  brow. 
He  nears  the  shore,  her  love !  and  now 
The  foam  flies  spouting  from  the  face 
That  laughing  lifts  from  out  the  race. 

The  race  is  won,  the  work  is  done! 
She  sees  the  kingly  crest  of  snow; 
She  knows  her  tall,  brown  Idaho. 
She  cries  aloud,  she  laughing  cries, 
And  tears  are  streaming  from  her  eyes : 
"O  splendid,  kingly  Idaho !  7° 

I  kiss  thy  lifted  crest  of  snow. 

"My  tall  and  tawny  king,  come  back ! 
Come  swift,  O  sweet!  why  falter  so? 
Come !    Come !     What  thing  has  crossed 

your  track? 

I  kneel  to  all  the  gods  I  know.  .   .   . 
Great  Spirit,  what  is  this  I  dread? 
Why,  there  is  blood !  the  wave  is  red ! 
That  wrinkled  chief,  outstripped  in  race, 
Dives  down,  and,  hiding  from  my  face, 
Strikes  underneath.  8° 

" He  rises  now  ! 

Now  plucks  my  hero's  berry  bough, 
And  lifts  aloft  his  red  fox  head, 
And  signals  he  has  won  for  me.  .   .    . 
Hist,  softly!     Let  him  come  and  see. 

"Oh,    come!    my    white-crowned    hero, 

come! 

Oh,  come!  and  I  will  be  your  bride. 
Despite  yon  chieftain's  craft  and  might. 
Come  back  to  me!  my  lips  are  dumb, 
My  hands  are  helpless  with  despair;     90 
The  hair  you  kissed,  my  long,  strong  hair, 
Is  reaching  to  the  ruddy  tide, 
That  you  may  clutch  it  when  you  come. 


"JOAQUIN"    MILLER 


563 


"How  slow  he  buffets  back  the  wave ! 
O  God,  he  sinks !     O  Heaven !  save 
My  brave,   brave  king !     He   rises !   see ! 
Hold  fast,  my  hero !     Strike  for  me. 
Strike  straight  this  way!     Strike  firm  and 

strong ! 

Hold  fast  your  strength.  It  is  not  long — 
O  God  he  sinks !  He  sinks !  Is  gone !  I0° 

"And  did  I  dream  and  do  I  wake? 
Or  did  I  wake  and  now  but  dream? 
And  what  is  this  crawls  from  the  stream? 
Oh,  here  is  some  mad,  mad  mistake ! 
What,  you !  the  red  fox  at  my  feet  ? 
You  first,  and  failing  from  the  race. 
What !    You  have  brought  me  berries  red  ? 
What!  You   have   brought  your   bride   a 

wreath  ? 

You  sly  red  fox  with  wrinkled  face — .  I09 
That  blade  has  blood  between  your  teeth ! 

"Lie  low !  lie  low !  while  I  lean  o'er 
And    clutch   your   red    blade   to   the 

shore   ... 

Ha !  ha !  So,  through  your  coward  throat 
The  full  day  shines !  .  .  .  Two  fox-Jails 

float 
Far  down,  and  I  but  mpqk.  Jhereat. 

."»  • 

"But  what  is  this?     What  snowy  crest 
Climbs  out  the  willows  of  the  west, 
All  dripping  from  his  streaming  hair, 
'T  is  he!     My  hero  brave  and  fair! 
His  face  is  lifting  to  my  face,  I2° 

And  who  shall  now  dispute  the  race? 

"The   gray   hawks   pass,   O   love!   and 

doves 

O'er  yonder  lodge  shall  coo  their  loves. 
My  hands  shall  heal  your  wounded  breasts, 
And  in  yon  tall  lodge  two  shall  rest." 


BY   THE   PACIFIC   OCEAN 

Here  room  and  kingly  silence  keep 
Companionship  in  state  austere, 
The  dignity  of  death  is  here. 
The  large,  lone  vastness  of  the  deep. 
Here  toil  has  pitched  his  camp  to  rest, 
The  west  is  banked  against  the  west. 

Above  yon  gleaming  skies  of  gold 
One  lone  imperial  peak  is  seen ; 
While  gathered  at  his  feet  in  green 
Ten  thousand  foresters  are  told. 
And  all  so  still !  so  still  the  air 
That  duty  drops  the  web  of  care. 


Beneath  the  sunset's  golden  sheaves 
The  awful  deep  walks  with  the  deep, 
Where  silent  sea  doves  slip  and  sweep, 
And  commerce  keeps  her   loom  and 

weaves. 

The  dead  red  men  refuse  to  rest ; 
Their  ghosts  illume  my  lurid  West. 


AT   OUR   GOLDEN    GATE 

At  our  gate  he  groaneth,  groaneth, 
Chafes  as  chained,  and  chafes  all  day ; 
As  leashed  greyhound  moaneth,  moaneth, 
When   the   master  keeps  away. 
Men  have  seen  him  steal  in  lowly, 
Lick  the  island's  feet  and  face, 
Lift  a  cold  wet  nose  up  slowly, 
Then  turn   empty  to   his   place: 
Empty,  idle,  hungered,  waiting 
For  some  hero,  -dauntless-souled,  I0 

Glory-loving,  pleasure-hating, 
Minted  in  God's  ancient  mold. 

•  'What  ship  yonder  stealing,  stealing, 

Pirate-like,  as  if  ashamed? 

Black  men,  brown  men,  red,  revealing — 

Not  one  white  man  to  be  named ! 

What  flag  yonder,  proud,  defiant, 

Topmast,  saucy,  and  sea  blown? 

Tall  ships  lordly  and  reliant — 

All  flags  yonder  save  our  own !  20 

Surged  atop  yon  half-world  water 

Once  a  tuneful  tall  ship  ran; 

Ran  the  storm  king,  too,  and  caught  her, 

Caught  and  laughed  as  laughs  a  man : 

Laughed  and  held  her,  and  so  holden, 
Holden  high,  foam-crest  and  free 
As  famed  harper,  hoar  and  olden, 
Held  his  great  harp  on  his  knee. 
Then  his  fingers  wildly  flinging 
Through    chords,    ropes — such    symphony 
As  if  some  wild  Wagner  singing —        3' 
Some- wild  Wagner  of  the  sea! 
Sang  he  of  such  poor  cowed  weaklings, 
Cowed,  weak  landsmen  such  as  we. 
While  ten  thousand  storied  sea  kings 
Foam-white,  storm-blown,  sat  the  sea, 

Oh,  for  England's  old  sea  thunder! 
Oh,  for  England's  bold  sea  men. 
When  we  banged  her  over,  under 
And  she  banged  us  back  again !  *> 

Better  old  time  strife  and  stresses, 
Cloud  top't  towers,  walls,  distrust; 
Better  wars  than  lazinesses, 
Better  loot  than  wine  and  lust! 


564 


AMERICAN   POETRY 


Give  us  seas?    Why,  we  have  oceans! 
Give  us  manhood,  sea  men,  men ! 
Give  us  deeds,  loves,  hates,  emotions ! 
Else  give  back  these  seas  again. 


COLUMBUS  i 

Behind  him  lay  the  great  Azores, 
Behind  the  Gates  of  Hercules; 
Before  him  not  the  ghost  of  shores; 
Before  him  only  shoreless  seas. 
The   good   mate   said:     "Now   must   we 

pray, 

For  lo !   the  very  stars  are  gone. 
Brave  Adm'r'l,  speak;  what  shall  I  say?" 
"Why,  say :    'Sail  on !   sail  on !   and  on  !'  " 

"My  men  grow  mutinous  day  by  day ;     • 
My  men  grow  ghastly  wan  and  Weak."    -*.0 
The  stout  mate  thought'tTf  home;  a  spray 
Of  salt  wave  washed  his  swarthy  cheek. 
"What  shall  I  say,  brave  Adm'r'l,  say-, 
If  we  sight  naught  but  seas  at  dawn?" 
"Why,  you  shall  say  at  break  of  .day :  ~-» 
'Sail  on !    sail  on  !    sail  on  !    and  on  !'  " 

They  sailed  and  sailed,  as  winds 

blow, 

Until  at  last  the  blanched  mate  said : 
"Why,  now  not  even  God  would  know 
Should  I  and  all  my  men  fall  dead.        2° 
These  very  winds   forget  their  way, 
For  God  from  these  dread  seas  is  gone. 
Now    speak,    brave    Adm'r'l;    speak    and 

say — " 
He  said  :    "Sail  on !   sail  on !   and  on  !" 

They  sailed.     They  sailed.     Then  spake 

the  mate : 

"This  mad  sea  shows  his  teeth  to-night. 
He  curls  his  lip,  he  lies  in  wait, 
With  lifted  teeth,  as  if  to  bite! 
Brave  Adm'r'l,  say  but  one  good  word : 
What  shall  we  do  when  hope  is  gone?" 
The  words  leapt  like  a  leaping  sword :    31 
"Sail  on !   sail  on !    sail  on !    and  on !" 

Then,  pale  and  worn,  he  kept  his  deck, 
And  peered  through  darkness.     Ah,  that 

night 

Of  all  dark  nights !     And  then  a  speck — 
It  grew,  .a  starlit  flag  unfurled! 
It  grew  to  be  Time's  burst  of  dawn. 
He  gained  a  world ;  he  gave  that  world 
Its  grandest  lesson :    "On !  sail  on !" 

1  Compare    with    Sidney    Lanier's    Sonnets    on 
Columbus  from  the  Psalm  of  the  West,,  p.  458  ft'. 


SONGS     FROM     SAPPHO     AND 
PHAON 

SONG  FIRST 
"In  the  beginning  God — " 

When  God's  spirit  moved  upon 
The  water's  face,  and  vapors  curled 
Like  incense  o'er  deep-cradled  dawn 
That  dared  not  yet  the  mobile  world, — 

When  deep-cradled  dawn  uprose, 
Ere  the  baby  stars  were  born, 
When  the  end  of  all  repose 
Came  with  that  first  wondrous  morn, — 

In  the  morning  of  the  world 
When  light  lept, — a  giant  born :  I0 

O  that  morning  of  the  world, 
That -vast,  first,  tumultuous  morn! 

SONG  SECOND 
"And  God  said,  'Let  there  be  light.'" 

•    Rise  up !     How  brief  this  little  day ! 
We  can  tmt  kindle  some  dim  light 
H^fe  m*tfie  darkefled,  wooded  way 
•Before  the  gathering  of  night. 
Cmne,  let  us  kindfaMj.     The  dawn 
Snail  find  us  teriting"  further  on. 
Come,  let  us  kindle  ere  we  go — 
We  know  not  where ;  but  this  we  know. 
Night  cometh  on,  and  man  needs  light. 
Come !    camp-fire  embers,  ere  we  grope  I0 
Yon  gray  archway  of  night. 

Life  is  so  brief,  so  very  brief, 
So  rounded  in,  we  scarce  can  see 
The  fruitage  grown  about  the  leaf 
And   foliage  of  a  single  tree 
In  all  God's  garden ;  yet  we  know 
That  goodly  fruits  must  grow  and  grow 
Beyond  our  vision.     We  but  stand 
In  some  deep  hollow  of  God's  hand, 
Hear  some  sweet  bird  its  little  day,       2° 
See  cloud  and  sun  a  season  pass, 
And  then,  sweet  friend,  away ! 

Clouds  pass,  they  come  again;  and  we, 
Are  we,  then,  less  than  these  to  God? 
Oh,  for  the  stout  faith  of  a  tree 
That  drops  its  small  seeds  to  the  sod, 
Safe  in  the  hollow  of  God's  hand, 
And  knows  that  perish  from  the  land 
It  shall  not!     Yea,  this  much  we  know, 
That  each,  as  best  it  can,  shall  grow      3° 
As  God  has  fashioned,  fair  or  plain, 
To  do  its  best,  or  cloud  or  sun 
Or  in  His  still,  small  rain. 


'JOAQUIN"    MILLER 


565 


Oh,  good  to  see  is  faith  in  God! 

But  better  far  is  faith  in  good: 

The  one  seems  but  a  sign,  a  nod, 

The  one  seems  God's  own  flesh  and  blood. 

How  many  names  of  God  are  sung ! 

But  god  is  good  in  every  tongue. 

And  this  the  light,  the  holy  light  4° 

That  leads  through  night  and  night  and 
night ; 

Thro'  nights  named  Death,  that  lie  be 
tween 

The  days  named  Life,  the  ladder  round, 

Unto  the  Infinite  Unseen. 

SONG  THIRD 
"And  God  saw  the  light  that  it  was  good." 

I  heard  a  tale  long,  Igng  ago, 
Where  I  had  gone  apart  to  pray 
By   Shasta's  pyramid  of  snow, 
That  touches  me  unto  this  day. 
I  know  the  fashion  is  to  say 
An  Arab  tale,  an  Orient  lay; 
But  when  the  grocer  rings  my  gold 
On  counter,  flung  from  greasy  hold, 
He  cares  not  from  Arcadian  vale 
It  comes,  or  savage  mountain  chine; —  10 
But  this  the  Shastan  tale: 

Once  in  the  olden,  golden  days, 
When  men  and  beasts  companioned,  when 
All  went  in  peace  about  their  ways 
Nor  God  had  hid  His  face  from  men 
Because  man  slew  his  brother  beast 
To  make  his  most  unholy  feast, 
A  gray  coyote,  monkish  cowled, 
Upraised  his  face  and  wailed  and  howled 
The  while  he  made  his  patient  round;    M 
For  lo !  the  red  men  all  lay  dead, 
Stark,  frozen  on  the  ground. 

The  very   dogs   had   fled   the   storm, 
A  mother  with  her  long,  meshed  hair 
Bound  tight  about  her  baby's  form, 
Lay  frozen,  all  her  body  bare. 
Her  last  shred  held  her  babe  in  place; 
Her  last  breath  warmed  her  baby's  face. 
Then,  as  the  good  monk  brushed  the  snow 
Aside  from  mother  loving  so,  30 

He  heard  God  from  the  mount  above 
Speak  through  the  clouds  and  loving  say : 
"Yea,  all  is  dead  but  Love." 

Now  take  up  Love  and  cherish  her, 
And  seek  the  white  man  with  all  speed, 
And  keep  Love  warm  within  thy  fur; 
For  oh,  he  needeth  love  indeed. 


Take  all  and  give  him  freely,  all 
Of  love ^ you  find,  or  great  or  small; 
For  he  is  very  poor  in  this,  4° 

So  poor  he  scarce  knows  what  love  is." 
The  gray  monk  raised  Love  in  his  paws, 
And  sped,  a  ghostly  streak  of  gray, 
To  where  the  white  man  was. 

But  man  uprose,  enraged  to  see 
A  gaunt  wolf  track  his  new-hewn  town. 
He  called  his  dogs,  and  angrily 
He  brought  his  flashing  rifle  down. 
Then  God  said :  "On  his  hearthstone  lay 
The  seed  of  Love,  and  come  away ;          so 
The  seed  of  Love,  't  is  needed  so, 
And  pray  that  it  may  grow  and  grow." 
And  so  the  gray  monk  crept  at  night 
And  laid  Love  down,  as  God  had  said, 
A  faint  and  feeble  light. 

So  faint  indeed,  the  cold  heartstone 
It  seemed  would  chill  starved  Love  to 

death ; 

And  so  the  monk  gave  all  his  own 
And  crouched  and  fanned  it  with  his 

breath 

Until  a  red  cock  crowed  for  day.  6° 

Then  God  said :  "Rise  up,  come  away." 
The  beast  obeyed,  but  yet  looked  back 
All  morn  along  his  lonely  track; 
For  he  had  left  his  all  in  all, 
His  own  Love,  for  that  famished  Love 
Seemed  so  exceeding  small. 

And  God  said :    "Look  not  back  again." 
But  ever,  where  a  campfire  burned, 
And   he  beheld   strong,  burly  men 
At  meat,  he  sat  him  down  and  turned    7° 
His  face  to  wail  and  wail  and  mourn 
The  Love  laid  on  that  cold  hearthstone. 
Then  God  was  angered,  and  God  said: 
"Be-thou  a  beggar  then;  thy  head 
Hath  been  a  fool,  but  thy  swift  feet, 
Because  they  bore  sweet  Love,   shall  be 
The  fleetest  of  all  fleet." 

And  ever  still  about  the  camp, 
By  chine  or  plain,  in  heat  or  hail, 
A  homeless,  hungry,  hounded  tramp,      8° 
The  gaunt  coyote  keeps  his  wail. 
And  ever  as  he  wails  he  turns 
His   head,   looks   back  and  yearns  and 

yearns 

For  lost  Love,  laid  that  wintry  day 
To  warm  a  hearthstone  far  away. 
Poor  loveless,  homeless  beast,  I  keep 
Your  lost  Love  warm  for  you,  and,  too, 
A  canon  cool  and  deep. 


566 


AMERICAN   POETRY 


SONG  FOURTH 

"And  God  saw  everything  that  He  had 
made,  and,  behold,  it  was  very  good." 

Says  Plato,  "Once  in  Greece  the  Gods 
Plucked  grapes,  pressed  wine,  and  revelled 

deep 

And   drowsed  below  their  poppy-pods, 
And  lay  full  length  the  hills  asleep. 
Then,  waking,  one  said,  'Overmuch 
We  toil;  come,  let  us  rise  and  touch 
Red  clay,  and  shape  it  into  man, 
That  he  may  build  as  we  shall  plan!' 
And  so  they  shaped  man  all  complete, 
Self-procreative,  satisfied;  I0 

Two  heads,  four  hands,  four  feet. 


"And   then   the    Gods    slept,    heedless, 

long; 

But  waking  suddenly  one  day, 
They  heard  their  valley  ring  with  song 
And  saw  man  revelling  as  they. 
Enraged,  they  drew  their  swords  and  said, 
'Bow  down,  bend  down !' — but  man  replied 
Defiant,  fearless  everywhere 
His  four  fists  shaking  in  the  air. 
The  Gods  descending,  cleft  in  twain      x 
Each  man;  then  wiped  their  swords  on 

grapes ; 
And  let  confusion  reign. 


"And  such  confusion !  each  half  ran, 
Ran  here,  ran  there;  or  weep  or  laugh 
Or  what  he  would,  each  helpless  man 
Ran  hunting  for  his  other  half. 
And  from  that  day,  thenceforth  the  grapes 
Bore  blood  and  flame,  and  restless  shapes 
Of  hewn-dqwn,  helpless  halves  of  men, 
Ran  searching  ever;  crazed  as  when      3° 
First  hewn  in  twain,  they  grasped,  let  go, 
Then  grasped  again;  but  rarely  found 
That  lost  half  once  loved  so." 


Now,  right  or  wrong,  or  false  or  true, 
'T  is  Plato's  tale  of  bitter  sweet; 
But  I  know  well,  and  well  know  you 
The  quest  keeps  on  at  fever  heat. 
Let  Love,  then,  wisely   sit  and   wait ! 
The  world  is  round;  sit  by  the  gate, 
Like  blind  Belisarius :  being  blind,          4° 
Love  should  not  search ;  Love  shall  not 

find 

By  searching.     Brass  is  so  like  gold, 
How  shall  this  blind  Love  know  new  brass 
From  pure,  soft  gold  of  old? 


ADIOS 

And  here,   sweet  friend,  I  go  my  way 
Alone,  as  I  have  lived,  alone 
A  little  way,  a  brief  half  day, 
And  then,   the   restful,   white  milestone. 
I  know  not  surely  where  or  when, 
But  surely  know  we  meet  again, 
As  surely  know  we  love  anew 
In  grander  life  the  good  and  true; 
Shall   breathe  together  there  as  here 
Some  clearer,  sweeter  atmosphere,         I0 
Shall  walk  high,  wider  ways  above 
Our  petty  selves,  shall  learn  to  lead 
Man  up  and  up  in  thought  and  deed.  .  .  . 
Dear  soul,  sweet  friend,  I  love  you,  love 
The  love  that  led  you  patient  through 
This  wilderness  of  words  in  quest 
Of  strange  wild  flowers  from  my  West; 
But  here,  dear  heart,  Adieu. 


Yon  great  chained  sea-ship  chafes  to  be 
Once  more  unleashed  without  the  gate  M 
On  proud  Balboa's  boundless  sea, 
And  I  chafe  with  her,  for  I  hate 
The  rust  of  rest,  the  dull  repose, 
The   fawning  breath  of  changeful   foes, 
Whose  blame  through  all  my  bitter  days 
I  have  endured ;  spare  me  their  praise ! 
I  go,  full-hearted,  grateful,  glad 
Of  strength  from  dear  good  mother  earth; 
And  yet  I  am  full  sad. 


Could  I  but  teach  man  to  believe —    3° 
Could  I  but  make  small  men  to  grow, 
To  break  frail  spider-webs  that  weave 
About  their  thews  and  bind  them  low; 
Could  I  but  sing  one  song  and  slay 
Grim  Doubt;  I  then  could  go  my  way 
In  tranquil  silence,  glad,  serene, 
And,  satisfied,   from  off  the  scene. 
But  ah,  this  disbelief,  this  doubt, 
This  doubt  of  God,  this  doubt  of  good, — 
The  damned  spot  will  not  out.  4° 


Grew  once  a  rose  within  my  room 
Of  perfect  hue,  of  perfect  health; 
Of  such  perfection  and  perfume, 
It  filled  my  poor  house  with  its  wealth. 
Then  came  the  pessimist  who  knew 
Not  good  or  grace,  but  overthrew 
My  rose,  and  in  the  broken  pot 
Nosed  fast  for  slugs  within  the  rot. 
He  found,  found  with  exulting  pride, 
Deep  in  the  loam,  a  worm,  a  slug;          5° 
The  while  my  rose-tree  died. 


"JOAQUIN"    MILLER 


567 


IV 

Yea,  ye  did  hurt  me.    Joy  in  this. 
Receive  great  joy  at  last  to  know, 
Since  pain  is  all  your  world  of  bliss, 
That  ye  did,  hounding,,  hurt  me  so ! 
But  mute  as  bayed  stag  on  his  steeps, 
Who  keeps  his  haunts,  and,  bleeding  keeps 
His  breast  turned,  watching  where  they 

come. 

Kept  I,   defiant,  and  as  dumb. 
But  comfort  ye;  your  work  was  done    6° 
With  devil's  cunning,  like  the  mole 
That  lets  the  life-sap  run. 


VII 

The  old  desire  of  far,  new  lands, 
The  thirst  to  learn,  to  still  front  storms, 
To  bend  my  knees,  to  lift  my  hands 
To  God  in  all  his  thousand  forms — 
These  lure  and  lead  as  pleasantly 
As  old  songs  sung  anew  at  sea.  9° 

But,  storied  lands  or  stormy  deeps, 
I  will  my  ashes  to  my  steeps — 
I  will  my  steeps,  green  cross,  red  rose, 
To  those  who  love  the  beautiful — 
Come,  learn  to  be  of  those. 


And  my  revenge?     My  vengeance  is 
That  I  have  made  one  rugged  spot 
The  fairer;  that  I  fashioned  this 
While  envy,  hate,  and   falsehood  shot 
Rank  poison ;  that  I  leave  to  those 
Who  shot,  for  arrows,  each  a  rose; 
Aye,  labyrinths  of  rose  and  wold, 
Acacias  garmented   in   gold,  7° 

Bright    fountains,    where    birds   come   to 

drink; 

Such  clouds  of  cunning,  pretty  birds, 
And  tame  as  you  can  think. 

VI 

Come  here  when  I  am  far  away, 
Fond  lovers  of  this  lovely  land, 
And  sit  quite  still  and  do  not  say, 
Turn  right  or  left,  or  lift  a  hand, 
But  sit  beneath  my  kindly  trees 
And  gaze  far  out  yon  sea  of  seas : — 
These  trees,  these  very  stones,  could  tell 
How  long  I  loved  them,  and  how  well —  8l 
And  maybe  I  shall  come  and  sit 
Beside  you ;  sit  so  silently 
You  will  not  reck  of  it. 


VIII 

The  sun  has  draped  his  couch  in  red ; 
Night  takes  the  warm  world  in  his  arms 
And  turns  to  their  espousal  bed 
To  breathe  the  perfume  of  her  charms : 
The  great  sea  calls,  and  I  descend        I0° 
As  to  the  call  of  some  strong  friend. 
I  go,  not  hating  any  man 
But  loving  earth  as  any  can 
A  lover  suckled  at  her  breast 
Of  beauty  from  his  babyhood, 
And  roam  to  truly  rest. 

IX 

God  is  not  far;  man  is  not  far 
From  Heaven's  porch,  where  paeans  roll. 
Man  shall  yet  speak  from  star  to  star 
In  silent  language  of  the  soul ;  "o 

Yon  star-strewn  skies  be  but  a  town, 
With  angels  passing  up  and  down. 

I  leave  my  peace  with  you."     Lo !  these 
His  seven  wounds,  the  Pleiades 
Pierce  Heaven's  porch.    But,  resting  there, 
The  new  moon  rocks  the  Child  Christ  in 
Her  silver  rocking  chair. 


RICHARD    HOVEY 

(1864-1900) 


COMRADES 

Comrades,  pour  the  wine  to-night, 

For  the  parting  is  with  dawn. 
Oh,  the  clink  of  cups  together, 
With  the  daylight  coming  on ! 
Greet  the  morn 
With  a  double  horn, 
When  strong  men  drink  together ! 

Comrades,  gird  your  swords  to-night, 

For  the  battle  is  with  dawn. 
Oh,  the  clash  of  shields  together, 
With  the  triumph  coming  on! 
Greet  the  foe 
And'  lay  him  low, 
When  strong  men  fight  together. 

Comrades,  watch  the  tides  to-night, 

For  the  sailing  is  with  dawn. 
Oh,  to  face  the  spray  together, 
With  the  tempest  coming  on! 
Greet  the  Sea 
With  a  shout  of  glee, 
When  strong  men  roam  together. 

Comrades,  give  a  cheer  to-night, 

For  the  dying  is  with  dawn. 
Oh,  to  meet  the  stars  together, 
With  the  silence  coming  on ! 
Greet  the  end 
As  a  friend  a  friend, 
When  strong  men  die  together. 

From    Ode    read    at    60th    convention    of 
Upsilon  fraternity,  May  18,   1893. 


THE   WANDER   LOVERS 

Down  the  world  with  Marna! 
That  's  the  life  for  me! 
Wandering  with  the  wandering  wind, 
Vagabond  and  unconfined ! 
Roving  with  the  roving  rain 
Its  unboundaried  domain! 
Kith  and  kin  of  wander-kind, 
Children  of  the  sea! 

Petrels  of  the  sea-drift! 
Swallows  of  the  lea! 


Arabs  of  the  whole  wide  girth 
Of  the  wind-encircled  earth! 
In  all  climes  we  pitch  our  tents, 
Cronies  of  the  elements, 
With  the  secret  lords  of  birth 
Intimate  and  free. 

All  the  seaboard  knows  us 
From  Fundy  to  the  Keys; 
Every  bend  and  every  creek 
Of  abundant  Chesapeake; 
Ardise  hills  and  Newport  coves 
10      And  the  far-off  orange  groves, 
Where  Floridian  oceans  break, 
Tropic  tiger  seas. 

Down  the  world  with  Marna, 
Tarrying  there  and  here! 
Just  as  much  at  home  in  Spain 
As  in  Tangier  or  Touraine! 
Shakespeare's  Avon  knows  us  well, 
And  the  crags  of  Neufchatel; 
And  the  ancient  Nile  is  fain 
20      Of  our  coming  near. 

Down  the  world  with  Marna, 
Daughter  of  the  air ! 
Marna  of  the  subtle  grace, 
And  the  vision  in  her  face ! 
Moving  in  the  measures  trod 
By  the  angels  before  God ! 
With  her  sky-blue  eyes  amaze 
And  her  sea-blue  hair ! 


Psi 


Marna  with  the  trees'  life 
In  her  veins  a-stir! 
Marna  of  the  aspen  heart 
Where  the  sudden  quivers  start! 
Quick-responsive,  subtle,  wild ! 
Artless  as  an  artless  child, 
Spite  of  all  her  reach  of  art! 
Oh,  to  roam  with  her ! 

Marna  with  the  wind's  will, 
Daughter  of  the  sea ! 
Marna  of  the  quick  disdain, 
Starting  at  the  dream  of  stain! 
At  a  smile  with  love  aglow, 
At  a  frown  a  statued  woe, 
Standing  pinnacled  in  pain 
Till  a  kiss  sets  free ! 


568 


RICHARD   HOVEY 


569 


Down   the    world    with    Marna, 
Daughter  of  the  fire ! 
Marna  of  the  deathless  hope, 
Still  alert  to  win  new  scope 
Where  the  wings  of  life  may  spread 
For  the  flight  unhazarded ! 
Dreaming  of  the  speech  to  cope 
With  the  heart's  desire ! 

Marna  of  the  far  quest 
After  the  divine! 
Striving  ever  for  some  goal 
Past  the  blunder-god's  control! 
Dreaming  of  potential  years 
When  no  day  shall  dawn  in  fears ! 
That  's  the  Marna  of  my  soul, 
Wander-bride  of  mine! 


60 


1893. 


SPRING 


I  said  in  my  heart,  "I  am  sick  of  four 

walls  and  a  ceiling. 
I  have  need  of  the  sky. 
I  have  business  with  the  grass. 
I  will  up  and  get  me  away  where  the  hawk 

is  wheeling, 
Lone  and  high, 
And  the  slow  clouds  go  by. 
I  will  get  me  away  to  the  waters  that 

glass 

The  clouds  as  they  pass, 
To  the  waters  that  lie 
Like  the  heart  of  a  maiden  aware  of  a 

doom  drawing  nigh 

And  dumb  for  sorcery  of  inpending  joy. 
I  will  get  me  away  to  the  woods.  JI 

Spring,  like  a  huntsman's  boy, 
Halloos  along  the  hillsides  and  unhoods 
The  falcon  in  my  will. 
The  dogwood  calls  me,  and  the   sudden 

thrill 
That  breaks  in  apple  blooms  down  country 

roads 
P'ucks  me  by  the  sleeve  and  nudges  me 

away. 

The  sap  is  in  the  boles  to-day, 
And  in  my  veins  a  pulse  that  yearns  and 

goads." 

When  I  got  to  the  woods,  I  found  out  2° 
What  the  Spring  was  about, 
With  her  gypsy  ways 
And  her  heart  ablaze, 
Coming  up  from  the  south 
With  the  wander-lure  of  witch  songs  in 
her  mouth. 


For  the  sky 

Stirred  and  grew  soft  and  swimming  as 

a  lover's  eye 
As  she  went  by; 
The  air 

Made  love  to  all  it  touched,  as  if  its  care 
Were  all  to  spare;  3' 

The  earth 

Prickled  with  lust  of  birth; 
The  woodland  streams 
Babbled  the  incoherence  of  the  thousand 

dreams 

Wherewith  the  warm  sun  teems. 
And  out  of  the   frieze 
Of  the  chestnut  trees 
I  heard 
The   sky  and   the  fields   and  the  thicket 

find  voice  in  a  bird.  4° 

The  goldenwing — hark ! 
How  he  drives  his  song 
Like  a  golden  nail 
Through  the  hush  of  the  air! 
I  thrill  to  his  cry  in  the  leafage  there; 
I  respond  to  the  new  life  mounting  under 

the  bark. 

I  shall  not  be  long 
To  follow 
With  eft  and  bulrush,  bee  and  bud  and 

swallow, 
On  the  old  trail.  so 

Spring  in  the  world ! 

And  all  things  are  made  new! 

There  was  never  a  mote  that  whirled 

In  the  nebular  morn, 

There  was  never  a  brook  that  purled 

When  the  hills  were  born, 

There  was  never  a  leaf  uncurled — 

Not  the  first  that  grew — 

Nor  a  bee-flight  hurled, 

Nor  a  bird-note  skirled,  fe 

Nor  a  cloud-wisp  swirled 

In  the  depth  of  the  blue, 

More  alive  and  afresh  and  impromptu, 
more  thoughtless  and  certain  and  free, 

More  a-shout  with  the  glee 

Of  the  Unknown  new-burst  on  the  won 
der,  than  here,  than  here, 

In   the   re-wrought  sphere 

Of  the  new-born  year — 

Now,  now, 

When  the  greenlet  sings  on  the  red-bud 
bough 

Where  the  blossoms  are  whispering  "I 
and  thou,"— 

"I  and  thou," 

And  a  lass  at  the  turn  looks  after  her 
lad  with  a  dawn  on  her  brow, 

And   the  world  is  just  made — now! 


570 


AMERICAN   POETRY 


Spring  in  the  heart! 

With  her  pinks  and  pearls  and  yellows ! 

Spring,  fellows, 

And  we  too   feel  the  little  green  leaves 

a-start 
Across    the   bare-twigged    winter   of   the 

mart. 

The  campus  is  reborn  in  us  to-day; 
The  old  grip  stirs  our  hearts  with  new- 
old  joy;  8° 
Again  bursts  bonds  for  madcap  holiday 
The  eternal  boy. 
For   we   have   not    come   here    for    long 

debate 
Nor   taking   counsel    for   our    household 

order, 
Howe'er    we    make    a    feint    of    serious 

things, — 

For  all  the  world  as  in  affairs  of  state 
A  word  goes  out  for  war  along  the  border 
To  further  or  defeat  the  loves  of  kings. 
We  put  our  house  to  rights  from  year  to 

year, 
But  that  is  not  the  call   that  brings  us 

here ;  9° 

We  have  come  here  to  be  glad. 

Give  a  rouse,  then,  in  the  Maytime 

For  a  life  that  knows  no  fear! 
Turn  night-time  into  daytime 

With  the  sunlight  of  good  cheer! 
For  it  's  always  fair  weather 
When  good  fellows  get  together 
With   a   stein  on   the  table   and   a  good 
song  ringing  clear. 

When  the  wind  comes  up  from  Cuba 

And  the  birds  are  on  the  wing,          I0° 
And  our  hearts  are  patting  juba 
To  the  banjo  of  the  spring, 

Then  there  's  no  wonder  whether 
The  boys  will  get  together, 
With  a  stein  on  the  table  and  a  cheer  for 
everything. 

For  we're  all  frank-and-twenty 

When  the  spring  is  in  the  air, 
And  we've  faith  and  hope  a-plenty, 
And  we've  life  and  love  to  spare; 

And  it  's  birds  of  a  feather      »° 
When  we  all  get  together, 
With  a   stein  on   the  table  and   a  heart 
without  a  care. 

For  we  know  the  world  is  glorious 
And   the  goal  a  golden  thing, 

And  that  God  is  not  censorious 

When  his  children  have  their  fling; 


And   life   slips  its  tether 
When  the  boys  get  together, 
With  a  stein  on  the  table  in  the  fellowship 
of  spring. 

A  road  runs  east  and  a  road  runs  west  I2° 
From  the  table  where  we  sing; 
And  the  lure  of  the  one  is  a  roving  quest, 
And  the  lure  of  the  other  a  lotus  dream. 
And  the  eastward    road    leads    into    the 

West 
Of   the   lifelong   chase   of   the   vanishing 

gleam ; 
And   the   westward   road   leads    into   the 

East, 

Where  the  spirit  from  striving  is  released, 
Where  the  soul  like  a  child  in  God's  arms 

lies 

And  forgets  the  lure  of  the  butterflies. 
And  west  is  east,  if  you  follow  the  trail 

to  the  end;  '3° 

And  east  is  west,  if  you  follow  the  trail 

to  the  end; 
And  the  East  and  the  West  in  the  spring 

of  the  world  shall  blend 
As  a  man  and  a  woman  that  plight 
Their  troth  in  the  warm  spring  night. 
And  the  spring   for  the  East  is  the  sap 

in  the  heart  of  a  tree; 
And  the  spring  for  the  West  is  the  will 

in  the  wings  of  a  bird; 
But  the  spring  for  the  East  and  the  West 

alike  shall  be 
An  urge  in  their  bones  and  an  ache  in 

their  spirit,  a  word 
That  shall  knit  them  in  ojie  for  Time's 

foison,  once  they  have  heard. 

And  do  I  not  hear  140 

The  first  low   stirring  of  that  greater 

spring 
Thrill   in  the  underworld   of  the  cosmic 

year? 

The  wafture  of  scant  violets  presaging 
The  roses  and  the  tasselled  corn  to  be; 
A   yearning   in   the   roots   of   grass   and 

tree; 

A  swallow  in  the  eaves ; 
The  hint  of  coming  leaves; 
The   signals   of   the   summer  coming   up 

from   Arcadie ! 

For  surely  in  the  blind  deep-buried  roots 
Of  all  men's  souls  to-day  '5<> 

A  secret  quiver  shoots. 
An  underground  compulsion  of  new  birth 
Lays   hold   upon   the    dark   core   of   our 
being, 


RICHARD    HOVEY 


571 


And  unborn  blossoms  urge  their  uncom- 

prehended  way 
Toward  the  outer  day. 
Unconscious,  dumb,  unseeing, 
The  darkness  in  us  is  aware 
Of  something  potent  burning  through  the 

earth, 
Of  something  vital  in   the  procreant  air. 


Is  it  a  spring,  indeed?  l6° 

Or  do  we  stir  and  mutter  in  our  dreams, 
Only  to  sleep  again? 
What  warrant  have  we  that  we  give  not 

heed 

To  the  caprices  of  an  idle  brain 
That  in  its  slumber  deems 
The  world  of  slumber  real  as  it  seems? 
No,— 

Spring's  not  to  be  mistaken. 
When  her  first  far  flute  notes  blow 
Across  the  snow,  '7° 

Bird,  beast,  and  blossom  know 
That  she  is  there. 
The  very  bats  awaken 
That  hang  in  clusters  in  Kentucky  caves 
All  winter,  breathless,  motionless,  asleep, 
And  feel  no  alteration  of  the  air, 
For   all   year   long   those   vasty   caverns 

keep, 

Winter  and  summer,  even  temperature ; 
And  yet  when  April  whistles  on  the  hill, 
Somehow,    far   in   those   subterranean 

naves,  l8° 

They  know,  they  hear  her,  they  obey  her 

will, 
And  wake  and  circle  through  the  vaulted 

aisles 

To  find  her  in  the  open  where  she  smiles. 
So  we  -are  somehow  sure, 
By   this   dumb   turmoil   in   the   soul   of 

man, 
Of  an  impending  something.     When  the 

stress 

Climbs  to   fruition,  we  can  only  guess 
What  many-seeded  harvest  we  shall  scan ; 
But  from  one  impulse,  like  a  northering 

sun, 

The  innumerable  outburst  is  begun,        '9o 
And    in    that    common    sunlight    all    men 

know 

A  common  ecstasy 
And  feel  themselves  at  one. 
The  comradeship  of  joy  and  mystery 
Thrills  us  more  vitally  as  we  arouse, 
And  we  shall  find  our  new  day  intimate 
Beyond  the  guess  of  any  long  ago. 
Doubting  or  elate, 
With  agony  or  triumph  on  our  brows, 


We  shall  not  fail  to  be  *» 

Better  comrades  than  before; 
For  no  new  sense  puts  forth  in  us  but  we 
Enter  our  fellows'  lives  thereby  the  more. 

And  three  great  spirits  with  the  spirit  of 

man 

Go  forth  to  do  his  bidding.    One  is  free, 
And  one  is  shackled,  and  the  third,  un 
bound, 

Halts  yet  a  little  with  a  broken  chain 
Of  antique  workmanship,  not  wholly 

loosed, 
That  dangles  and  impedes  his  forthright 

way.  2°9 

Unfettered,  swift,  hawk-eyed,  implacable, 
The   wonder-worker,    Science,    with    his 

wand, 

Subdues  an  alien  world  to  man's  desires. 
And  Art  with  wide  imaginative  wings 
Stands  by,   alert   for  flight,  to  bear  his 

lord 

Into  the  strange  heart  of  that  alien  world 
Till  he  shall  live  in  it  as  in  himself 
And  know  its   longing  as  he  knows  his 

own. 

Behind  a  little,  where  the  shadows   fall, 
Lingers  Religion  with  deep-brooding  eyes, 
Serene,   impenetrable,   transpicuous         22° 
As  the  all-clear  and  all-mysterious  sky, 
Biding  her  time  to  fuse  into  one  act 
Those  other  twain,  man's  right  hand  and 

his  left. 

For  all  the  bonds  shall  be  broken  and  rent 

in  sunder, 

And  the  soul  of  man  go  free 
Forth  with  those  three 
Into  the  lands  of  wonder; 
Like  some  undaunted  youth 
Afield  in  quest  of  truth, 
Rejoicing  in  the  road  he  journeys  on  23» 
As  much  as  in  the  hope  of  journey  done. 
And  the  road  runs  east,  and  the  road  runs 

west, 

That  his  vagrant  feet  explore; 
And  he  knows  no  haste  and  he  knows  no 

rest, 

And  every  mile  has  a  stranger  zest 
Than  the  miles  he  trod  before; 
And  his  heart  leaps  high  in  the  nascent 

year 

When  he  sees  the  purple  buds  appear: 
For   he   knows,   though   the   great   black 

frost  may  blight 

The  hope  of  May  in  a  single  night,      24° 
That   the   spring,   though    it   shrink    back 

under  the  bark, 
But  bides  its  time  somewhere  in  the  dark— 


572 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Though  it  come  not  now  to  its  blossoming, 
By  the  thrill  in  his  heart  he  knows  the 

spring; 
And  the  promise  it  makes  perchance  too 

soon, 

It  shall  keep  with  its  roses  yet  in  June; 
For  the  ages  fret  not  over  a  day, 
And  the  greater  to-morrow  is  on  its  way. 

Read    at   the   63d    convention    of    Psi   Upsilon 
fraternity,  May  7,  1896. 


AT   THE   END   OF   DAY 

There  is  no  escape  by  the  river, 
There  is  no  flight  left  by  the  fen; 
We  are  compassed  about  by  the  shiver 
Of  the  night  of  their  marching  men. 
Give  a  cheer! 

For  our  hearts  shall  not  give  way. 
Here  's  to  a  dark  to-morrow, 
And  here  's  to  a  brave  to-day! 

The  tale  of  their  hosts  is  countless, 
And  the  tale  of  ours  a  score;  ™ 

But  the  palm  is  naught  to  the  dauntless, 
And  the  cause  is  more  and  more. 
Give  a  cheer ! 

We  may  die,  but  not  give  way. 
Here  's  to  a  silent  morrow, 
And  here  's  to  a  stout  to-day ! 

God  has  said :    "Ye  shall  fail  and  perish ; 
But  the  thrill  ye  have  felt  to-night 
I  shall  keep  in  my  heart  and  cherish 
When  the  worlds  have  passed  in  night." 
Give  a  cheer !  2I 

For  the  soul  shall  not  give  way. 
Here  's  to  the  greater  to-morrow 
That  is  born  of  a  great  to-day ! 

Now  shame  on  the  craven  truckler 
And  the  puling  things  that  mope ! 
We've  a  rapture  for  pur  buckler 
That  outwears  the  wings  of  hope. 
Give  a  cheer ! 

For  our  joy  shall  not  give  way.  3° 

Here  's  in  the  teeth  of  to-morrow 
To  the  glory  of  to-day! 

LOVE    IN    THE   WINDS 

When  I  am  standing  on  the  mountain 

crest, 

Or  hold  the  tiller  in  the  dashing  spray. 
My  love  of  you  leaps   foaming  in   my 

breast, 
Shouts  with  the  winds  and  sweeps  to  their 

foray ; 


My  heart  bounds  with  the  horses  of  the 

sea, 

And  plunges  in  the  wild  ride  of  the  night, 
Flaunts  in  the  teeth  of  tempest  the  large 

glee 
That  rides  our  Fate  and  welcomes  gods  to 

fight. 

Ho,  love,  I  laugh  aloud  for  love  of  you, 
Glad  that  our  love  is  fellow  to  rough 

weather, —  I0 

No   fretful,  orchid  hothoused   from  the 

dew, 
But  hale  and  hardy  as  the  highland 

heather, 
Rejoicing  in  the  wind  that  stings-  and 

thrills, 
Comrade  of  ocean,  playmate  of  the  hills. 

The  Atlantic  Monthly,  April,  1898. 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    BUGLES 

Bugles ! 

And  the  Great  Nation  thrills   and  leaps 

to  arms ! 

Prompt,  unconstrained,  immediate, 
Without  misgiving  and  without  debate, 
Too  calm,  too  strong  for  fury  or  alarms, 
The   people  blossoms  armies  and  puts 

forth 
The   splendid   summer  of   its  noiseless 

might ; 

For  the  old  sap  of  fight 
Mounts  up  in  South  and  North, 
The  thrill  10 

That  tingled  in  our  veins  at  Bunker  Hill 
And  brought  to  bloom  July  of  'Seventy- 
Six! 

Pine  and  palmetto  mix 
With  the  sequoia  of  the  giant  West 
Their  ready  banners,  and  the  hosts  of 

war, 

Near  and  far, 
Sudden  as  dawn, 

Innumerable  as  forests,  hear  the  call 
Of  the  bugles, 

The  battle-birds!  » 

For  not  alone  the  brave,  the   fortunate, 
Who  first  of  all 
Have  put  their  knapsacks  on — 
They  are  the  valiant  vanguard  of  the 

rest ! — 

Not  they  alone,  but  all  our  millions  wait, 
Hand  on  sword, 
For  the  word 
That  bids  them  bid  the  nations  know  us 

sons  of  Fate. 


RICHARD    HOVEY 


573 


Bugles ! 

And  in  my  heart  a  cry,  3° 

— Like  a    dim   echo    far  and   mournfully 
Blown  back  to  answer  them  from  yester 
day  ! 

A  soldier's  burial ! 

November  hillsides  and  the  falling  leaves 
Where  the  Potomac  broadens  to  the  tide — 
The  crisp  autumnal  silence  and  the  gray 
(As  of  a  solemn  ritual 
Whose  congregation  glories  as  it  grieves, 
Widowed  but  still  a  bride) — 
The  long  hills  sloping  to  the  wave,       4° 
And   the  lone  bugler  standing  by  the 
grave ! 

Taps! 

The  lonely  call  over  the  lonely  wood 
lands — 

Rising  like  the  soaring  of  wings, 

Like  the  flight  of  an  eagle — 

Taps! 

They  sound  forever  in  my  heart. 

From  farther  still, 

The  echoes — still  the  echoes ! 

The  bugles  of  the  dead  5° 

Blowing  from  spectral  ranks  an  answer 
ing  cry! 

The  ghostly  roll  of  immaterial  drums, 

Beating-  reveille  in  the  camps  of  dream, 

As  from  far  meadows  comes, 

Over  the  pathless  hill, 

The  irremeable  stream. 

I  hear  the  tread 

Of  the  great  armies  of  the  Past  go  by; 

I  hear, 

Across  the  wide  sea  wash  of  years  be 
tween,  6° 

Concord  and  Valley  Forge  shout  back 
from  the  unseen, 

And  Vicksburg  give  a  cheer. 

Our  cheer  goes  back  to  them,  the  valiant 

dead! 

Laurels  and  roses  on  their  graves  to-day, 
Lilies  and  laurels  over  them  we  lay, 
And  violets  o'er  each  un forgotten  head. 
Their  honor  still  with  the  returning  May 
Puts  on  its  springtime  in  our  memories, 
Nor  till  the  last  American  with  them  lies 
Shall  the  young  year  forget  to  strew  their 

bed.  70 

Peace  to  their  ashes,  sleep  and  honored 

rest! 

But  we — awake ! 
Ours  to  remember  them  with  deeds  like 

theirs ! 
From  sea  to  sea  the  insistent  bugle  blares, 


The  drums  will  not  be  still  for  any  sake; 
And  as  an  eagle  rears  his  crest, 
Defiant,  from  some  tall  pine  of  the  north, 
And  spreads  his  wings  to  fly, 
The  banners  of  America  go  forth 
Against  the  clarion  sky.          ,  80 

Veteran  and  volunteer, 
They  who  were  comrades  of  that  shadow 

host, 
And  the  young  brood  whose  veins  renew 

the  fires 

That  burned  in  their  great  sires, 
Alike  we  hear 

The  summons  sounding  clear 
From  coast  to  coast, — 
The  cry  of  the  bugles, 
The  battle-birds! 

As  some  great  hero  men  have  dreamed 

might  be,  90 

Sigurd  or  Herakles  or  Launcelot, 
Too  strong  to  reckon  up  the  gain  or 

pain, 

With  equal  and  indifferent  disdain 
Keeping  or  keeping  not 
What  he  may  win. 
Gives  to  the  world  'his  victory 
And   to   the   weak   the   labors   he   might 

spare, 

My  knightly  country,  the  world's  paladin, 
Throw [s]  out  its  pennon  to  the  air 
To  make  a  people   free !  '«> 

Rejoice,  O  Cuba!  thy  worst  foe 
Is  overthrown. 
The  money  dragon, 
The  Old  Serpent, 

The  jailer's  strong  defence,  laid  low, 
Cast  down, 
Pierced  to  the  bone, 
Makes  off  to  nurse  his  wound, 
Dragging  his  scaly  length  along  the 

ground. 

Ha,  ha!  he  is  sick,  »° 

He  hath  no  stomach  for  the  battle. 
With  dull  reptilian  malice  in  his  eyes, 
Spoiled   of  his   prey,  he  lies, 
Blinking   his   glutton    hatred    from    his 

lair. 

Plotting  new  outrage  in  his  den, 
He  waits  to  be  strong  again ! 
— Let  him  beware ! 

For  we,  who  have  smitten  him  once, 
Shall  smite  him  again ! 
A  passing  wound  for  the  nonce,  I2° 

But  a  death  blow  then ! 
Now  with  a  warning  stroke, 
That  he  coil  not  across  our  way 
When  the  wronged  cry  under  the  yoke 
And  we  may  not  stay; 


574 


AMERICAN   POETKY 


But  then  in  the  hour  of  Doom 

To  his  irrevocable  tomb 

Forever  hurled, 

That  the  world  may  again  have  room 

For  the  sons  of  the  world.  13° 

Rejoice  again,  O  Cuba! 

Rejoice,  Gomez! 

Rejoice,  spirit  of  Maceo! 

The  voice  of  the  Lord  in  the  drums, 

The  cry  of  Jehovah  in  the  bugles; 

— Let  my  people  go  free ! 

Behold,  I  will  burst  their  chain! 

For  my  Deliverer  comes, 

He  whom  I  have  chosen  to  be 

My  Messenger  on  the  Sea,  J4° 

My  Rod  for  the  scourge  of  Spain! 

I  have  endured  her  too  long; 

I  have  smitten   and   she   has   not   ceased 

from  wrong, — 
I  have  forborne 
And  she  has  held  me  in  scorn. 
Now  therefore  for  her  misdeeds 
Wherewith  Time  bleeds, 
I  who  smote  her  by  the  hand  of  Drake 
And  wrenched  from  her  the  Sea, — 
I  who  raised  up  Bolivar  to  shake          J5° 
Her  captive  continent  free, — 
I  will  smite  her  for  the  third  time  in  my 

wrath 

And  naught  shall  remain, 
But  a  black  char  of  memory  in  man's 

path, 

Of  the  power  of  Spain. 
We  have  heard  the  voice  of  the  Lord ; 
Manila  knows  our  answer,  and  Madrid 
Shall  hear  it  in  our  cannon  at  her  gate, 
Unless  to   save  some  remnant   of   her 

fate, 

Ere  that  assault  be  bid,  l6° 

She  yield  her  conquered  sword. 

Let  her  not  put  her  trust 

In  the  nations  that  cry  out 

Against  us,  in  them  that  flout 

The  battle  of  the  just. 

They  have  made  themselves  drunk  with 

wind; 

They  have  uttered  a  foolish  cry 
In  .the  ears  of  the  Lord  on  high ; 
But  they  shall  not  save  her  with  words 
— Nay,  nor  with  swords —  J7° 

From  the  doom  of  the  sin  she  has  sinned. 

For  the  writ  of  the  Powers  does  not 

run 

Where  the  flag  of  the  Union  floats. 
Fair  and  equal  every  one 
We  greet  with  loyal  throats; 


But  we  own  no  suzerain. 

Thewed  with  freedom, 

Mailed  in  destiny — 

We  shall  maintain 

Against  the  world  our  right,  lgo 

Their  peer  in  majesty,  their  peer  in  might. 

Who  now  are  they  whose  God  is  gain? 

Let   Rothschild-ridden   Europe   hold   her 

peace ! 

Her  jest  is  proved  a  lie. 
They  and  not  we  refrain 
From  all  things  high 
At  the  money-changers'  cry; 
They  and  not  we  have  sold 
Their  flags  for  gold;  I§9 

They  and  not  we  yield  honor  to  increase. 

Honor  to  England,  that  she  does  us  right 
At  last,  and,  after  many  a  valiant  fight, 
Forgets  her  ancient  grudge 
But  ye,  O  nations,  be  the  Lord  our  judge 
And  yours  the  shame  forever !     How 

shall  ye 

In  the  unforgetting  face  of  History 
Look  without  blush  hereafter?     Ye  who 

gave 
To -the  Great  Robber  all  your  words  of 

cheer, 
And  to  the  Champion  of  the  Right  a 

sneer — 

What  answer  will  ye  have  20° 

When  affronted  time  demands 
The  shame  and  fame  of  nations  at  your 

hands? 

Thou  too,  O  France  ! 

Thou,  the  beloved  ! — 

Paul  Jones  and  Lafayette  in  Paradise 

Lift   not  their   sad,   ashamed,   bewildered 

eyes, 

But  pass  in  silence  with  averted  glance. 
Twinned  with  us  in  the  hearts  of  all  the 

free, 
O  fair  and  dear,  what  have  we  done  to 

thee? 
What  have  we  done  to  thee,  beloved  and 

fair,  210 

That  thou  shouldst  greet  us  with  an  alien 

stare, 

And  take  to  thy  embrace 
Her  whose  flag  never  flew  but  where  it 

left  the  trace 
Of  murder  and  of  rapine  on  the  air? 

Not  only  to  lay  low 

The  decrepit  foe 

• — Proud,  cruel,  treacherous,  but  still  brave, 

With  one  foot  in  the  grave — 


RICHARD    HOVEY 


575 


But'  once  for  all 

To  warn  the  world  that,  though  we  do  not 
brawl,  22° 

Our  sword  is  ready  to  protect 
The  weak  against  the  brutal  strong, 
Our  guns  are  ready  to  exact 
Justice  of  them  that  do  us  wrong. 

Ay,  we  "remember  the  Maine," 

The  mighty  ship 

And  the  men  thereon ! 

There  is  no  court   for  nations  that  can 
mete 

The  just  reward  for  murder  upon  Spain; 

No  Arbiter  can  put  the  black  cap  on;    23° 

No  sovereign  nation,  shorn  of  sovereign- 
ship, 

Be  brought,  a  felon,  to  the  judgment  seat 

— Except  by  war ! 

Cease  then  this  silly  prate, 

That  to  do  justice  on  the  evil-doer 

Is  vengeful  and  unworthy  of  the  State. 

Remember  the  Maine — 

That  all  the  world  as  well  as  Spain 

May  know  that  God  has  given  us  the 
sword 

To  punish  crime  and  vindicate  his  word. 

Ye  pompous  prattlers,  cease  *4l 

Your  idle  platitudes  of  peace 

When  there  is  no  peace ! 

Back  to  your  world  of  books,  and  leave 
the  world  of  men 

To  them  that  have  the  habit  of  the  real, 

Nor  longer  with  a  mask  of  fair  ideal 

Hide  your  indifference  to  the   facts  of 
pain ! 

Not  against  war, 
But  against  wrong, 

League  we  in  mighty  bonds  from  sea  to 
sea !  25° 

Peace,  when  the  world  is  free ! 
Peace,  when  there  is  no  thong, 
Fetter  nor  bar ! 
No  scourges  for  men's  backs, 
No  thumbscrews  and  no  racks — 
For  body  or  soul ! 
No  unjust  law ! 
No  tyrannous  control 
Of  brawn  or  maw ! 

But,  though  the  day  be  far,  a6° 

Till  then,  war! 

Blow,  bugles ! 

Over  the   rumbling   drum  and   marching 

feet 
Sound  your  high,  sweet   defiance  to  the 

air! 
Great  is  war — great  and  fair! 


The  terrors  of  his   face  are  grand  and 

sweet, 

And  to  the  wise  the  calm  of  God  is  there. 
God  clothes  himself  in  darkness  as  in 

light, 
— The  God  of  love,  but  still  the  God  of 

might. 

Nor  love  they  least  *7o 

Who  strike  with  right  good  will 
To  vanquish  ill 
And  fight  God's  battle  upward  from  the 

beast. 

By  strife  as  well  as  loving — strife, 

The  Law  of  Life, — 

In  brute  and  man  the  climbing  has  been 

done 
And  shall  be  done  hereafter.     Since  man 

was, 

No  upward-climbing  cause 
Without  the  sword  has  ever  yet  been  won. 

Bugles !  280 

The  imperious  bugles ! 

Still  their  call 

Soars  like  an  exaltation  to  the  sky. 

They  call  on  men  to  fall, 

To  die, — 

Remembered  or  forgotten,  but  a  part 

Of  the  great  beating  of  the  Nation's 

heart ! 

A  call  to  sacrifice ! 
A  call  to  victory ! 
Hark,  in  the  Empyrean 
The  battle-birds! 
The  bugles !  *» 

Scribner's  Magazine,  Sept.,  1898. 
Read  at  Walden  Post,  G.  A.  R.,  May  30,  1898. 


UNMANIFEST   DESTINY 

To  what  new  fates,  my  country,  far 
And  unforeseen  of  foe  or  friend, 

Beneath  what  unexpected  star, 
Compelled  to  what  unchosen  end. 

Across  the  sea  that  knows  no  beach 
The  Admiral  of  Nations  guides 

Thy  blind  obedient  keels  to  reach 
The  harbor  where  thy  future  rides ! 

The  guns  that  spoke  at  Lexington 
Knew  not  that  God  was  planning  then 

The  trumpet  word  of  Jefferson  " 

To  bugle  forth  the  rights  of  men. 


576 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


To  them  that  wept  and  cursed  Bull  Run, 
What  was  it  but  despair  and  shame? 

Who  saw  behind  the  cloud  the  sun? 
Who  knew  that  God  was  in  the  flame? 

Had  not  defeat  upon  defeat, 

Disaster  on  disaster  come, 
The  slave's  emancipated  feet 

Had  never  marched  behind  the  drum.  2° 

There  is  a  Hand  that  bends  our  deeds 
To  mightier  issues  than  we  planned, 

Each  son  that  triumphs,  each  that  bleeds, 
My  country,  serves  Its  dark  command. 

I  do  not  know  beneath  what  sky 
Nor  on  what  seas  shall  be  thy  fate; 

I  only  know  it  shall  be  high, 
I  only  know  it  shall  be  great. 

July,  1898. 


AFTER    BUSINESS    HOURS 

When  I  sit  down  with  thee  at  last  alone, 
Shut  out  the  wrangle  of  the  clashing 

day, 
The  scrape  of  petty  jars  that  fret  and 

fray, 
The  snarl  and  yelp  of  brute  beasts  for 

a  bone; 

When  thou  and  I  sit  down  at  last  alone, 
And  through  the  dusk  of  rooms  divinely 

gray 

Spirit  to  spirit  finds  its  voiceless  way, 
As    tone    melts    meeting    in    accordant 

tone, — 

Oh,  then  our  souls,  far  in  the  vast  of  sky, 
Look  from  a  tower,  too  high  for  sound 

of  strife  I0 

Or  any  violation  of  the  town, 
Where  the  great  vacant  winds  of  God  go 

by, 

And  over  the  huge  misshapen  city  of  life 
Love  pours  his  silence  and  his  moonlight 

down. 

The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Aug.,  1898. 


FROM    "TALIESIN:    A    MASQUE" 

Voices  of  Unseen  Spirits 

Here  falls  no  light  of  sun  nor  stars ; 

No  stir  nor  striving  here  intrudes; 
No  moan  nor  merry-making  mars 

The  quiet  of  these  solitudes. 


Submerged  in  sleep,  the  passive  soul 
Is  one  with  all  the  things  that  seem; 

Night  blurs  in  one  confused  whole 
Alike  the  dreamer  and  the  dream.        , 

O  dwellers  in  the  busy  town! 

For  dreams  you  smile,  for  dreams  you 
weep.  I0 

Come  out,  and  lay  your  burdens  down ! 

Come  out;  there  is  no  God  but  Sleep. 

Sleep,  and  renounce  the  vital  day; 

For  evil  is  the  child  of  life. 
Let  be  the  will  to  live,  and  pray 

To  find  forgetfulness  of  strife. 

Beneath  the  thicket  of  these  leaves 
No  light  discriminates  each  from  each. 

No  Self  that  wrongs,  no  Self  that  grieves, 
Hath  longer  deed  nor  creed  nor  speech. 

Sleep  on  the  mighty  Mother's  breast !    2I 

Sleep,  and  no  more  be  separate ! 
Then,  one  with  Nature's  ageless  rest, 
'There  shall  be  no  more  sin  to  hate. 

Poet  Lore,  1899. 


FAITH  AND  FATE 

To  horse,   my   dear,   and  out   into  the 

night ! 

Stirrup  and  saddle  and  away,  away! 
Into  the  darkness,  in  the  affright, 
Into  the  unknown  on  our  trackless  way ! 
Past  bridge  and  town  missiled  with  flying 

feet, 

Into  the  wilderness  our  riding  thrills; 
The   gallop   echoes   through   the   startled 

street, 
And  shrieks  like  laughter  in  the  demoned 

hills ; 
Things  come  to  meet  us  with  fantastic 

frown, 

And  hurry  past  with  maniac  despair;       I0 
Death  from  the  stars  looks  ominously 

down — 
Ho,   ho,   the   dauntless  riding  that  we 

dare! 
East,  to  the  dawn,  or  west  or  south  or 

north ! 
Loose  rein  upon  the  neck  of  Fate — and 

forth ! 

The  Bookman,  April,  1900. 


WILLIAM   VAUGHN    MOODY 
(1869-1910) 


GOOD    FRIDAY    NIGHT 

At  last  the  bird  that  sang  so  long 
In  twilight  circles,  hushed  his  song : 
Above  the  ancient  square 
The  stars  came  here  and  there. 

Good   Friday  night !     Some  hearts  were 

bowed, 

But  some  amid  the  waiting  crowd 
Because  of  too  much  youth 
Felt  not  the  mystic  ruth; 

And  of  these  hearts  my  heart  was  one: 
Nor  when  beneath  the  arch  of  stone        I0 
With  dirge  and  candle  flame 
The  cross  of  passion  came, 

Did  my  glad  spirit  feel  reproof, 
Though  on  the  awful  tree  aloof, 
Unspiritual,  dead, 
Drooped  the  ensanguined  Head. 

To  one  who  stood  where  myrtles  made 

A  little  space  of  deeper  shade 

(As  I  could  half  descry, 

A  stranger,  even  as  I),  a° 

I  said,  "These  youths  who  bear  along 
The  symbols  of  their  Saviour's  wrong, 
The  spear,  the  garment  torn, 
The  flaggel,  and  the  thorn, — 

"Why  do  they  make  this  mummery? 
Would  not  a  brave  man  gladly  die 
For  a  much  smaller  thing 
Than  to  be  Christ  and  king?" 

He  answered  nothing,  and  I  turned. 
Throned  in  its  hundred  candles  burned  3° 
The  jeweled  eidolon 
Of  her  who  bore  the  Son. 

The  crowd  was  prostrate;   still,  I   felt 
No  shame  until  the  stranger  knelt; 
Then  not  to  kneel,  almost 
Seemed  like  a  vulgar  boast. 

I  knelt.     The  doll-face,  waxen  white, 
Flowered  out  a  living  dimness ;  bright 
Dawned  the  dear  mortal  grace 
Of  my  own  mother's  face.  4° 


When  we  were  risen  up,  the  street 
Was  vacant;  all  the  air  hung  sweet 
With  lemon-flowers ;  and  soon 
The  sky  would  hold  the  moon. 

More   silently  than  new-found   friends 
To  whom  much  silence  makes  amends 
For  the  much  babble  vain 
While  yet  their  lives  were  twain, 

We  walked  along  the  odorous  hill. 
The  light  was  little  yet;  his  will  so 

I  could  not  see  to  trace 
Upon  his  form  or  face. 

So  when  aloft  the  gold  moon  broke, 
I  cried,  heart-stung.     As  one  who  woke 
He  turned  unto  my  cries 
The  anguish  of  his  eyes. 

"Friend !     Master !"     I   cried   falteringly, 
"Thou  seest  the  thing  they  make  of  thee. 
Oh,  by  the  light  divine 
My  mother  shares  with  thine,  6° 

"I  beg  that  I  may  lay  my  head 
Upon  thy  shoulder  and  be  fed 
With  thoughts  of  brotherhood !" 
So  through  the  odorous  wood, 

More  silently  than  friends  new-found 
We  walked.     At  the  first  meadow  bound 
His  figure  ashen-stoled 
Sank  in  the  moon's  broad  gold. 

The  Atlantic  Monthly,  May,  1898. 

AN    ODE    IN    TIME    OF 
HESITATION  1 


Before  the  solemn  bronze  Saint  Gaudens 

made 
To  thrill  the  heedless  passer's  heart  with 

awe 

And  set  here  in  the  city's  talk  and  trade 
To  the  good  memory  of  Robert  Shaw, 

1 -After  seeing  at  Boston  the  statue  of  Robert 
Gould  Shaw,  killed  while  storming  Fort  Wagner, 
July  18,  1863,  at  the  head  of  the  first  enlisted 
negro  regiment,  the  Fifty-fourth  Massachusetts. 
(Author's  Note.) 


577 


578 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


This  bright  March  morn  I  stand, 

And  hear  the  distant  spring  come  up  the 

land; 

Knowing  that  what  I  hear  is  not  unheard 
Of  this  boy  soldier  and  his  negro  band, 
For  all  their  gaze  is  fixed  so  stern  ahead, 
For  all  the  fatal  rhythm  of  their  tread.  '° 
The  land  they  died  to  save  from  death 

and  shame 
Trembles  and  waits,  hearing  the  spring's 

great  name, 
And  by  her  pangs  these  resolute  ghosts 

are  stirred. 


Through  street  and  mall  the  tides  of  peo 
ple  go 
Heedless;  the  trees  upon  the  Common 

show 
No   hint   of  green;   but  to   my  listening 

heart 

The  still  earth  doth  impart 
Assurance  of  her  jubilant  emprise, 
And  it  is  clear  to  my  long-searching  eyes 
That  love  at  last  has  might  upon  the 

skies.  2° 

The  ice  is  runneled  on  the  little  pond; 
A  telltale  patter  drips  from  off  the  trees ; 
The   air   is   touched   with   southland    spi- 

•  ceries, 

As  if  but  yesterday  it  tossed  the  frond 
Of  pendant   mosses   where  the  live-oaks 

grow 

Beyond  Virginia  and  the  Carolines, 
Or  had  its  will  among  the  fruits  and  vines 
Of  aromatic  isles  asleep  beyond 
Florida  and  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 


Soon  shall  the  Cape  Ann  children  shout 
in  glee,  3« 

Spying  the  arbutus,  spring's  dear  recluse; 

Hill1  lads  at  dawn  shall  hearken  the  wild 
goose 

Go  honking  northward  over  Tennessee ; 

West  from  Oswego  to  Sault  Sainte-Marie, 

And  on  to  where  the  Pictured  Rocks  are 
hung, 

And  yonder  where,  gigantic,  wilful,  young, 

Chicago  sitteth  at  the  northwest  gates, 

With  restless  violent  hands  and  casual 
tongue 

Moulding  her  mighty  fates, 

The  Lakes  shall  robe  them  in  ethereal 
sheen ;  40 

And  like  a  larger  sea,  the  vital  green 

Of  springing  wheat  shall  vastly  be  out- 
flung 

Over  Dakota  and  the  prairie  states. 


By  desert  people  immemorial 

On  Arizonan  mesas  shall  be  done 

Dim  rites  unto  the  thunder  and  the  sun; 

Nor  shall  the  primal  gods   lack  sacrifice 

More   splendid,   when   the   white    Sierras 

call 

Unto  the  Rockies  straightway  to  arise 
And  dance  before  the  unveiled  ark  of  the 
year,  5° 

Sounding  their  windy  cedars   as   for 

shawms, 

Unrolling  rivers  clear 
For  flutter  of  broad  phylacteries; 
While  Shasta  signals  to  Alaskan  seas 
That  watch  old   sluggish   glaciers   down 
ward  creep 
To  fling  their   icebergs  thundering  from- 

the  steep, 

And  Maripose  through  the  purple  calms 
Gazes  at  far  Hawaii  crowned  with  palms 
Where  East  and  West  are  met, — 
A  rich  seal  on  the  ocean's  bosom  set      6° 
To  say  that  East  and  West  are  twain, 
With  different  loss  and  gain : 
The  Lord  hath  sundered  them;  let  them 
be  sundered  yet. 


Alas !  what  sounds  are  these  that  come 

Sullenly  over  the  Pacific  seas, — 

Sounds  of  ignoble  battle,  striking  dumb 

The  season's  half-awakened  ecstasies? 

Must  I  be  humble,  then, 

Now  when  my  heart  hath  need  of  pride? 

Wild  love  falls  on  me  from  these  sculp 
tured  men;  7° 

By  loving  much  the  land  for  which  they 
died 

I  would  be  justified. 

My  spirit  was  away  on  pinions  wide 

To  soothe  in  praise  of  her  its  passionate 
mood 

And  ease  it  of  its  ache  of  gratitude. 

Too  sorely  heavy  is  the  debt  they  lay 

On  me  and  the  companions  of  my  day. 

I  would  remember  now 

My  country's  goodliness,  make  sweet  her 
name. 

Alas !  what  shade  art  thou  8° 

Of  sorrow  or  of  blame 

Liftest  the  lyric  leafage  from  her  brow, 

And  pointest  a  slow  finger  at  her  shame? 


Lies !    lies !    It  cannot  be !    The  wars  we 

wage 

Are  noble,  and  our  battles  still  are  won 
By  justice  for  us,  ere  we  lift  the  gage. 


WILLIAM    VAUGHN    MOODY 


579 


We  have  not  sold  our  loftiest  heritage. 

The  proud  republic  hath  not  stooped  to 
cheat 

And  scramble  in  the  market-place  of  war ; 

Her  forehead  weareth  yet  its  solemn  star. 

Here  is  her  witness :  this,  her  perfect  son, 

This  delicate  and  proud  New  England 
soul 

Who  leads  despised  men,  with  just-un 
shackled  feet, 

Up  the  large  ways  where  death  and  glory 
meet, 

To  show  all  peoples  that  our  shame  is 
done, 

That  once  more  we  are  clean  and  spirit- 
whole. 

VI 

Crouched  in  the  sea  fog  on  the  moaning 

sand 
All  night   he  lay,    speaking   some   simple 

word 
From  hour  to  hour  to  the  slow  minds  that 

heard,  99 

Holding  each  poor  life  gently  in  his  hand 
And  breathing  on  the  base  rejected  clay 
Till   each   dark    face   shone   mystical   and 

grand 

Against  the  breaking  day; 
And  lo,  the  shard  the  potter  cast-away 
Was  grown  a  fiery  chalice  crystal-fine 
Fulfilled  of  the  divine 
Great  wine  of  battle  wrath  by  God's  ring- 
finger  stirred. 
Then  upward,  where  the  shadowy  bastion 

loomed 
Huge  on  the  mountain  in  the  wet  sea 

light, 
Whence  now,  and  now,  infernal  flowerage 

bloomed,  'I0 

Bloomed,   burst,   and   scattered   down   its. 

deadly  seed, — 
They  swept,  and  died  like  freemen  on  the 

height, 
Like  freemen,  and  like  men  of  noble 

breed ; 

And  when  the  battle  fell  away  at  night 
By  hasty  and  contemptuous   hands  were 

thrust 

Obscurely  in  a  common  grave  with  him 
The  fair-haired  keeper  of  their  love  and 

trust. 

Now  limb  doth  mingle  with  dissolved  limb 
In  nature's  busy  old  democracy 
To   flush   the   mountain   laurel   when   she 

blows  I2° 

Sweet  by  the  southern  sea, 
And  heart  with  crumbled  heart  climbs  in 

the  rose:— 


The  untaught  hearts  with  the  high  heart 

that  knew 
This    mountain    fortress    for    no    earthly 

hold 

Of  temporal  quarrel,  but  the  bastion  old 
Of  spiritual  wrong, 

Built  by  an  unjust  nation  sheer  and  strong. 
Expugnable  but  by  a  nation's  rue 
And  bowing  down  before  that  equal  shrine 
By  all  men  held  divine,  '30 

Whereof  his  band  and  he  were  the  most 

holy  sign. 

VII 

0  bitter,  bitter  shade! 
Wilt  thou  not  put  the  scorn 

And   instant   tragic   question    from  thine 

eye? 

Do  thy  dark  brows  yet  crave 
That  swift  and  angry  stave — 
Unmeet  for  this  desirous  morn — 
That   I  have  striven,  striven  to  evade? 
Gazing  on  him,  must  I  not  deem  they  err 
Whose  careless  lips  in  street  and  shop  aver 
As   common   tidings,    deed   to    make    his 

cheek  141 

Flush    from    the    bronze,    and    his    dead 

throat  to   speak? 

Surely  some  elder   singer  would  arise, 
Whose  harp  hath  leave  to  threaten  and 

to  mourn 

Above  this  people  when  they  go  astray. 
Is  Whitman,  the  strong  spirit,  overworn? 
Has  Whittier  put  his  yearning  wrath 

away? 

1  will  not  and  I  dare  not  yet  believe! 
Though  furtively  the  sunlight  seems  to 

grieve, 

And  the  spring-laden  breeze  'so 

Out  of  the  gladdening  west  is  sinister 
With  sounds  of  nameless  battle  overseas; 
Though  when  we  turn  and  question  in 

suspense 

If  these  things  be  indeed  after  these  ways, 
And  what  things  are  to  follow  after  these, 
Our  fluent  men  of  place  and  consequence 
Fumble  and  fill  their  mouths  with  hollow 

phrase, 

Or  for  the  end-all  of  deep  arguments 
Intone  their  dull  commercial  liturgies — 
I  dare  not  yet  believe !    My  ears  are  shut ! 
I  will  not  hear  the  thin  satiric  praise    lfil 
And  muffled  laughter  of  our  enemies, 
Bidding  us   never   sheathe   our  valiant 

sword 
Till  we  have  changed  our  birthright  for 

a  gourd 
Of  wild  pulse  stolen  from  a  barbarian's 

hut; 


580 


.AMERICAN    POETRY 


Showing  how  wise  it  is  to  cast  away 
The  symbols  of  our  spiritual  sway, 
That  so  our  hands  with  better  ease 
May  wield   the   driver's   whip   and  grasp 
the  jailer's  keys. 

VIII 

Was  it  for  this  our  fathers  kept  the  law? 
This  crown  shall  crown  their  struggle  and 

their  ruth?  x?' 

Are  we  the  eagle  nation  Milton  saw 
Mewing  its  mighty  youth, 
Soon  to  possess  the   mountain  winds   of 

truth, 

And  be  a  swift  familiar  of  the  sun 
Where  aye  before  God's  face  his  trumpets 

run? 

Or  have  we  .but  the  talons  and  the  maw, 
And  for  the  abject  likeness  of  our  heart 
Shall  some  less  lordly  bird  be  set 

apart  ? — 
Some  gross-billed  wader  where  the  swamps 

are  fat?  I&> 

Some  gorger  in  the  sun?     Some  prowler 

with  the  bat? 

IX 

Ah  no! 

We  have  not  fallen  so. 

We  are  our  fathers'  sons :    let  those  who 

lead  us  know ! 

'T  was  only  yesterday  sick  Cuba's  cry 
Came  up  the  tropic  wind,  "Now  help  us, 

for  we  die !" 
Then  Alabama  heard, 
And  rising,  pale,  to  Maine  and  Idaho 
Shouted  a  burning  word. 
Proud  state  with  proud  impassioned  state 

conferred,  TPO 

And  at  the  lifting  of  a  hand  sprang  forth, 
East,  west,  and  south,  and  north, 
Beautiful  armies.    Oh,  by  the  sweet  blood 

and  young 

Shed  on  the  awful  hill  slope  at  San  Juan, 
By  the  unforgotten  names  of  eager  boys 
Who   might   have   tasted   girls'    love   and 

been  stung 

With  the  old  mystic  joys 
And  starry  griefs,  now  the  spring  nights 

come  on, 

But  that  the  heart  of  youth  is  generous, — 
We  charge  you,  ye  who  lead  us,  2°° 

Breathe  on  their  chivalry  no  hint  of 

stain ! 
Turn  not  their  new-world  victories  to 

gain! 
One  least  leaf  plucked  for  chaffer  from 

the  bays 
Of  their  dear  praise, 


One  jot  of  their  pure  conquest  put  to  hire, 
The  implacable  republic  will  require; 
With  clamor,  in  the  glare  and  gaze  of 

noon, 

Or  subtly,  coming  as  a  thief  at  night, 
But  surely,   very  surely,   slow  or   soon 
That  insult  deep  we  deeply  will  requite.  2l° 
Tempt   not   our  weakness,   our   cupidity ! 
For  save  we  let  'the  island  men  go  free, 
Those  baffled  and  dislaureled  ghosts 
Will  curse  us  from  the  lamentable  coasts 
Where  walk  the  frustrate  dead. 
The  cup  of  trembling  shall  be  drained 

quite, 

Eaten  the  sour  bread  of  astonishment, 
With  ashes  of  the  hearth  shall  be  made 

white 

Our  hair,  and  wailing  shall  be  in  the  tent ; 
Then  on  your  guiltier  head  22° 

Shall  our  intolerable  self-disdain 
Wreak  suddenly  its  anger  and  its  pain; 
For  manifest  in  that  disastrous  light 
We  shall  discern  the  right 
And  do-  it,  tardily. — O  ye  who  lead, 
Take  heed ! 
Blindness   we  may   forgive,   but  baseness 

we  will  smite. 

The  Atlantic  Monthly,  May,  1900. 


GLOUCESTER  MOORS 

A  mile  behind  is  Gloucester  town 
Where  the  fishing  fleets  put  in, 
A  mile  ahead  the  land  dips  down 
And  the  woods  and  farms  begin. 
Here,  where  the  moors  stretch  free 
In  the  high  blue  afternoon, 
Are  the  marching  sun  and  talking  sea, 
And  the  racing  winds  that  wheel  and  flee 
On  the  flying  heels  of  June. 

Till-o'er-the-ground  is  purple  blue,  I0 

Blue  is  the  quaker-maid, 

The  wild  geranium  holds  its  dew 

Long  in  the  boulder's  shade. 

Wax-red  hangs  the  cup 

From  the  huckleberry  boughs, 

In  barberry  bells  the  grey  moths  sup, 

Or  where  the  choke-cherry  lifts  high  up 

Sweet  bowls  for  their  carouse. 

Over  the  shelf  of  the  sandy  cove 
Beach-peas  blossom  late.  20 

By  copse  and  cliff  the  swallows  rove 
Each  calling  to  his  mate. 


WILLIAM    VAUGHN    MOODY 


581 


Seaward  the  sea-gulls  go, 

And  the  land-birds  all  are  here; 

That  green-gold  flash  was  a  vireo, 

And  yonder  flame  where  the  marsh-flags 

grow 
Was  a  scarlet  tanager. 

This  earth  is  not  the  steadfast  place 

We  landsmen  build  upon ; 

From  deep  to  deep  she  varies  pace,        3<> 

And  while  she  comes  is  gone. 

Beneath  my  feet  I   feel 

Her  smooth  bulk  heave  and  dip ; 

With  velvet  plunge  and  soft  upreel 

She  swings  and  steadies  to  her  keel 

Like  a  gallant,  gallant  ship. 

These  summer  clouds  she  sets  for  sail, 
The  sun  is  her  masthead  light, 
She  tows  the  moon  like  a  pinnace  frail 
Where  her  phosphor  wake  churns  bright. 
Now  hid,  now  looming  clear,  41 

On  the  face  of  the  dangerous  blue 
The  star  fleets  tack  and  wheel  and  veer, 
But  on,  but  on  does  the  old  earth  steer 
As  if  her  port  she  knew. 

God,  dear  God !    Does  she  know  her  port, 

Though  she  goes  so  far  about? 

Or  blind  astray,  does  she  make  her  sport 

To  brazen  and  chance  it  out? 

I  watched  when  her  captains  passed :      so 

She  were  better  captainless. 

Men  in  the  cabin,  before  the  mast, 

But  some  were  reckless  and  some  aghast, 

And  same  sat  gorged  at  mess. 

By  her  battened  hatch  I  leaned  and  caught 
Sounds  from  the  noisome  hold, — 
Cursing  and  sighing  of  souls  distraught 
And  cries  too  sad  to  be  told. 
Then  I  strove  to  go  down  and  see; 
But  they  said,  "Thou  are  not  of  us !"    6° 
I  turned  to  those  on  the  deck  with  me 
And  cried,  "Give  help !"     But  they  said, 

"Let  be: 
Our  ship  sails  faster  thus." 

Jill-o'er-the-ground  is  purple  blue, 

Blue  is  the  quaker-maid, 

The  alder-clump  where  the  brook  comes 

through 

Breeds  cresses  in  its  shade. 
To  be  out  of  the  moiling  street 
With  its  swelter  and  its  sin ! 
Who  has  given  to  me  this  sweet,  7° 

And  given  my  brother  dust  to  eat? 
And  when  will  his  wage  come  in? 


Scattering  wide  or  blown  in  ranks, 
Yellow  and  white  and  brown, 
Boats  and  boats  from  the  fishing  banks 
Come  home  to  Gloucester  town. 
There  is  cash  to  purse  and  spend, 
There  are  wives  to  be  embraced, 
Hearts  to  borrow  and  hearts  to  lend, 
And   hearts   to   take   and   keep   to   the 

end, —  .    *» 

O  little  sails,  make  haste ! 

But  thou,  vast  outbound  ship  of  souls, 

What  harbor  town  for  thee? 

What  shapes,  when  thy  arriving  tolls, 

Shall  crowd  the  banks  to  see? 

Shall  all  the  happy  shipmates  then 

Stand  singing  brotherly? 

Or  shall  a  haggard  ruthless  few 

Warp  her  over  and  bring  her  to, 

While  the  many  broken  souls  of  men      9° 

Fester   down   in  the   slaver's  pen, 

And  nothing  to  say  or  do  ?  1 

Scribner's  Magazine,  Dec.,  1900. 
THE   MENAGERIE  2 

Thank  God  my  brain  is  not  inclined  to  cut 
Such  capers   every  day!     I'm  just  about 
Mellow,   but  then — There  goes  the  tent- 
flap  shut. 
Rain's  in  the  wind.     I  thought  so :  every 

snout 

Was   twitching  when   the  keeper   turned 
me  out. 

That  screaming  parrot  makes   my  blood 

run  cold. 

Gabriel's  trump !  the  big  bull  elephant 
Squeals   "Rain !"  to   the  parched  herd. 

The  monkeys   scold,  8 

And  jabber  that  it's  rain  water  they  want. 
(It  makes  me  sick  to  see  a  monkey  pant.) 

I'll  foot  it  home,  to  try  and  make  believe 
I'm  sober.     After  this  I  stick  to  beer, 
And  drop  the  circus  when  the  sane  folks 

leave. 

A  man's  a  fool  to  look  at  things  too  near : 
They  look  back,  and  begin  to  cut  up  queer. 

1  This   metaphor    of   the    ship    of   society,   con 
tinually    recurrent    in    poetry,    is    elaborated    in 
great    detail,   with    the    striking   omission    of   the 
folk  in  the  hold,  by   Edward  Rowland   Sill,  in  a 
letter  of  February  25,  1862.     See  the  "Life  and 
Work"   of   Sill  by    W.    B.    Parker,   pp.   47,   48— 
not  published  until  1915. 

2  This     theme,    which     frequently     appears    in 
sober    literature,    is    discussed    in    a    strikingly 
parallel   passage   by   Mark   Twain   in   one   of   his 
hours    of    smiling    seriousness.      See    his    "Lif,e," 
by  Albert   Bigelow  Paine,   pp.   1357-1363. 


582 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


Beasts  do,  at  any  rate;  especially 

Wild  devils  caged.    They  have  the  coolest 

way 
Of  being  something  else  than  what  you 

see; 

You  pass  a  sleek  young  zebra  nosing  hay, 
A  nylghau  looking  bored  and  distingue, — 

And  think  you've   seen  a   donkey  and  a 

bird.  2I 

Not  on  your  life!     Just  glance  back,  if 

you  dare. 
The  zebra  chews,  the  nylghau  has  n't 

stirred ; 
But  something  's  happened,  Heaven  knows 

what  or  where 
To  freeze  your  scalp  and  pompadour  your 

hair. 

•I'm  not  precisely  an  seolian  lute 

Hung  in  the  wandering  winds  of  senti 
ment, 

But  drown  me  if  the  ugliest,  meanest 
brute 

Grunting  and  fretting  in  that  sultry  tent 

Did  n't  just  floor  me  with  embarrassment! 

'T  was  like  a  thunder-clap  from  out  the 
clear, —  3» 

One  minute  they  were  circus  beasts,  some 
grand, 

Some  ugly,  some  amusing,  and  some 
queer : 

Rival  attractions  to  the  hobo  band, 

The  flying  jenny,  and  the  peanut  stand. 

Next  minute  they  were  old  hearth-mates 
of  mine ! 

Lost  people,  eyeing  me  with  such  a  stare! 

Patient,   satiric,  devilish,   divine; 

A  gaze  of  hopeless  envy,  squalid  care, 

Hatred,  and  thwarted  love,  and  dim  des 
pair.  40 

Within   my  blood  my   ancient  kindred 

spoke, — 
Grotesque   and    monstrous   voices,    heard 

afar 

Down  ocean  caves  when  behemoth  awoke, 
Or  through  fern  forests  roared  the  ple- 

siosaur 
Locked  with  the  giant-bat  in  ghastly  war. 

And  suddenly,  as  in  a  flash  of  light, 

I  saw  great  Nature  working  out  her  plan ; 

Through  all  her  shapes  from  mastodon  to 

mite 

Forever  groping,  testing,  passing  on       49 
To  find  at  last  the  shape  and  soul  of  Man. 


Till  in  the  fulness  of  accomplished  time, 
Comes  brother  Forepaugh,  upon  business 

bent, 
Tracks  her  through   frozen  and  through 

torrid  clime, 

And  shows  us,  neatly  labeled  in  a  tent, 
The  stages  of  her  huge  experiment; 

Blabbing  aloud  her  shy  and  reticent  hours ; 
Dragging  to   light   her   blinking,   slothful 

moods  ; 
Publishing  fretful  seasons  when  her 

powers 

Worked  wild  and  sullen  in  her  solitudes, 
Or  when  her  mordant  laughter  shook  the 

woods.  6° 

Here,  round  about  me,  were  her  vagrant 

births ; 
Sick  dreams  she  had,  fierce  projects  she 

essayed ; 
Her  qualms,   her   fiery  prides,  her  crazy 

mirths; 

The  troublings  of  her  spirit  as  she  strayed, 
Cringed,  gloated,  mocked,  was  lordly,  was 

afraid, 

On  that  long  road  she  went  to  seek  man 
kind; 

Here  were  the  darkling  coverts  that  she 
beat 

To  find  the  Hider  she  was  sent  to  find; 

Here  the  distracted  footprints  of  her  feet 

Whereby  her  soul's  Desire  she  came  to 
greet.  70 

But    why    should   they,    her    botch-work, 

turn  about 

And  stare  disdain  at  me,  her  finished  job? 
Why  was  the  place  one  vast  suspended 

shout 
Of  laughter?     Why  did  all  the  daylight 

throb 
With  soundless  guffaw  and  dumb-stricken 

sob? 

Helpless  I  stood  among  those  awful  cages ; 
The  beasts  were  walking  loose,  and  I  was 

bagged ! 

I,  I,  last  product  of  the  toiling  ages, 
Goal  of  heroic  feet  that  never  lagged, — 
A  little  man  in  trousers,  slightly  jagged. 

Deliver  me  from  such  another  jury!      8r 
The  Judgment-day  will  be  a  picnic  to't. 
Their  satire  was  more  dreadful  than  their 

fury, 

And  worst  of  all  was  just  a  kind  of  brute 
Disgust,  and  giving  up,  and  sinking  mute. 


583 


Survival  of  the  fittest,  adaptation, 
And  all  their  other  evolution  terms, 
Seem  to  omit  one  small  consideration, 
To  wit,  that  tumblebugs  and  angleworms 
Have  souls :  there's  soul  in  everything  that 
squirms.  9° 

And  souls  are  restless,  plagued,  impatient 

things, 

All  dream  and  unaccountable  desire; 
Crawling,  but  pestered  with  the  thought 

of  wings; 
Spreading  through  every  inch  of  earth's 

old  mire, 
Mystical  hanker  after  something  higher. 

Wishes  are  horses,  as  I  understand. 
I  guess  a  wistful  polyp  that  has  strokes 
Of  feeling  faint  to  gallivant  on  land 
Will  come  to  be  a  scandal  to  his  folks; 
Legs  he  will  sprout,  in  spite  of  threats 
and  jokes.  10° 

And  at  the  core  of  every  life  that  crawls 
Or  runs  or  flies  or  swims  or  vegetates — 
Churning  the  mammoth's  heart-blood,  in 

the  galls 
"Of    shark    and    tiger    planting    gorgeous 

hates, 
Lighting  the   love   of   eagles    for  their 

mates ; 

Yes,  in  the  dim  brain  of  the  jellied  fish 
That   is    and    is   not   living — moved   and 

stirred 

From  the  beginning  a  mysterious  wish, 
A  vision,  a  command,  a  fatal  Word : 
The  name  of  Man  was  uttered,  and  they 

heard.  no 

Upward  along  the  aeons  of  old  war 
They  sought  him:  wing  and  shank-bone, 

claw  and  bill 
Were  fashioned  and  rejected;  wide  and 

far 
They  roamed  the  twilight  jungles  of  their 

will ; 
But  still  they  sought  him,  and  desired  him 

still. 

Man  they  desired,  but  mind  you,  Perfect 

Man, 

The  radiant  and  the  loving,  yet  to  be ! 
I  hardly  wonder,  when  they  came  to  scan 
The  upshot  of  their  strenuosity, 
They   gazed   with    mixed   emotions   upon 


Well,  my  advice  to  you  is  Face  the  crea 
tures, 

Or  spot  them  sideways  with  your  weather 
eye, 

Just  to  keep  tab  on  their  expansive  fea 
tures  ; 

It  isn't  pleasant  when  you're  stepping 
high 

To  catch  a  giraffe  smiling  on  the  sly. 

If  nature  made  you  graceful,  don't  get 

gay 

Back-to  before  the  hippopotamus; 
If   meek  and  godly,   find  some  place  to 

play 
Besides    right    where   three    mad   hyenas 

fuss : 
You   may   hear   language  that  we   won't 

discuss.  '3<> 

If  you're  a  sweet  thing  in  a  flower-bed 

hat, 

Or  her  best  fellow  with  your  tie  tucked  in, 
Don't   squander   love's   bright   springtime 

girding  at 

An  old  chimpanzee  with  an  Irish  chin : 
There  may  be  hidden  meaning  in  his  grin. 

THE  DAGUERREOTYPE i 

This,  then,  is  she, 

My  mother  as  she  looked  at  seventeen, 

When   she  first  met  my   father.     Young 

incredibly, 
Younger  than  spring,  without  the  faintest 

trace 

Of  disappointment,  weariness,  or  tean 
Upon  the  childlike  earnestness  and  grace 
Of  the  waiting  face 
These  close- wound  ropes  of  pearl 
(Or  common  beads  made  precious  by  their 

use) 
Seem    heavy    for   so    slight   a   throat   to 

wear ;  10 

But  the  low  bodice  leaves  the  shoulders 

bare 
And   half  the  glad   swell   of  the   breast, 

for  news 
That  now  the  woman  stirs  within  the  gifl. 

1  A  tribute  to  Moody's  father  appears  in  lines 
62-64  of  this  poem.  "But  the  mother  doubtless 
had  the  larger  share  in  the  guidance  and  dis 
cipline  of  the  growing  boy,  and  the  profound 
impression  she  left  upon  his  mind  and  heart  is 
recorded  not  only  in  The  Daguerreotype,'  .  .  . 
and  in  the  veiled  but  illuminating  reference  in 
'Faded  Pictures',  but  even  more  fully  in  that 
love  and  reverence  for  woman  which  became 
fundamental  to  his  whole  philosophy  of  life." 
(John  M.  Manly  in  the  introduction  to  "Poems 
and  Plays  of  Wm.  Vaughn  Moody.") 


584 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


And  yet, 

Even  so,  the  loops  and  globes 

Of  beaten  gold 

And  jet 

Hung,  in  the  stately  way  of  old, 

From  the  ears'  drooping  lobes  I0 

On  festivals  and  Lord's-day  of  the  week, 

Show    all    too    matron  -  sober    for    the 

cheek, — 

Which,  now  I  look  again,  is  perfect  child, 
Or  no — or  no — 'tis  girlhood's  very  self, 
Moulded   by   some   deep,   mischief-ridden 

elf 

So  meek,  so  maiden  mild, 
But   startling    the   close   gazer   with    the 

sense 

Of  passions  forest-shy  and  forest-wild, 
And  delicate  delirious  merriments. 

As  a  moth  beats   sidewise 

And  up  and  over,  and  tries  3° 

To  skirt  the  irresistible  lure 

Of  the  flame  that  has  him  sure, 

My  spirit,  that  is  none  too  strong  to-day, 

Flutters  and  makes  delay, — 

Pausing  to  wonder  on  the  perfect  lips, 

Lifting  to  muse  upon  the  low-drawn  hair 

And  each  hid  radiance  there, 

But  powerless  to  stem  the  tide-race  bright, 

The  vehement  peace  which  drifts  it  toward 

the  light 

Where  soon — ah,  now,  with  cries  4° 

Of  grief  and  giving-up  unto  its  gain 
It  shrinks  no  longer  nor  denies, 
But  dips 
Hurriedly  home  to  the  exquisite  heart  of 

pain, — 
And  all   is  well,    for   I   have   seen   them 

plain, 

The  unforgettable,  the  unforgotten  eyes! 
Across  the  blinding  gush  of  these  good 

tears 
They   shine   as   in  the   sweet   and   heavy 

years 

When  by  her  bed  and  chair 
We  children  gathered  jealously  to  share  so 
The    sunlit    aura    breathing    myrrh    and 

thyme, 
Where  the  sore-stricken  body  made  a 

clime 
Gentler    than    May   and    pleasanter    than 

rhyme, 
Holier  and  more  mystical  than  prayer. 

God,  how  thy  ways  are  strange ! 
That  this  should  be,  even  this, 
The  patient  head 

Which   suffered  years   ago   the   dreary 
change ! 


That  these   so   dewy  lips   should  be  the 

same 

As  those  I  stooped  to  kiss  6° 

And    heard   my    harrowing   half  -  spoken 

name, 

A  little  ere  the  one  who  bowed  above  her, 
Our  father  and  her  very  constant  lover, 
Rose  stoical,  and  we  knew  that  she  was 

dead. 
Then    I,    who    could   not   understand    or 

share 

His  antique  nobleness, 
Being  unapt  to  bear 
The  insults  which  time  flings  us  for  our 

proof, 

Fled  from  the  horrible  roof 
Into  the  alien  sunshine  merciless,  7° 

The  shrill  satiric  fields  ghastly  with  day, 
Raging  to  front  God  in  his  pride  of  sway 
And  hurl  across  the  lifted  swords  of  fate 
That  ringed  Him  where  He  sat 
My  puny  gage  of  scorn  and  desolate  hate 
Which  somehow  should  undo  Him,  after 

all! 

That  this  girl  face,  expectant,  virginal, 
Which  gazes  out  at  me 
Boon  as  a  sweetheart,  as  if  nothing  loth 
(Save   for  the  eyes,  with  other  presage 

stored)  8° 

To  pledge  me  troth, 
And  in  the  kingdom  where  the  heart  is 

lord 
Take  sail  on  the  terrible  gladness  of  the 

deep 

Whose  winds  the  grey  Norns  keep, — 
That  this  should  be  indeed 
The  flesh  which  caught  my  soul,  a  flying 

seed, 

Out  of  the  to  and  fro 
Of  scattering  hands  where  the  seedsman 

Mage, 

Stooping  from  star  to  star  and  age  to  age 
Sings  as  he  sows ! 

That  underneath  this  breast  9° 

Nine  moons  I  fed 
Deep   of  divine  unrest, 
While  over  and  over  in  the  dark  she  said, 
"Blessed !    but   not   as   happier   children 

blessed" — 
That  this  should  be 
F,ven  she.  .  .  . 

God,  how  with  time  and  change 
Thou  makest  thy  footsteps  strange ! 
Ah,  now  I  know 

They  play  upon  me,  and  it  is  not  so.      I0° 
Why,  'tis  a  girl  I  never  saw  before, 
A  little  thing  to  flatter  and  make  weep, 
To  tease  until  her  heart  is  sore, 
Then  kiss  and  clear  the  score; 


WILLIAM   VAUGHN    MOODY 


585 


A  gypsy  run-the-fields, 

A  little  liberal  daughter  of  the  earth, 

Good  for  what  hour  of  truancy  and  mirth 

The  careless  season  yields 

Hither  -  side   the   flood   of   the   year  and 

yonder  of  the  neap ; 
Then  thank  you,  thanks  again,  and  twenty 

light  good-byes. —  no 

0  shrined  above  the  skies, 
Frown  not,  clear  brow, 
Darken  not,  holy  eyes ! 

Thou    knowest    well    I    know   that   it   is 
thou! 

Only  to  save  me  from  such  memories 

As  would  unman  me  quite, 

Here  in  this  web  of  strangeness  caught 

And  prey  to  troubled  thought 

Do  I  devise 

These  foolish   shifts  and  slight;  120 

Only  to  shield  me  from  the  afflicting  sense 

Of  some  waste  influence 

Which   from  this  morning  face  and  lus 
trous  hair 

Breathes  on  me  sudden  ruin  and  despair. 

In  any  other  guise, 

With  any  but  this  girlish  depth  of  gaze, 

Your   coming   had    not    so   unsealed    and 
poured 

The  dusty  amphoras  where  I  had  stored 

The  drippings  of  the  winepress  of  my 
days. 

1  think  these  eyes  foresee,  J3° 
Now  in  their  unawakened  virgin  time, 
Their  mother's  pride  in  me, 

And  dream  even  now,  unconsciously, 

Upon  each  soaring  peak  and  sky-hung 
lea 

You  pictured  I  should  climb. 

Broken  premonitions  come, 

Shapes,  gestures  visionary, 

Not  as  once  to  maiden  Mary 

The  manifest  angel  with  fresh  lilies  came 

Intelligibly  calling  her  by  name;  '4° 

But  vanishingly,  dumb, 

Thwarted  and  bright  and  wild, 

As  heralding  a  sin-defiled, 

Earth-encumbered,     blood-begotten,     pas 
sionate  man-child, 

Who  yet   should  be  a  trump  of  mighty 
call 

Blown  in  the  gates  of  evil  kings 

To  make  them  fall ; 

Who  yet  should  be  a  sword  of  flame  be 
fore 

The  soul's  inviolate  door 

To  beat  away  the  clang  of  hellish  wings ; 

Who  yet  should  be  a  lyre  J5i 

Of  high  unquenchable  desire 

In  the  day  of  little  things. — 


Look,  where  the  amphoras, 

The  yield  of  many  days, 

Trod  by  my  hot  soul  from  the  pulp  of 

self 

And  set  upon  the  shelf 
In  sullen  pride 

The  Vineyard-master's  tasting  to  abide — 
O  mother  mine !  l6° 

Are  these   the   bringings  -  in,   the   doings 

fine, 

Of  him  you  used  to  praise? 
Emptied  and  overthrown 
The  jars  lie  strown. 
These,  for  their  flavor  duly  nursed, 
Drip  from  the  stopples  vinegar  accursed; 
These,  I  thought  honied  to  the  very  seal, 
Dry,  dry, — a  little  acid  meal, 
A  pinch  of  mouldy  dust, 
Sole  leavings  of  the  amber-mantling  must; 
These,  rude  to  look  upon,  '7* 

But  flasking  up  the  liquor  dearest  won, 
Through  sacred  hours  and  hard, 
With  watching  and  with  wrestlings  and 

with  grief, 

Even  of  these,  of  these  in  chief, 
The   stale   breath    sickens,    reeking   from 

the  shard. 
Nothing  is  left.    Ay,  how  much  less  than 

naught ! 

What  shall  be  said  or  thought 
Of  the  slack  hours  and  waste  imaginings, 
The  cynic  rending  of  the  wings,  l8° 

Known  to  that  froward,  that  unreckoning 

heart 
Whereof  this  brewage  was  the  precious 

part, 
Treasured   and   set   away  with   furtive 

boast? 

O  dear  and  cruel  ghost, 
Be  merciful,  be  just! 
See,  I  was  yours  and  I  am  in  the  dust. 
Then  look. not  so,  as  if  all  things  were 

well! 
Take  your  eyes  from  me,  leave  me  to  my 

shame, 

Or  else,  if  gaze  they  must, 
Steel  them  with  judgment,  darken  them 

with  blame;  J9° 

But  by  the  ways  of  light  ineffable 
You  bade  me  go  and  I  have  faltered  from, 
By  the  low  waters  moaning  out  of  hell 
Whereto  my  feet  have  come, 
Lay  not  on  me  these  intolerable 
Looks  of  rejoicing  love,  of  pride,  of  hap 
py  trust! 

Nothing  dismayed? 

By  all  I  say  and  all  I  hint  not  made 

Afraid? 


586 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


O  then,  stay  by  me!    Let  2°° 

These  eyes   afflict  me,   cleanse   me,  keep 

me  yet 

Brave  eyes  and  true ! 
See  how  the  shrivelled  heart,  that  long 

has  lain 

Dead  to  delight  and  pain, 
Stirs,  and  begins  again 
To  utter  pleasant  life,  as  if  it  knew 
The  wintry  days  were  through; 
As  if  in  its  awakening  boughs  it  heard 
The  quick,  sweet-spoken  bird. 
Strong  eyes  and  brave,  2I° 

Inexorable  to  save! 


THE   DEATH   OF  EVE 


At  dawn  they  came  to  the  stream  Hid- 

dekel, 
Old  Eve  and  her  red  first-born,  who  was 

now 
Greyer  than  she,  and  bowed  with  more 

than  years. 
Then  Cain  beneath  his  level  palm  looked 

hard 

Across  the  desert,  and  turned  with  out 
spread  hand 
As  one  who   says,  "Thou  seest;   we  are 

fooled." 
But   Eve,   with   clutching   fingers   on   his 

arm. 
And   pointing  eastward  where   the   risen 

sun 
Made  a  low   mist   of   light,   said,   "It  is 

there !" 


For,    many,   many   months,   in   the   great 

tent    "  10 

Of  Enoch,  Eve  had  pined,  and  dared  not 

tell 

Her  longing:  not  to  Irad,  Enoch's  son, 
Masterful  like  his  father,  who  had  held 
Harsh  rule,  and  named  the  tent-place  with 

his  name; 
Not  to  mild  Seth,  given  her  in  Abel's 

stead ; 

Not  unto  angry  Lamech,  nor  his  wives, 
Usurpers  of  her  honor  in  the  house; 
Not  to  young  Jubal,   songs-man  of   the 

tribe, 
Who  touched  his  harp  at  twilight  by  her 

door; 

And  not  to  bed-rid  Adam,  most  of  all    2° 
Not  unto  Adam.    Yet  at  last,  the  spring 


Being  at  end,  and  evening  with  warm 

stars 

Falling  upon  them  by  the  camel  kraal, 
Weary  with  long  desire  she  spoke  to 

Seth, 

Touching  her  meaning  faintly  and  far  off 
To  try  him.     With  still  scrutiny  awhile 
He  looked  at  her;  then,  lifting  doubtful 

hands 
Of  prayer,  he  led  her  homeward  to  the 

tent, 

With  tremulous  speech  of  small  and  week 
day  things.  29 
Next,  as  she  lay  by  Adam  before  dawn, 
His    big   and   wasted   hand   groping    for 

hers 

Suddenly  made  her  half-awakened  heart 
Break  back  and  back  across  the  shadowy 

years 

To  Eden,  and  God  calling  in  the  dew, 
And  all  that  song  of  Paradise  foredone 
Which  Jubal  made  in  secret,  fearing  her 
The  storied  mother;  but  in  secret,  too, 
Herself  had  listened,  while  the  maids  at 

toil 

Or  by  the  well  at  evening  sang  of  her 
Untruthful  things,  which,  when  she  once 

had  heard,  4° 

Seemed  truthful.     Now,  bowed  upon 

Adam's  breast, 
In  the  deep  hush  that  comes  before  the 

dawn, 
She  whispered  hints  and  fragments  of  her 

will; 
And  when  the  shaggy  forehead    nade  no 

sign, 

And  the  blind  face  searched  still  as  quietly 
In   the   tent-roof    for   what,   these   many 

months, 
It  seemed  to  seek  for  there,  she  held  him 

close 
And  poured  her  whole  wild  meaning  in 

his  ear. 

But  as  a  man  upon  his  death-bed  dreams 
That  he  should  know  a  matter,  and  knows 

it  not,  *> 

Nor  who  they  are  who  fain  would  have 

him  know, 
He   turned   to   hers   his    dim,    disastrous 

eyes, 
Wherein  the  knowledge  of  her  and   the 

long  love 

Glimmered  through   veil   on  veil   of   va 
cancy. 

That  evening  little  Jubal,  coming  home 
Singing  behind  his  flock,  saw  ancient  Eve 
Crouched  by  the  ruined  altar  in  the  glade, 
The  accursed  place,  sown  deep  each  early 

spring 


WILLIAM    VAUGHN    MOODY 


587 


With  stones  and  salt — the  Valley  of  the 

Blood; 
And  that  same  night  Eve  fled  under  the 

stars  6° 

Eastward  to  Nod,  the  land  of  violence, 
To  Cain,  and  the  strong  city  he  had  built 
Against  all  men  who  hunted  for  his  soul. 


She  gave  her  message  darkly  in  the  gates, 
And  waited  trembling.  At  day-fall  he 

came. 
She  knew  him  not  beneath  his  whitened 

hair; 
But  when  at  length  she  knew  him,  and  was 

known, 
The  whitened  hair,  the  bent  and  listening 

frame, 

The  savage  misery  of  the  sidelong  eyes, 
Fell  on  her  heart  with  strangling.     So  it 

was  7° 

That  now  for  many  days  she  held  her 

peace, 

Abiding  with  him  till  he  seemed  again 
The  babe  she  bare  first  in  the  wilderness, 
Her  maiden  fruits  to  Adam,  the  new  joy 
The  desert  bloomed  with,  which  the  desert 

stars 
Whispered  concerning.    Yet  she  held  her 

peace, 

Until  he  seemed  a  young  man  in  the  house, 
A  gold  frontlet  of  pride  and  a  green  ce 
dar; 
Then,   leading   him   apart,   Eve  told   her 

wish, 

Not  faltering  now  nor  uttering  it  far  off, 
But  as  a  sovereign  mother  to  her  son  8l 
Speaks  simple  destiny.  He  looked  at  her 
Dimly,  as  if  he  saw  her  not;  then  stooped, 
Sharpening  his  brows  upon  her.  With  a 

cry 
She  laid  fierce,   shaken   hands  about  his 

breast, 
Drew  down  his  neck,  and  harshly   from 

his  brow 
Pushing   the    head-band   and    the   matted 

locks, 

Baring  the  livid  flesh  with  violence, 
She  kissed  him  on  the  Sign.    Cain  bowed 

his  head 
Upon  her  shoulder,  saying,  "I  will  go !"  9° 


IV 

Now  they  had  come  to  the  stream  Hid- 

dekel, 
And   passed   beyond   the   stream.     There, 

full  in  face, 


Where  the  low  morning  made  a  mist  of 

light, 

The  Garden  and  its  gates  lay  like  a  flower 
Afloat  on  the  still  waters  of  the  dawn. 
The  clicking  leap  of  bright-mailed  grass 
hoppers, 
The  dropping  of  sage-beetles  from  their 

perch 
On  the  gnawed  cactus,  even  the  pulsing 

drum 

Of  blood-beats  in  their  ears,  merged  sud 
denly 

Into  ethereal  hush.    Then  Cain  made  halt, 

Held  her,  and  muttered,  "  'T  is  enough. 

Thou  sawest!  I01 

His  Angel   stood  and  threatened   in   the 

sun !" 
And  Eve  said,  "Yea,  and  though  the  day 

were  set 
With  sworded  angels,  thou  would'st  wait 

for  me 
Yonder,  before  the  gates ;  which,  look  you, 

child, 

Lie  open  to  me  as  the  gates  to  him, 
Thy  father,  when  he  entered  in  his  rage, 
Calling  thee  from  the  dark,  where  of  old 

days 

I  kept  thee  folded,  hidden,  till  he  called." 
So  grey  Cain  by  the  unguarded  portal  sat, 
His  arms  crossed  o'er  his  forehead,  and 
his  face  »' 

Hid  in  his  meagre  knees ;  but  ancient  Eve 
Passed  on  into  the  vales  of  Paradise. 


Tranced  in  lonely  radiance  stood  the  Tree, 
As  Eve  put  back  the  glimmering  ferns 

and  vines 
And  crept  into  the  place.     Awhile  she 

stooped, 

And  as  a  wild  thing  by  the  drinking-pool 
Peers  ere  it  drinks,  she  peered.  Then, 

laughing  low, 

Her  frame  of  grief  and  body  of  her  years 
She  lifted  proudly  to  its  virgin  height,  I2° 
Flung  her  lean  arms  into  the  pouring  day, 
And  circling1  with  slow  paces  round  the 

Tree, 
She  sang  her  stifled  meaning  out  to  God. 

EVE'S  SONG 

Behold,  against  thy  will,  against  thy  word, 
Against  the  wrath  and  warning  of  thy 

sword, 

Eve  has  been  Eve,  O  Lord! 
A  pitcher  filled,  she  comes  back  from  the 

brook, 


588 


AMERICAN    POETRY 


A    wain  she   comes,   laden   with   mellow 

ears; 

She  is  a  roll  inscribed,  a  prophet's  book 
Writ  strong  with  characters.  J3° 

Behold,  Eve  willed  it  so;  look,  if  it  be  so, 

look! 

Early  at  dawn,  while  yet   thy  watchers 

slept, 

Lightly    her   untamed   spirit    over-leapt 
The  walls  where  she  was  kept. 
As  a  young  comely  leopardess  she  stood: 
Her  lustrous  fell,  her  sullen  grace,  her 

fleet  ness, 
They  gave  her  foretaste,  in  thy  tangled 

wood, 

Of  many  a  savage  sweetness, 
Good   to  fore-gloat   upon;   being   tasted, 

sweet  and  good. 

O  swayer  in  the  sunlit  tops  of  trees,  T4° 
O  comer  up  with  cloud  out  of  the  seas, 
O  laugher  at  thine  ease 
Over  thine  everlasting  dream  of  mirth, 
O  lord  of  savage  pleasures,  savage  pains, 
Knew'st  Thou  not  Eve,  who  broughtest 

her  to  birth? 

Searcher  of  breast  and  reins, 
Thou  should'st  have  searched  thy  Woman, 

the  seedpod  of  thine  earthj 

Herself  hath  searched  her  softly  through 

and  through; 

Singing  she  lifts  her  full  soul  up  to  view; 
Lord,  do  Thou  praise  it,  too!  JS: 

Look,  as  she   turns  it,  how  it  dartles 

free 
Its  gathered  meanings:   woman,  mother, 

wife, 

Spirit  that  was  and  is  and  waits  to  be, 
Worm  of  the  dust  of  life, 
Child,  sister — ghostly  rays!     V7hat  lights 

are  these,  Lord,  see! 

Look  where  Eve  lifts  her  storied  soul  on 

high, 
And  turns  it  as  a   ball,  she  knows  not 

why, 

Save  that  she  could  not  die 
Till  she  had  shown   Thee  all  the  secret 

sphere —  l6° 

The  bright  rays  and  the  dim,  and  these 

that  run 
Bright-darkling,   making    Thee   to    doubt 

and  fear, — 

Oh,  love  them  every  one! 
Eve  pardons  Thee  not  one,  not  one,  Lord; 

dost  Thou  hear? 


Lovely   to  Eve  was  Adam's  praising 

breath; 

His  face  averted  bitter  was  as  d'eath; 
Abel,  her  son,  and  Seth 
Lifted    her   heart   to    heaven,   praising 

her; 
Cain  with  a  little  frown  darkened  the 

stars; 
And   when   the   strings   of   Jubal's   harp 

would  stir,  IT° 

Like  honey  in  cool  jars 
The  words  he  praised  her  with,  like  rain 

his  praises  were. 

Still,  still  with  prayer  and  ecstasy  she 

strove 

To  be  the  woman  they  did  well  approve, 
That,  narrowed   to   their  love, 
She  might  have  done  with  bitterness  and 

blame  ; 

But  still  along  the  yonder  edge  of  prayer 
A  spirit  in  a  fiery  whirlwind  came — 
Eve's  spirit,  wild  and  fair — 
Crying  with  Eve's  own  voice  the  number 

of  her  name.  l8° 

Yea,   turning  in   the  whirlwind  and   the 

fire, 

Eve  saw  her  own  proud  being  all  entire 
Made  perfect  by  desire; 
And  from  the  rounded  gladness  of  that 

sphere 
Came  bridal  songs  and  harpings  and  fresh 

laughter; 

"Glory  unto  the  faithful!"  sounded  clear, 
And  then,  a  little  after, 
"Whoso    denyeth   aught,   let   him    depart 

from  here!" 

Now,   therefore,  Eve,  with  mystic  years 

o'er-scored, 
Danceth  and  doeth  pleasure   to   Thee, 

Lord,  190 

According  to  the  word 
That  Thou  hast  spoken  to  her  by  her 

dream. 

Singing  a  song  she  dimly  understands, 
She  lifts  her  soul  to  let  the  splendor 

stream. 

Lord,  take  away  thy  hands! 
Let  this  beam  pierce  thy  heart,  and  this 

most  piercing  beam! 

Far  off,  rebelliously,  yet  for  thy  sake, 
She  gathered  them,  O   Thou  who  lovest 

to   break 

A  thousand  souls,  and  shake  J99 

Their  dust  along  the  wind,  but  sl&eplessly 


WILLIAM    VAUGHN    MOODY 


589 


Searchest  the  Bride  fulfilled  in  limb  and 

feature, 

Ready  and  boon  to  be  fulfilled  of  Thee, 
Thine  ample,  tameless  creature, — 
Against  thy  will  and  word,  behold,  Lord, 

this  is  She! 

VI 

From  carven  plinth  and  thousand-galleried 

green 

Cedars,  and  all  close  boughs  that  over- 
tower, 
The  shadows  lengthened  eastward   from 

the  gates, 
And   still   Cain   hid   his    forehead   in   his 

knees, 
Nor  dared  to  look  abroad  lest  he  might 

find 
More  watchers  in  the  portals ;   for  he 

heard  2I° 

What   seemed  the  rush  of  wings;   from 

while  to  while 

A  pallor  grew  and  faded  in  his  brain, 
As  if  a  great  light  passed  him  near  at 

hand. 
But  when  above  the  darkening  desert 

swales 


The  moon  came,  shedding  white,  unlikely 
day, 

Cain  rose,  and  with  his  back  against  the 
stones, 

As  a  keen  fighter  at  the  desperate  odds, 

Glared  round  him.  Cool  and  silent  lay 
the  night, 

Empty  of  any  foe.    Then,  as  a  man 

Who  has  a  thing  to  do,  and  makes  his 
fear  220 

An  icy  wind  to  freeze  his  purpose  firm, 

He  stole  in  through  the  pillars  of  the  gate, 

Down  aisles  of  shadow  windowed  with 
the  moon, 

By  meads  with  the  still  stars  communi 
cant, 

Past  heaven-bosoming  pool  and  pooled 
stream, 

Until  he  saw,  through  tangled  fern  and 
vine, 

The  Tree,  where  God  had  made  its  hab 
itation  : 

And  crouched  above  the  shape  that  had 
been  Eve, 

With  savage,  listening  frame  and  sidelong 
eyes,  229 

Cain  waited  for  the  coming  of  the  dawn. 


PART    II 
CRITICAL    COMMENTS 


FOREWORD    TO    CRITICAL    COMMENTS 

The  following  critical  comments  afford  as  a  whole  a  brief  history  o-f 
American  poetry.  The  single  studies  prepared  by  Frank  M.  Webster  and 
George  W.  Sherburn,  and  the  six  units  written  by  Howard  M.  Jones,  are 
indicated  respectively  by  the  initials  W,  S,  and  J.  The  remainder  by  the 
editor,  are  undesignated. 

The  book  lists  have  been  reduced  to  low  terms.  Most  of  the  volumes 
included  should  be  on  the  shelves  of  the  average  college  or  normal  school 
library,  or  should  be  available  for  reserve  use  in  university  courses.  It 
has  not  been  considered  necessary,  or  even  advisable,  to  multiply  references 
to  works  which  treat  of  various  authors.  Unless  the  passages  are  of  unusual 
interest  they  are  not  mentioned  in  the  short  lists.  The  more  important 
of  the  general  works  are  as  follows: 

BOOKS  ON  THE  WHOLE  PERIOD 
History  and  Qriticistn — 

History  of  American  Poetry,  J.  L.  Onderdonck. 

American  Literature,  C.  F.  Richardson,  2  vols. 

Poets  of  America1  E..  C.  Stedman. 

History  of  American  Literature,  W.  P.  Trent. 

Cambridge  History  of  American  Literature,  W.  P.  Trent  and  Others, 

2  vols.     (In  preparation.) 

Literary  History  of  America,  Barrett  Wendell. 
America  in  Literature,  G.  E.  Woodberry. 
Southern  Writers,  W.  M.  Baskerville. 
Literature  of  the  South,  M.  J.  Moses. 
American  Lands  and  Letters,  Donald  G.  Mitchell. 

Collections — 

Cyclopedia  of  American  Literature,  E.  A.  and  G.  L.  Duyckinck,  2  vols. 

Poets  and  Poetry  of  America,  R.  W.  Griswold. 

Poems  of  American  History,  B.  E.  Stevenson. 

Library  of  American  Literature,  E.  C.  Stedman  and  E.  M.  Hutchinson, 

ii  vols. 

Library  of  Southern  Literature,  C.  W.  Kent,  15  vols. 
Poems  of  American  Patriotism,  Chosen  by  Brander  Matthews. 

593 


594  AMERICAN   POETRY 

BOOKS  ON  THE  COLONIAL  PERIOD 

History  and  Criticism — 

American  Verse,  1625-1807,  W.  B.  Otis. 

The  Spirit  of  the  American  Revolution  as  Revealed  in  the  Poetry  of 

the  Period,  S.  W.  Patterson. 

History  of  American  Literature,  1607-1765,  M.  C.  Tyler,  2  vols. 
Literary  History  of  the  American  Revolution,  M.  C.  Tyler,  2  vols. 

Special  Collection — 

Early  American  Writers,  W.  B.  Cairns. 

BOOKS  ON  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

History  and  Criticism — 

American  Prose  Masters,  W.  C.  Brownell. 

The  Poetry  and  Poets  of  America,  Churton  Collins. 

Contemporaries,  T.  W.  Higginson. 

My  Literary  Friends  and  Acquaintances,  W.  D.  Howells. 

My  Literary  Passions,  W.  D.  Howells. 

The  New  England  Poets,  W.  C.  Lawton. 

A  Fable  for  Critics,  J.  R.  Lowell. 

Criticisms  in  Complete  Works  of  E.  A.  Poe. 

Old  Friends,  William  Winter. 

History  of  American  Literature  since  1870,  F.  L.  Pattee. 

American  Poefs  and  Their  Theology,  A.  H.  Strong. 


ANNE   BRADSTREET    (1612-1672) 

Anne  Bradstreet  was  born  in  England  in  1612.  Her  father,  Thomas 
Dudley,  during  her  childhood,  was  steward  of  the  estate  of  the  Puritan 
Earl  of  Lincoln,  in  whose  library  it  seems  likely  that  she  made  her  acquain 
tance  with  the  works  of  Spenser  and  Du  Bartas,  and  with  North's  Plutarch. 
She  was  married  to  Simon  Bradstreet  in  1628,  and  in  1630  came  with  her 
husband  and  her  father  to  Massachusetts.  Both  men  became  eminent  in 
colonial  affairs.  After  many  changes  of  home,  the  Bradstreets  settled, 
in  1644,  at  Andover,  where  she  lived  until  her  death  in  1672.  She  was 
the  mother  of  eight  children,  among  whose  descendants  are  the  Channings, 
the  two  Richard  H.  Danas,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  Wendell  Phillips,  and 
Charles  Eliot  Norton.  In  1650  there  was  printed  in  London  a  collection 
of  her  poems,  which  were  attributed  by  Her  agent,  the  Rev.  John  Wood- 
bridge,  to  "The  Tenth  Muse,  Lately  Sprung  Up  in  America,"  and  in  less 
flowery  language  were  ascribed  to  "a  gentlewoman  in  those  parts." 

/.  Texts. 

The  Works  of  Anne  Bradstreet,  in  Prose  and  Verse,  edited  by  John 
Harvard  Ellis.    Charlestown,  1867.    This  contains  a  valuable  memoir. 


CRITICAL  COMMENTS  595 

The  Works  of  Mrs.  Anne  Bradstreet,  together  with  her  prose 
remains,  and  with  an  introduction  by  Charles  Eliot  Norton.  The  Club 
of  Odd  Volumes,  1897. 

//.  Biography. 

Anne  Bradstreet  and  her  Time,  by  Helen  Campbell.    Boston,  1891. 
An  Account  of  'Anne  Bradstreet,  the  Puritan  Poetess,  by  Luther 
Caldwell.    Boston,  1898. 

In  writing  of  Anne  Bradstreet,  one  is  tempted  either  by  an  excess  of 
literary  patriotism  to  defend  her  as  "the  mother  of  poetry"  in  America, 
or  by  an  excess  of  critical  zeal  to  laugh  at  her  as  an  example  of  the. 
abysmal  depths  to  which  poetry  sank  when  the  Puritan  fathers  and  mothers 
were  using  it  as  a  pious  exercise  for  penitent  souls.  But  one  cannot  read 
long  in  the  complete  works  of  Mrs.  Bradstreet  without  feeling  that  though 
she  does  not  rise  to  heights  which  justify  the  position  of  motherhood  in 
the  poetic  arts,  neither  does  she  sink  so  low  that  one  can  brush  her  aside 
in  the  brief  history  of  American  poetry.  There  is  a  quality  in  Anne  Brad- 
street  to  be  patriotically  proud  of.  It  is  something  to  have  in  social  or 
literary  history  a  woman  of  spirit  who,  in  a  quiet,  unobtrusive  fashion, 
tramples  under  foot  the  customs  of  her  times  and  breaks  into  speech 
which,  however  halting  it  may  be,  is  a  sane  utterance  of  a  frank  personality. 
If  she  gives  nothing  else  in  her  work,  Mrs.  Bradstreet  at  least  discloses 
herself  as  a  deyout  but  trembling  Christian  in  the  hands  of  the  awful 
God  of  the  Puritans;  as  an  obedient,  loving,  even  passionate  wife;  as  a 
watchful  and  affectionate  mother. 

To  her  contemporaries,  however,  Anne  Bradstreft  was  known  and 
admired  as  the  author  of  "a  complete  discourse  and  description  of  the 
four  elements,  constitutions,  ages  of  man,  seasons  of  the  year;  together 
with  an  exact  epitome  of  the  four  monarchies,  viz.,  the  Assyrian,  Persian, 
Grecian,  Roman ;  also,  a  dialogue  between  Old  England  and  New  concern 
ing  the  late  troubles ;  with  divers  other  pleasant  and  serious  poems."  These 
were  the  ponderous  efforts  which  she  compiled  largely  before  she  was 
thirty,  in  the  scant  leisure  she  could  obtain  when  her  duties  to  her  God, 
her  husband,  her  family,  and  her  home  had  been  completed,  and  which 
were  carried  to  London  by  her  brother-in-law  and  published,  in  1650,  as 
the  work  of  "The  Tenth  Muse  Lately  Sprung  Up  in  America."  The 
larger  works  in  this  volume,  the  rhymed  pentameters  on  the  "fours"  and 
the  "exact  epitome,"  based  on  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's  "History  of  the  World," 
were  the  fruits  of  her  love  for  the  so-called  metaphysical  learning  and 
writing  of  her  own  time  and  of  her  passion — it  could  scarcely  have  been 
less — for  history.  For  the  casual  reader,  this  and  much  other  material 
of  the  same  general  type  in  the  I7th  and  other  centuries  possesses  little 
interest.  He  is  quite  willing  that  the  "Pour  Monarchies"  gather  dust  with 
DuBartas's  "Divine  Week,"  Drayton's  "The  Barren's  War,"  and  Donne's 
"Anatomy  of  the  World." 

To  the  "divers  other  pleasant  and  serious  poems"  he  can  turn  with  a 
different  feeling.  These  afford  contact  with  a  real  person.  In  the  numer 
ous  epitaphs  and  panegyrics  are  presented  a  record  of  Anne  Bradstreet's 


596  AMERICAN   POETRY 

hero  worship.  In  the  poem  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  she  sings  of  the  glories 
of  the  queen's  accomplishments  and  the  liberty  which  must  come  to  women 
as  a  result  of  her  great  work;  in  the  lines  to  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  she  joins 
in  the  large  chorus  of  poets  who  do  honor  to  the  virtues  of  this  ideal 
nobleman;  in  several' poems  she  pays  her  highest  literary  respects  to  the 
French  poet,  DuBartas,  whom  she  knew  through  the  English  translation 
of  Joshua  Sylvester;  in  the  dedication  to  her  father,  she  shows  the  good 
Governor  Dudley  a  reverence  and  respect  which  is  a  bit  more  than  filial ; 
and  in  the  brief  epitaph  to  her  mother,  she  shows  respect  and  reverence 
also,  but  in  a  less  degree,  as  was  due  the  weaker  vessel.  Finally,  in  the 
poem  called  "Contemplations,"  there  appears  a  reverence  and  a  worship 
of  a  different  kind — a  communion  with  the  visible  forms  of  nature,  which 
suggests,  in  tone  at  least,  "Thanatopsis."  In  the  thirty-three  seven-line 
stanzas  which  make  up  this  poem,  Mrs.  Bradstreet  reached  a  height  which 
no  other  American,  poet  attained  for  a  century.  One  admits  the  lack  of 
sustained  elevation  throughout  the  poem,  and  one  may  question  the  rhyme, 
the  meter,  and  the  taste  of  some  of  the  passages,  but  in  many  of  the 
stanzas  one  cannot  fail  to  recognize  the  hand  and  spirit  of  a  real  poet. 

The  list  of  poets  who  are  said  to  have  influenced  Mrs.  Bradstreet  in 
her  writing  is  long  enough  to  comprise  a  good-sized  I7th  century  colonial 
library.  But  the  chief  influence  is  always  reputed  to  be  DuBartas.  She 
herself  admits  an  admiration  which  is  enthusiastic  but  hopeless.  One 
who  has  read  sections  of  "The  Divine  Week,"  however,  and  followed  his 
reading  with  the  poems  of  Anne  Bradstreet,  cannot  feel  that  she  has 
seriously  tried  to  pay  him  the  flattery  of  imitation.  Her  verses  jog  along 
in  fairly  regular  -jneter  and  with  a  sound  common  sense.  Her  Pegasus 
is  an  ambling  pad*  DuBartas,  however,  flies  in  large,  if  not  majestic 
swoops  on  an  unshod^poetical  Bucephalus,  who  has  fed  not  on  the  pleasant 
grass  of  a  New  England  common,  but  on  a  sort  of  sugared  hay,  sweet, 
but  heady.  Of  most  of  the  faults  of  the  poetry  of  her  time,  Mrs.  Brad- 
street  was  guilty.  Yet  a  certain  innate  sanity  kept  her  from  unrestrained 
indulgence  in  the  pious  puns  and  saintly  conceits  which  rejoiced  her 
Puritan  brethren.  We  could  wish  that  instead  of  this  negative  restraint 
she  had  made  a  more  conscious  effort  toward  the  poetic  self-expression  of 
"Contemplations,"  but  we  must  not  forget  that  as  a  poet  she  was  the 
product  of  her  religion  and  her  times. 

When  all  is  said,  however,  it  still  remains  apparent  that  the  chief  value 
of  Anne  Bradstreet  to  American  literature  is  social  rather  than  poetical. 
It  would  have  been  gratifying,  of  course,  had  s"he  given  more  of  her  atten 
tion  to  the  history  of  her  own  time  than  to  the  vicissitudes  of  the  Persian 
monarchy;  had  she  told  of  her  struggles  with  the  elements  in  New  Eng 
land,  rather  than  of  the  fanciful  contests  of  Air,  Fire,  Earth,  and  Water ; 
had  she  but  pictured  something  of  the  physical  'facts  of  her  hard  existence 
in  a  new  and  uncouth  environment,  instead  of  presenting  in  allegory  the 
Four  Ages  of  Man.  But  there  is  in  her  poems  something  just  as  valu 
able  for  an  appreciation  of  the  forefathers  of  our  country  as  a  description 
of  corn  plantation,  Indian  wars,  church  building,  and  domestic  economy. 
She  recorded  the  inner  life  not  of  a  self-conscious  divine,  like  Cotton 
Mather,  nor  a  staid  but  susceptible  elder,  like  Samuel  Sewall,  but  of  a  poet, 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  597 

a  housewife,  a  mother  of  the  days  when  our  country  was  young — and  the 
record  gives  us  a  new  vision,  a  new  understanding,  of  our  history. 

W. 

SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  ELEGIES,   SONGS  AND  EPIGRAMS 

It  has  become  a  fashion  of  American  literary  history  to  speak  of 
Colonial  verse  as  consisting  of  the  poems  by  Anne  Bradstreet  and  dog 
gerel  by  other  people;  to  expound  the  point  by  a  brief  and  sweeping  clever 
ness  of  phrase,  and  to  reinforce  it  by  quotations  from  the  lowest  abysses 
of  the  Bay  Psalm  book  and  the  Wigglesworthian  passage  on  the  damna 
tion  of  infants  to  "the  easiest  room  in  hell."  Even  Tyler,1  whose  com 
ments  are  really  fair  and  finely  critical,  falls  into  the  old  temptation  in 
accounting  for  what  he  calls  "this  unrestrained  proclivity  toward  the  'lust 
of  versification.'  "  "Perhaps,  indeed,  all  this  was  their  solitary  condescen 
sion  to  human  frailty.  The  earthly  element,  the  passion,  the  carnal  taint, 
the  vanity,  the  weariness,  or  whatever  else  it  be  that,  in  other  men,  works 
itself  off  in  a  pleasure  journey,  in  a  flirtation,  in  going  to  the  play,  or  in  a 
convivial  bout,  did  in  these  venerable  men  exhaust  itself  in. the  sly  dissipa 
tion  of  writing  verses." 

Asa  matter  of  fact,  the  inclination  to  write  verse  was  indulged  in  by  a 
large  number  of  English-born,  educated  men,  and  though  their  work  was 
never  inspired,  much  of  it  was  creditable,  and  all  of  it  was  evidence  of  an 
appetite  for  ingenuity  in  thought  and  for  nicety  in  expression  which  were 
late  Elizabethan  characteristics. 

The  passages  selected  for  reprinting  in  this  volume  were  chosen  to  illus 
trate  the  workings  of  various  types  of  mind  during  the  middle  quarters 
of  the  1 7th  century.  The  first  is  taken  from  the  third  book  of  "The  New 
English  Canaan,"  by  Thomas  Morton,  a  gentleman  of  Clifford's  Inn,  a 
graceless  but  amusing  adventurer,  an  incorrigible  anti-Puritan,  who  came 
to  America  in  1622  and  died  here  in  1646,  after  a  wild  experience  motivated 
by  every  sort  of  whimsical  and  outrageous  misdemeanor,  and  interrupted 
by  a  series  of  deportations,  arrests,  imprisonments,  and  persecutions.  It 
is  in  effect,  therefore,  a  song  of  wanton  and  impudent  defiance,  first  pub 
lished  as  early  as  1637. 

The  next  group  appeared  in  1647  in  Nathaniel  Ward's  "Simple  Cobbler 
of  Agawam."  In  temper  and  purpose,  Ward  and  his  Cobbler  were  in 
extremest  contrast  to  Morton  and  his  Canaan.  Ward  was  an  jultra- 
conservative  churchman,  greatly  disturbed  by  the  encroachments  of  liberal 
toleration.  He  was,  however,  no  less  vigorous  than  Morton,  writing  with 
equal  exuberance,  often  emulating  the  Euphuists  in  his  prose  intricacies, 
and  often  resorting  to  brief  verse  outbursts  as  to  a  literary  safety-valve. 
Each  in  his  way  was  marked  by  a  striking  superabundance  of  spirits. 

Nathaniel  Ward  also  appears  in  the  third  group,  the  trio  of  verses 
in  praise  of  Mrs.  Bradstreet,  which  appeared  in  the  Ellis  edition  of  her 
collected  works.  Elegy  was  a  fashion  of  the  day,  as  all  the  remaining 
selections  indicate.  The  next  three  are  from  "New  England's  Memorial," 

1  See  "History  of  American  Literature,  Colonial  Period."     M.  C.  Tyler,  Vol.  I,  pp.  267-8. 


598  AMERICAN   POETRY 

compiled  by  Nathaniel  Morton  (who,  for  the  peace  of  his  soul,  should  not 
be  confused  with  the  ribald  Thomas  of  the  same  name),  and  they  are 
included  here  as  curious  but  only  partially  representative  relics  of  that 
bygone  time. 

Last  of  the  set,  is  the  lament  for  the  hero  of  the  ill-starred  "Bacon's 
Rebellion,"  a  composition  written  about  1676,  in  which  ingenuity  is 
replaced  by  deep  feeling  that  at  points  gives  rise  to  real  eloquence. 
This  lay  unread  among  the  so-called  "Burwell  Papers"  for  many  genera 
tions  until  printed  in  the  Mass.  Hist.  Soc.  Collections,  Series  2,  Vol.  I, 
and  reprinted  with  corrections  in  the  Proceedings  of  the  Mass.  Hist.  Soc. 
of  1866-1867. 

MICHAEL  WIGGLESWORTH    (1631-1705) 

The  author  of  "The  Day  of  Doom"  was  born  in  England  in  1631.  He 
was  brought  to  America  in  1638,  was  sent  to  Harvard,  and  received  his 
A.B.  in  1657.  He  had  originally  planned  to  become  a  physician,  but 
changed  toward  the  end  of  his  college  course,  and  during  the  years  just 
following,  while  he  was  a  tutor,  he  prepared  for  the  ministry.  From  1656 
till  his  death  he  was  nominally  pastor  of  the  church  in  Maiden,  just  out 
side  of  Boston,  although  during  seventeen  years  of  ill  health,  interspersed 
between  1663  and  1686,  the  duties  were  performed  by  younger  men.  From 
1686  to  1705  he  was  in  active  service  both  as  minister  and  doctor.  "The 
Day  of  Doom"  was  published  in  1662,  and  "Meat  out  of  the  Eater,  or 
Meditations  concerning  .  .  .  Affliction,"  in  1669.  A  third  poem,  "God's 
Controversy  with  New  England,"  written  in  the  year  of  a  great  drought, 
1662,  was  not  published  until  1871. 

/.  Texts. 

The  day  of  doom;  or  a  poetical  description  of  the  great  and  last 
judgment :  with  other  poems.  With  a  memoir  by  J.  W.  Dean.  Edited 
by  W.  H.  Burr.  New  York,  1867. 

Other  editions  appeared  in  1662,  1673  (two  others  before  1700), 
1701,  1711,  1715,  1751,  1811,  1828. 

God's  Controversy  with  New  England.  Pub.  Mass.  Hist.  Soc.,  May, 
1871,  pp.  83-98. 

Meat  out  of  the  eater :  or  meditations  concerning  the  necessity,  end 
and  usefulness  of  afflictions,  etc.  Fourth  edition.  Boston,  1689. 

//.  Biography. 

Memoir  of,  by  J.  W.  Dean.    Second  edition.    Albany,  1871. 

M.  W.* — earliest  poet  among  Harvard  graduates.  S.  A.  Greene. 
Proc.  Mass.  Hist.  Soc.,  Jan.,  1895. 

In  Biographical  Sketches  of  graduates  of  Harvard  University. 
Cambridge,  1873,  I,  pp.  259-286. 

"The  Day  of  Doom,"  the  work  on  which  the  Reverend  Michael  Wiggles- 
worth's  fame  is  most  securely  founded,  gave  the  title  to  a  little  duodecimo 
of  1662,  in  which  it  was  the  chief  work.  The  full  title  reads,  "The  Day  of 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  599 

Doom /or,  a  /  Description  /  Of  the  Great  and  Last  /  Judgment.  /  with  a 
short,  discourse  /  about  /  Eternity.  Eccles.  12.14  /  For  God  shall  bring 
every  work  into  judgment  with  every  secret  thing,  whether  it  be  good,  or 
whether  it  be  evil."  It  was  printed,  probably,  in  Cambridge.  In  the  edition 
°f  I773>  "The  Day  of  Doom"  itself  occupies  sixty-seven  pages  of  eight-lined 
ballad  stanzas.  Then  comes  a  little  meditation  in  heroic  couplets,  115 
lines.  Then  the  "Discourse  on  Eternity,"  then  a  "Postscript  to  the  Reader," 
and  ^finally  "A  Song  of  Emptiness  to  fill  up  the  Empty  Pages  following 
Vanity  of  Vanities."  In  all  these  successive  addenda,  the  type  grows 
progressively  smaller,  until  the  reader,  whose  eyes  dim  under  the  accumu 
lating  task,  deciphers  with  difficulty  the  last  line  of  the  last  page, 

Delight  thyself  in  that  which  worthj^fts  is. 

"The  Day  of  Doom"  is  composed  of  224  stanzas.  After  an  invocation 
to  Christ,  rather  than  to  the  Muses,  whom  the  poet  abominates,  the  day 
of  doom  is  announced,  the  hosts  appear  before  Christ  enthroned,  the  sheep 
are  placed  on  His  right,  and  the  doctrine  of  Election  expounded,  and  the 
goats  on  His  left  appear  in  successive  groups  for  trial.  Each  plead  in 
turn — hypocrites,  civil  honest  men,  those  who  died  in  youth,  those  who 
were  misled  by  the  example  of  the  elect,  those  who  could  not  interpret 
the  Scriptures  aright,  those  who,  while  living,  feared  martyrdom  more  than 
hell  torment,  those  who  saw  no  good  in  attempting  to  deserve  a  salvation 
which  no  good  works  could  assure,  and,  finally,  those  who  died  in  infancy. 
All  are  answered  and  controverted  from  the  throne,  and  all  are  swept 
off  to  a  common  damnation,  save  the  infants,  for  whom  a  relenting  Provi 
dence  reserves  "the  easiest  room  in  hell." 

Three-fourths  of  this  is  undiluted  theology  in  jingling  rhyme.  From 
the  beginning  of  the  trial  to  the  concluding  wholesale  verdict  (stanzas 
xxi-cciv),  there  is  not  a  tableau  of  any  sort,  and  not  a  figure  of  speech 
which  had  not  been  made  familiar  by  constant  pulpit  iteration.  With  the 
opening  and  closing  stanzas,  about  twenty  at  each  end,  there  is  some 
dramatic  quality  in  action  and  staging,  though  not  enough  to  account  for 
the  popularity  of  the  verses  for  the  next  hundred  years.  This  popular 
liking  of  the  thing  was  quite  unliterary,  but  depended  on  a  combination  of 
two  salient  features :  "The  Day  of  Doom"  expressed  the  deepest  convic 
tions  of  a  consecrated  people,  and  it  appealed  to  the  ballad  appetite  of  a 
folk  who  were  otherwise  starved  for  any  nourishment  of  that  sort.  They 
repeated  the  stanzas  as  they  might  have  repeated  "Chevy  Chase"  or  "Johnny 
Armstrong" ;  they  believed  them  with  an  intensity  of  devotion  which  had 
already  impelled  them  to  brave  the  wrath  of  the  church  and  the  terrors 
of  an  unknown  sea.  So  it  became  the  "best  seller"  of  its  century,  was 
memorized  together  with  the  catechism,  and  became  "the  solace,"  as  Lowell 
says  with  a  twinkle,  "of  every  fireside,  the  flicker  of  the  pine-knots  by 
which  it  was  conned  perhaps  adding  a  livelier  relish  to  its  premonitions 
of  eternal  combustion." 

With  comments  on  this  work,  the  poetic  doom  of  Michael  Wigglesworth 
is  usually  pronounced,  with  attempts  at  supercilious  epigram;  or,  if  any 
further  attention  is  conceded  him,  appeal  is  made  on  the  one  side  to  "The 
Bay  Psalm  Book,"  or  on  the  other  to  his  "Meat  Out  of  the  Eater,"  for 


600  AMERICAN    POETRY 

evidence  that  the  Puritan  parson  as  a  genus  was  incapable  of  writing 
poetry  of  any  kind,  or  even  passable  verse.  What  could  be  expected  of  a 
mind  which  could  evolve  such  stuff  as  this? 

Make   out   for   help   in   time 

Lest  by   some  subtile  will, 

Or    hidden    craft    to    thee    unknown, 

The   Serpent   thee   beguile. 

Temptations    are    like    poyson, 

Provide    an    Antidote : 

'Tis   easier  mischief  to  prevent, 

Than  cure  it  when   'tis  got.1 

.Yet,  in  the  never  quoted  lines  immediately  following  "The  Day  of 
Doom" — a  poem,  without  a  title,  on  the  vanity  of  human  wishes — Michael 
Wigglesworth  gives  proofs  of  huma-n  kindliness  and  of  poetic  power.  In 
these  earnest  lines,  Wigglesworth  shows  a  mastery  of  fluent  verse,  a  con 
trol  of  poetic  imagery,  and  a  gentle  yearning  for  the  souls'  welfare  of 
his  parishioners,  which  is  the  utterance  of  the  pastor  rather  than  of  the 
theologian.  For  a  moment,  God  ceases  to  be  angry,  Christ  stands  pleading 
without  the  gate,  and  the  good  pastor  utters  a  poem  upon  the  neglected 
theme,  "The  Kingdom  of  God  is  within  you" : 

Fear  your  great  Maker  with  a  child-like  awe, 

Believe  his  Grace,   love  and  obey   his  Law. 

This   is  the   total  work   of   man,   and   this 

Will  crown  you  here  with  Peace  and  there  with  Bliss. 

This  poem  is  much  the  best  of  all  that  Wigglesworth  wrote,  although, 
like  all  his  others,  it  cannot  be  read  and  understood  without  thought  of 
the  New  England  generation  for  which  it  was  written.  Yet  it  proves 
beyond  peradventure  that  "The  Day  of  Doom"  was  a  concession  to  popular 
taste  in  both  form  and  content,  and  that  the  man  who  wrote  it  was  capable 
of  finer  things.  He  was  not  a  great  poet,  but  he  was  in  truth  a  man  of 
poetic  feeling  who  was  hardened  and  repressed  by  the  temper  of  his  age. 


R.  LEWIS   (Dates  Unknown) 

Of  the  author  of  the  "Journey  from  Patapsco  to  Annapolis"  almost 
nothing  is  certainly  known.  We  may  be  fairly  certain,  however,  that  he 
was  born  about  the  beginning  of  the  century,  was  educated  at  Eton,  and, 
possibly,  had  some  training  at  Oxford.  He  was  a  friend  of  Governor 
Benedict  Leonard  Calvert,  and  came  to  Annapolis,  probably  about  1727, 
perhaps  through  the  Governor's  inducements,  to  become  there  a  teacher 
of  Latin  and  Greek.  Among  his  works,  we  may  list  the  following: 

Muscipula:  The  Mouse  Trap,  or  the  Battle  of  the  Cambrians  & 
the  Mice;  a  poem  by  Edward  Holdsworth,  translated  into  English  by 
R.  Lewis.  Annapolis,  1728.  (Reprinted  in  the  Maryland  Historical 
Society  Fund  Publication,  No.  36,  in  1899.) 

A  Journey  from  Patapsco  in  Maryland  to  Annapolis,  April  4,  1730. 

1  Wigglesworth,  "Light  in  Darkness,"  Song  VIII,  Stanza  7. 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  601 

(Printed  in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  for  March,  1732,  Vol.  II, 
pp.  669-671.  Reprinted  in  Eustace  Budgell's  Bee  for  April  7  to  14, 
1733,  Vol.  I,  pp.  393-404;  again  in  Carey's  American  Museum  for  1791, 
Vol.  IX,  Appendix  I,  pp.  9-16;  and  also  in  Edward  D.  Neill's  "Terra 
Mariae"  (1867),  pp.  239-252 — see  also  p.  214.  The  text  here  reprinted 
is  that  of  the  Gentleman's  Magazine.) 

Carmen  Seculare.  (Printed  in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  for 
April  and  May,  1733,  Vol.  Ill,  pp.  209-210  and  264.) 

A  Rhapsody.  (Printed  in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  for  July,  1734, 
Vol.  IV,  p.  385.  This  poem  is  almost  certainly  by  Lewis.) 

For  other  poems  possibly  by  Lewis,  though  probably  not  his,  see 
the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  VII,  760;  XI,  603;  XII,  653-654,  and 
XIII,  46. 

There  is  an  interesting  preface  on  Lewis  in  the  reprint  of  the 
"Muscipula,"  and  brief  but  enthusiastic  appreciations  of  the  ^Journey"  in 
Budgell's  Bee  (I,  393),  and  in  Neill's  "Terra  Mariae,"  p.  214.  Dr.  Bernard 
C.  Steiner  has  published  in  the  Maryland  Historical  Magazine,  Vol.  Ill, 
pp.  191-227,  283-342,  an  article  on  Governor  Benedict  Leonard  Calvert, 
which  throws  incidental  light  on  Lewis  and  his  environment.  Aside  from 
the  brief  discussion  of  the  "Muscipula"  in  Otis's  "American  Verse,  1625- 
1807"  (pp.  258-260),  Lewis's  work  seems  to  be  unmentioned  by  recent 
writers  on  American  literature. 

Such  neglect,  especially  of  the  poem  here  reprinted,  is  unwarranted. 
The  "Journey  from  Patapsco  to  Annapolis"  is  one  of  the  best  poems  of 
its  day  in  America.  It  is,  of  course,  a  frank  and  remarkably  prompt 
imitation  of  Thomson's  "Seasons."  The  "Seasons"  came  out  during  the 
years  1726-1730,  and  this  poem,  though  published  in  1732,  bears  the  date 
of  1730  in  its  title.  The  one  of  the  "Seasons"  which  the  poem  most  re 
sembles  is  "Summer"  (1727),  though  "Spring"  (1728),  has  possibly  left 
a  few  traces  of  influence.  In  structure  the  poem  follows  the  pattern  of 
"L5 Allegro,"  "II  Penseroso,"  and  especially  of  "Summer,"  in  presenting 
the  pleasures  of  a  day  and  a  night.  It  begins  with  a  picture  of  dawn  and 
ends  with  the  reflections  of  late  evening.  It  has  a  certain  advantage  over 
its  models  in  that  it  follows  an  easy,  natural  narrative  order,  instead  of 
mixing  narrative  with  reflection,  as  Thomson  and  Milton  do.  In  selection 
and  arrangement,  the  episodes  of  the  poem  are  consciously,  though  not 
abjectly,  parallel  to  those  used  in  "Summer." 

In  form,  the  poem  sticks  to  the  couplet,  instead  of  attempting  the  more 
unusual  and  more  difficult  blank  verse  of  Thomson.  The  couplet,  how 
ever,  is  not  used  in  Pope's  fashion;  it  is  frequently  varied  by  triplets,  by 
run-on  lines,  and  by  shifting  the  pause  in  the  fashion  popularized  by 
"Paradise  Lost."  The  diction  is  at  times  reminiscent  of  Shakespeare, 
Milton,  Pope,  and,  among  others,  Thomson  especially;  and  yet  the  phrases 
are  usually  the  honest,  sincere  registering  of  Lewis's  own  sense-impres 
sions.  Much  of  the  conventional  Latinization,  many  of  the  epithets  that 
are  interpretative  rather  than  sensuous,  are  due  to  Milton  and  Thomson. 
Such  are  the  "ambient  air,"  the  "languid  tides,"  the  hawk  that  "predes 
tinates  his  prey,"  and  many  other  phrases.  More  notable,  however,  are 


602  AMERICAN   POETRY 

the  details  that,  to  use  the  romantic  catchword,  bring  back  the  eye  to  the 
object.  Lewis  is  one  of  the  earliest  American  poets  to  be  predominantly 
sensuous  in  his  appeal :  the  "floating  foliage"  of  the  pines  struck  by  the 
rising  sun,  the  iridescence  of  the  humming  bird,  the  pattering  noise  of  the 
hail  (Thomson's  hail  was  "sonorous"),  the  fragrance  of  the  sassafras  buds 
— these  are  but  a  few  of  the  exquisite  sensations  that  Lewis  records  for 
us  with  convincing  and  unpretentious  honesty. 

In  such  a  poem,  these  pictures — or  better,  these  "images,"  as  they  would 
have  been  called  in  Lewis's  day — are  of  supreme  importance.  The  notable 
thing  about  the  images  here  is  that  they  are  consistently  and  typically 
local.  The  English  critics  who  were  surprised  to  find  Bryant's  nature 
passages  so  easily  transferable  to  English  scenery,  would  have  found  Lewis 
satisfactorily  American.  He  carefully  turns  his  back  on  the  flowers  and 
trees  of  Thomson's  "Spring"  (lines  530  and  following),  and  substitutes 
the  pacone,  the  crowfoot,  the  cinque-foil,  the  red-bud  and  the  sassafras; 
he  delights  in  the  restful  green  of  wheat.  His  praise  of  the  mocking  bird 
and  of  the  humming  bird  is  sufficient  evidence  of  his  desire  to  celebrate 
the  beauties  of  Maryland.  Indeed,  it  is  likely  that  these  two  birds,  as  well 
as  many  other  bits  of  American  nature,  make  their  first  appearance  in 
poetry  here.  Lewis  seeks  not  so  much  to  report  the  look  of  these  things 
as  to  express  his  keen  enjoyment  of  them. 

The  poem  is,,  then,  aside  from  its  thoroughly  American  details,  signifi 
cant  in  the  history  of  American  poetry.  Before  1730,  the  Rev.  Mather 
Byles,  of  Boston,  had  sworn  allegiance  to  the  poetry  of  Alexander  Pope ; 
here  arise,  probably,  the  first  signs  of  the  Thomson  influence — which  was, 
of  course,  to  be  more  permanent  and  valuable  than  the  Pope  tradition: 
The  promptness  with  which  the  provinces  were  imitating  the  popular 
poets  of  the  mother  country  is  interesting.  It  augurs  an  attention  to  things 
poetic  not  always  ascribed  to  our  ancestors.  In  fact,  the  whole  career 
of  Lewis,  brief  though  it  may  have  been,  suggests  that  there  may  have 
been  much  more  poetry  written,  in  America  in  the  i8th  century  than  has 
been  commonly  supposed,  and  that  the  poetry  written  may  have  been 
much  better  than  has  been  thought.  It  was  mostly  published  in  obscure 
nooks,  or  in  England,  and  has  not  as  yet  been  thoroughly  reclaimed. 

S. 

THE  ALMANACS  OF  NATHANIEL  AMES 

"The  Essays,  Humor  and  Poems  of  Nathaniel  Ames,  Father  and  Son,  of 
Dedham,  Massachusetts,  from  their  Almanacks,  1726-1774.  With  notes 
and  Comments,  by  Sam.  Briggs.  Cleveland,  1891." 

The  first  half  of  the  i8th  century  was  relatively  barren  in  poetry,  even 
in  America,  where  there  had  been  little  enough  before.  No  volumes  of 
verse  seem  to  have  been  produced.  Some  work,  such  as  that  of  Mr.  Lewis, 
got  into  print  through  the  columns  of  the  English  periodicals,  and  some 
through  the  American  almanacs. 

The  almanac,  "the  most  despised,  most  prolific,  most  indispensable 
of  books  ...  the  very  quack,  clown,  pack-horse,  and  pariah  of  modern 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  603 

literature,"  had  enjoyed  a  growing  vogue  from  the  beginnings  of  the 
Colonial  period.  After  "The  Freeman's  Oath,"  the  first  piece  of  printing 
in  this  country  was  a  Mr.  Pierce's  almanac,  printed  by  Stephen  Daye  in 
Cambridge  in  1639.  Boston  entered  the  field  in  1676,  Philadelphia  in  1686, 
New  York  in  1697.  The  first  one  appeared  in  Rhode  Island  in  1728,  and 
in  Virginia  in  1731.  "Poor.  Richard"  made  his  debut  in  1732.  Among  the 
almanac  editors  who  prospered  through  long  careers,  three  are  most  famous, 
Robert  B.  Thomas,  publisher  of  "The  Old  Farmer's  Almanac,"  from  1793 
to  1847  ;x  Benjamin  Franklin,  founder  in  1732  and  author  until  1748  of 
the  "Poor  Richard,"  who  continued  to  prosper  on  his  poverty  until 
1796,  and  earliest  of  the  three,  Nathaniel  Ames,  of  Dedham,  Mass.,  an 
author,  editor,  and  publisher  of  his  own  series  from  1726  to  1764,  who  was 
succeeded  by  a  son  of  the  same  name  until  1774. 

In  the  almanacs  of  Nathaniel  Ames,2  father  and  son,  the  literary  element 
— to  use  the  term  very  charitably — was  a  striking  feature.  This  included 
the  conventional  introduction  of  "interlined  wit  and  humor,"  the  less  com 
mon  employment  of  didactic  essays  on  astronomy,  theology,  black-art, 
prosaic  discussions  on  personal  hygiene,  and  Addisonian  pages  for  the 
ladies  and  for  the  gentlemen,  and,  finally,  the  use  of  a  considerable  amount 
of  quoted  and  original  verse.  The  verse  appears  from  the  first  number 
in  every  issue,  and  bulks  up  to  much  more  than  the  other  two  features 
combined.  Among  the  English  poets  quoted  are  Pope,  Dryden,  Addison, 
Thomson,  Milton,  and  Sir  Richard  Blackmore,  but  more  often  the  verse 
is  by  Ames  himself  or  one  of  his  countrymen. 

The  most  common  method  of  weaving  it  into  the  almanacs,  is  by  print 
ing  it  as  a  series  of  inscriptions  above  the  successive  months.  Sometimes 
the  verses  so  introduced  are  appropriate  to  the  changing  seasons,  but  not 
infrequently  they  are  simply  twelve  sections  of  one  consecutive  piece  of 
poetical  moralization  upon  life,  and  sometimes  for  the  same  year  these 
two  appeals  are  rudely  combined.  In  several  of  the  issues  are  forewords, 
such  as  those  herein  reprinted  for  1738,  which  show  a  journalistic  inclina 
tion  to  supply  what  the  public  wanted,  by  placating  the  grave  with  a 
serious  address,  and  the  gay  with  a  frivolous  one.  From  time  to  time,  in 
addition  to '  forewords  and  monthly  captions,  there  are  appended  whole 
selections,  which,  for  want  of  a  better  word,  we  must  call  poems.  In  the 
earlier  years,  these  are  more  often  related  to  the  wars  of  the  Lord,  and 
in  the  later  ones  to  fighting  with  the  French  and  Indians ;  but  in  almost 
all  cases  they  are  pertinent,  as  almanac  verse  should  be,  to  contemporary 
events  or  interests.  Thus,  in  1741,  the  period  of  "The  Great  Awakening," 
there  is  a  challenge  "To  the  Scoffers  at  Whitefield's  Preaching,"  but  in  1760 
an  outburst  of  triumph  "On  the  Reduction  of  Quebec  by  Wolfe."  The 
rhymed  chronologies  of  1745  and  1763  are  fascinating  records  of  the  i8th 
century  orthodox  attitude  toward  history  and  the  mountain-peaks  of  human 
achievement.  The  naive  near-sightedness  of  the  times  was  humanly  frank 
rather  than  humanly  unusual,  like  the  vanity  of  a  debutante  who  will  dally 
before  the  mirror,  with  Pike's  Peak  waiting  outside  the  window. 

1  For   information   on   Thomas   and   a   great   deal   of   interesting   data   about   almanacs   in 
general,  see  "The  Old  Farmer  and  his  Almanac,"  by  G.  L.  Kittredge,   Boston,   1904, 
'"The  Almanacs  of  Nathaniel  Ames,  1726-1774." 


604  AMERICAN    POETRY 

In  form,  the  verses  of  Ames  and  his  contributors  are  not  without  claims 
to  attention.  They  are  uneven,  and  run  all  the  lower  half  of  the  gamut — 
for  none  are  more  than  fair;  but  in  this  mediocrity  they  partake  of  the 
period  in  which  they  were  written.  Dryden,  Addison,  and  Thomson 
served  as  models  of  convention  to  the  i8th  century  mind.  What  the  2Oth 
century  applauds  in  them  are  the  qualities  which  make  them  egregious 
rather  than  conventional.  The  diction  and  prosody  of  Ames  and  his 
models,  therefore,  are  the  things  against  which  Wordsworth  protested 
in_his  essay  of  1798,  and  they  are  the  point  of  departure  for  the  poets  of 
"~th  century.  Thus,  they  are  still  interesting  to  the  student,  not  as 
immortal  poetry,  but  as  the  kind  of  poetry  that  a  certain  generation  was 
content  to  readxand  write,  and  as  a  monumental  evidence  of  the  fact  that 
the  desire  for  poetry  will  survive  almost  any  vicissitudes. 

FRANCIS  HOPKINSON   (1737-1791) 

Hopkinson  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  October  2,  1737.  He  was  first 
matriculant  in  the  College  of  Philadelphia,  receiving  his  bachelor's  degree 
in  1757,  and  his  master's  in  1760.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1761, 
visited  England  in  1766-1767,  and  from  1772  to  1776  was  holder  of  offices 
under  the  Crown.  He  was,  nevertheless,  one  of  the  signers  of  the  Declara 
tion  of  Independence.  With  the  approach  of  the  war,  he  became  an  effec 
tive  spokesman  for  the  colonies.  His  most  famous  contributions  were 
"A  Pretty  Story— The  Old  Farm  and  the  New  Farm :  A  Political  Allegory 
by  Peter  Grievous,  Esq.,"  1774,  and  "The  Battle  of  the  Kegs,"  a  ballad 
of  1778.  He  wrote,  also,  graceful  verse  and  prose  on  the  life  and  manners 
of  his  time,  and  was  distinguished  as  one  of  the  most  versatile  men  of  his 
day.  He  was  statesman,  jurist,  scientist,  musician,  poet,  and  painter.  He 
died  on  May  9,  1791. 

I.  Texts. 

The  Miscellaneous  Essays  and  Occasional  Writings  of  Francis 
Hopkinson,  3  vols.  Philadelphia,  1792.  The  latter  half  of  the  third 
volume  contains  in  separate  paging,  1-204,  his  Poems  on  Several 
Subjects. 

The  Old  Farm  and  the  New  Farm:  A  Political  Allegory.  With 
an  introduction  and  historical  notes  by  B.  J.  Lossing.  New  York, 
1864. 

II.  Biography. 

A  Biographical  Sketch  of  Francis  Hopkinson,  by  C.  R.  Hildeburn, 
Philadelphia,  1878. 

///.  Criticism. 

The  Literary  History  of  the  American  Revolution,  by  M.  C.  Tyler, 
Vol.  I,  Chap.  VIII,  pp.  163-171;  Chap.  XII,  pp.  279-292;  Chap.  XXII, 
pp.  487-490,  and  Vol.  II,  Chap.  XXX,  pp.  130-157. 

Francis  Hopkinson,  Man  of  Affairs  and  Letters,  Mrs.  A.  R.  Marble, 
tfew  Eng.  Mag.,  Vol.  XXVII,  p.  289. 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  605 

As  a  figure  in  the  history  of  American  literature,  Francis  Hopkinson 
must  be  estimated  for  his  prose,  for  his  verse,  and  for  his  genial  and 
pervasive  influence  as  a  cultured  gentleman.  Two  and  one-half  of  the 
three  volumes  of  his  collected  works  are  filled  with  prose  essays,  which 
are  worth  reading  both  as  literature  and  as  history.  As  polite  literature, 
they  include  meditations,  reveries,  dreams,  and  innocuous  light  essays  of 
the  Addisonian  type,  discourses  on  education,  both  grave  and  gay,  and 
popular  commentaries  on  science  and  statecraft,  a  programme  extending  all 
the  way  from  a  "Speech  of  a  post  in  the  assembly  room"  to  "Observations, 
on  the  bill  for  amending  the  penal  laws."  Considered  as  history,  they 
include  a  number  of  open  letters  to  the  newspapers,  and  certain  prose 
satires,  of  which  three,  "A  Pretty  Story,"  of  1774;  "A  Prophecy,"  of  1776, 
and  "The  New  Roof,"  of  1778,  are  as  important  and  effective  as  any  trio 
from  one  hand  written  during  the  Revolution. 

As  a  poet,  Hopkinson,  stands  quite  in  contrast  to  Trumbull,  Freneau, 
Dwight,  and  Barlow  in  not  having  succumbed  to  the  prevailing  fever  for 
epic  writing.  The  whole  volume  of  his  poetry  bulks  to  slightly  over  200 
pages,  and  includes  more  than  sixty  titles.  He  attempted  no  sustained 
flights.  The  titles  to  his  poems  reveal  their  complete  allegiance  to  the 
conventions  of  the  i8th  century.  There  are  Miltonic  imitations,  songs, 
sentiments,  hymns,  a  fable,  and  a  piece  of  advice  to  a  young  lady.  There 
are  occasional  poems,  including  birthday  and  wedding  greetings,  prologues 
and  epilogues  at  the  theatre,  elegies,  and  rhymed  epitaphs.  There  is  an 
"Epigram  on  the  death  of  a  favorite  lap  dog"  and  "Verses  written  in  a 
blank  book  which  once  belonged  to  Shenstone" — verses  which  betray 
Hopkinson's  1 8th  century  opinion  that  Shenstone  wrote  books  which  were 
not  also  blank. 

These  various  poems  of  what  may  be  called  the  stock  varieties,  pos 
sessed  many  of  the  excellences  of  their  kind.  Hopkinson  was  never 
pompous,  his  sense  of  humor  restrained  him  from  the  use  of  long  and 
empty  locutions,  he  was  almost  always  facile  and  graceful,  and  he  was 
always  in  complete  control  of  his  emotions; 

My  gen'rous  heart  disdains 
The  slave  of  love  to  be, 
I   scorn   his  servile   chains, 
And  boast  my  liberty. 
This    whining 
And    pining 

And  wasting  with  care, 
Are  not  to  my  taste,  be  she  ever  so  fair. 

This  attitude  of  mind  is  well  adapted  to  the  composition  of  satire  in  prose 
and  verse.  The  "Political  ballad  written  in  1777"  is  a  ballad  only  in 
appearance.  What  Hopkinson  achieved  with  admirable  skill  in  these 
verses  was  the  employment  of  narration  in  ballad  metre  to  convey  a 
satirical  message.  It  was  more  nearly  a  fable  than  a  ballad.  It  had,  to 
be  sure,  none  of  the  imaginative  subtlety  of  Keats's  "La  Belle  Dame  sans 
Merci,"  but  also  none  of  the  heroic  simplicity  of  "the  grand  old  ballad 
of  Sir  Patrick  Spens."  _  Again,  in  1778,  Hopkinson  composed  "The  New 
Roof,"  with  equal  effectiveness,  in  prose  and  in  verse,  writing  it  apparently 
as  a  prose  allegory  and  then  putting  the  point  of  it  into  a  song.  So,  but 


606  AMERICAN    POETRY 

in  less  degree,  "The  Battle  of  the  Kegs"  depends  for  success  upon  its  mock- 
heroic  quality  and  the  sop  to  Cerberus  contained  in^  its  naughty  allusion 
to  Sir  William  Howe.  As  a  ballad  imitation,  it  is  admirable  in  its  rugged 
irregularities.  It  was  not  done  in  Hopkinson's  style,  though  Hopkinson's 
smile  gleams  out*  from  between  the  lines. 

Thus,  behind  all  his  prose  and  verse,  there  appears  always  the  charming 
and  complex  personality  of  this  talented  gentleman.  He  had  accomplish 
ments  enough  to  qualify,  him  as  a  full-fledged  dilettante,  but  abilities 
sufficient  to  make  him  a"n  astute  and  learned  judge.  His  social  graces 
brought  him  from  Lord  North  political  favors  which  his  native  strength 
enabled  him  to  sacrifice  for  the  Colonial  cause.  He  had  the  qualities  of 
heroism  but  none  of  its  manners.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  Franklin  in 
him — his  learning,  his  interest  in  science  and  literature,  his  humor,  his 
complete  and  practical  devotion  to  the  things  of  the  day.  And  there  was 
a  good  deal  in  him,  also,  of  Chesterfield,  in  his  love  of  the  refinements 
of  life  and  in  his  mastery  of  the  art  of  getting  on. 

The  praise  of  his  contemporaries  is  significant.  John  Adams  wrote 
to  his  wife  in  August,  1776,  the  day  after  he  had  been  at  Peale's  studio: 
"At  this  shop  I  met  Mr.  Francis  Hopkinson,  late  a  mandamus  councillor 
of  New  Jersey,  now  a  member  of  the  Continental  Congress,  who  .  .  . 
was  liberally  educated  and  is  a  painter  and  a  poet.  I  have  a  curiosity  to 
penetrate  a  little  deeper  into  the  bosom  of  this  curious  gentleman.  .  .  . 
He  is  one  of  your  pretty  little  curious,  ingenious  men.  ...  I  have  not 
met  with  anything  in  natural  history  more  amusing  and  entertaining  than 
his  personal  appearance — yet  he  is  genteel  and  well  bred  and  is  very 
social."  And  then  the  rugged  New  Englander  concluded  half  wistfully, 
"I  wish  I  had  leisure  and  tranquillity  of  mind  to  amuse  myself  with  those 
elegant  and  ingenious  arts  of  painting,  sculpture,  statuary,  architecture 
and  music.  But  I  have  not."  Yet  Dr.  Rush  wrote  of  this  "pretty  little" 
man  that  the  Revolution  and  the  formation  of  the  Union  could  not  be 
fully  understood  "unless  much  is  ascribed  to  the  irresistible  influence  of 
the  ridicule  which  he  poured  forth  from  time  to  time  upon  the  enemies 
of  those  great  political  events." 

JOHN   TRUMBULL    (1750-1831) 

Trumbull  was  born  in  Waterbury,  Connecticut,  April  24,  1750.  As  a 
youthful  prodigy  he  passed  the  Yale  entrance  examinations  at  the  age 
of  seven,  read  very  extensively  up  to  his  actual  admission  six  years  later, 
and  received  his  A.B.  in  1767  and  his  A.M.  in  1770,  reading  eagerly  in 
the  "polite  literature"  of  the  moderns  and  ancients.  His  chief  writings 
included  a  series  of  Addisonian  essays,  entitled  "The  Meddler,"  in  The 
Boston  Chronicle,  September,  1769- January,  1770,  and  "The  Correspondent" 
in  The  Connecticut  Journal  and  New  Haven  Post-Boy,  February- July,  1770, 
and  February-September,  1773 ;  "The  Progress  of  Dulness,"  Part  I,  August, 
1772;  Part  II,  January,  1773;  Part  III,  July,  1773;  "M'Fingal,"  Canto  I, 
1776.  This  was  later  divided  into  two  with  the  completion  of  "M'Fingal, 
A  Modern  Epic  Poem,  in  Four  Cantos,"  in  1782.  He  shared  also  in  the 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  607 

composition  of  "The  Anarchiad,"  in  1786-1787,  with  David  Humphreys, 
Joel  Barlow,  and  Lemuel  Hopkins.  In  1773  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar, 
and  during  a  long  career  served  with  increasing  distinction.  He  died 
in  1831. 

/.  Texts. 

The  first  complete  edition,  from  which  the  selections  in  this 
volume  are  quoted,  appeared  presumably  under  his  own  supervision, 
with  an  introduction  and  notes,  as  The  Poetical  Works  of  John  Trum- 
bull.  Hartford,  1820,  2  vols. 

A  useful  piece  of  modern  editing  is  M'Fingal :  an  epic  poem.  With 
introduction  and  notes,  by  B.  J.  Lossing.  New  York,  1860. 

II.  Criticism, 

The  best  critical  discussion  of  Trumbull  is  in  The  Literary  History 
of  the  American  Revolution,  by  M.  C.  Tyler,  Vol.  I,  Chap.  IX,  pp.  188- 
221,  and  Chap.  XX,  pp.  427-450. 

It  is  frequently  said  that  infant  prodigies  die  young  or  grow  into 
mediocrity.  John  Trumbull,  however,  lived  to  old  age  and  eminence.  Only 
by  forcing  the  issue  can  he  be  said  to  have  at  all  fitted  the  formula.  He 
did  give  great  literary  promise  as  a  youth,  and  his  literary  career  was 
completed  as  early  as  that  of  Keats;  but  only  those  who  care  to  regard 
legal  eminence  as  a  literary  catastrophe  can  take  any  comfort  in  the 
non-fulfilment  of  his  precocity. 

His  poetry,  written  between  1770  and  1782,  may  conveniently  be  con 
sidered  in  two  groups.  The  first  is  the  modest  array  of  fourteen  short 
poems  at  the  end  of  the  second  volume  of  his  1820  edition,  and  the  second 
is  made  up  of  his  two  long  satires,  which,  .in  bulk  as  well  as  importance, 
far  overbalance  all  the  rest.  Of  the  first  group,  eleven  were  written 
between  1770  and  1774,  when  he  was  frankly  eager,  impressionable  and 
imitative.  Quite  naturally,  he  translated  from  Virgil;  most  of  the  English 
poets  since  the  Restoration  had  taken  side  excursions  into  this  field.  As 
a  young  and  orthodox  New  Englander,  he  matched  these  classical  tributes 
off  with  Biblical  paraphrases,  after  the  fashion  of  Watts.  He  did  two 
fables,  like  Gay,  and  gave  "Advice  to  Ladies  of  a  Certain  Age,"  like 
Lyttleton  and  every  other  true  :8th  century  Englishman.  With  the  echoes 
of  Gray's  "Elegy"  in  his  ears,  he  wrote  an  elegy  on  his  friend,  St.  John, 
and  therewith  indulged  in  the  pleasurable  melancholy  of  the  "graveyard 
poets,"  who  were  later  to  influence  the  youthful  Bryant.  Apparently,  he 
had  no  other  ambition  for  himself  or  for  his  fellow  poets  in  America 
than  to 

bid  their  lays  with  lofty  Milton  vie; 
Or  wake  from  nature's  themes  the  moral  song, 
And    shine    with    Pope,    with   Thompson    and   with    Young. 
This   land   her    Swift   and   Addison    shall   view, 
The   former   honors   equalled  by   the  new; 
Here  shall  some  Shakspeare  charm  the  rising  age, 
And  hold  in  magic  chains  the  listening  stage; 
A  second   Walts  shall  string  the   heavenly   lyre, 
And  other  muses  other  bards  inspire. 


608  AMERICAN    POETRY 

In  these  poems,  Trumbull  showed  an  unqualified  literary  conservatism. 
What  was  good  enough  for  his  fathers — the  best  of  contemporary  English 
literature — was  good  enough  for  him.  The  idea  that  a  new  country  might 
evolve  new  ways  of  thinking  and  new  forms  of  expression  does  not  seem 
to  have  occurred  to  him.  In  "The  Progress  of  Dulness,"  however,  written 
right  in  the  midst  of  these  other  performances,  he  came  down  to  facts  as 
he  had  observed  them  in  New  Haven,  and  in  "the  keen  spirit  of  critical 
observation,"  which  he  later  attributed  to  himself,  he  began  his  work  as 
a  satirist. 

This  production  is  on  the  interwoven  themes  of  three  New  England 
types  of  young  people,  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry — although  Harry  was 
transformed  to  Harriet  Simper,  who,  after  a  varied  career  as  a  coquette, 
was  first  jilted  by  Dick  Hairbrain  and  then  doomed  to  an  inglorious  mar 
riage  with  Tom  Brainless.  The  third  part,  reprinted  in  this  volume,  is 
devoted  to  the  ill-fated  heroine.  The  first  and  second  are  concerned  with 
the  two  boys,  who  were  for  better  or  for  worse  enrolled  at  a  typical 
American  college.  Tom,  incapable  of  any  other  career,  was  sent  there 
by  his  fond  parents,  tutored  in  preparation,  and  pushed  through  his  en 
trance  examinations  by  combined  zeal  of  father  and  teacher.  A  few 
days  were  enough  to  weary  him  of  a  routine  which 

In   the   same   round   condemned  each   day 
To  study,  read,  recite  and  play. 

A  short  programme  of  non-preparation,  tardiness,  and  absence  made  him 
subject  to  "the  college  evil,"  eye-trouble,  the  malady  which  even  to-day 

Still  makes  its  cap'tal  seat  the  head. 

In   all   diseases   'tis   expected 

The  weakest   parts  be   most   infected. 

In  spite  of  all,  however,  he  survived  to  receive  his  degree  at  the  end  of 

Four  years  at  college  dozed  away, 
In  sleep  and  slothfulness  and  play. 

Yet  of  the  academic  leopard's  spots,  Tom  was  one  of  the  smaller  ones, 
for  Trumbull  showed,  by  means  of  Dick's  experience,  that  college  was 
a  place  for  something  even  worse  than  the  harmless  incompetent.  Young 
Hairbrain  was  quite  aware  of  the  joys  that  a  liberal  education  was  to 
bring  him,  and  on  his  arrival  broke  out  in  rapturous  salutation  to  the 
halls 

Where  wealth  and  pride  and  riot  wait, 
And  each  choice  spirit  finds  his  mate. 

Trumbull  was  so  eager  to  drive  home  his  strictures  on  the  college,  that 
occasionally  he  interrupted  his  story  with  direct  comment.  He  agreed 
with  Hopkinson  and  Freneau  in  deploring  the  domination  of  the  classics, 
and,  in  his  introduction,  carried  the  war  against  most  other  subjects. 
Finally,  with  reference  to  what  we  now  dignify  by  the  title  of  extra- 
classroom  activities,  Dick's  "constant  course  was  retrograde." 

His  talents  proved   of  highest   price 
At  all  the  arts  of  cards  and  dice; 
His  genius  turned  with  greatest  skill 
To  whist,  loo,  cribbage,  and  quadrille. 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  609 

With  an  indictment  which  rejected  the  collegian's  studies  as  useless  and 
his  diversions  as  pernicious,  Trumbull's  criticism  gave  ample  historical 
ground  for  New  England's  establishment  of  a  day  of  prayer  for  colleges. 
There  is  an  almost  Grecian  completeness  in  the  punishment  of  Harriet's 
frivolity  by  committing  her  to  a  dilemma  between  two  boys  so  inclined 
and  so  brought  up ;  but  Trumbull  seems  not  to  have  overdrawn  the  picture. 
The  facts  are  amply  attested  by  the  other  critics  who  were  interested  in 
the  education  of  i8th  century  young  Americans. 

This  was  genuine  home-made  satire.  It  was  in  an  established  English 
form  made  celebrated  by  Butler  and  Dryden,  and  it  exemplified  a  general 
attitude  toward  life  which  prevailed  in  the  British  light-essayists  from 
Addison  on.  It  even  smacked  of  the  semi-republicanism  which  went  to 
the  length  of  adopting  middle  and  lower  class  characters  as  literary  themes 
(though  this  point  should  not  be  overstrained,  since  they  have  always  been 
considered  fair  game  for  ridicule),  and  it  furnished  many  a  neatly  turned 
epigram  for  the  non-believer  in  college  education.  Its  un-English  quality 
lay  in  the  fact  that  it  was  clearly  located  in  New  Haven,  Connecticut,  and 
not  in  any  English  university  town.  It  was  drawn  from  the  life.  This 
was  a  non-English  or  provincial  quality,  rather  than  in  any  sense  an 
American  one,  for  the  poem,  was  written 'by  a  young  subject  of  George  III, 
whose  feeling  was  doubtless  that  "the  colleges,  like  literature,  in  America, 
could  do  no  better  than  live  up  to  the  best  English  traditions.  It  was 
provincial  like  Trumbull's  "Lines  addressed  to  Messrs.  Dwight  and  Barlow," 
which  warned  them  against  the  dangers  of  publishing  in  "Yon  proud  Isle," 
and  of  thus  invoking  the  malignance  of  the  Grub-street  reviewers,  a  protest 
written  from  the  provinces  in  a  tone  and  idiom  long  before  made  fashion 
able  by  Pope  from  a  few  miles  up  the  Thames. 

With  the  events  of  1775,  Trumbull  went  one  step  farther,  for  "M'Fingal" 
was  clearly  the  work  of  a  revolutionist.  One  advance  hint  of  rebellion 
was  oracularly  announced  in  his  "Elegy  on  the  Times,"  written  in  late 
1774,  but  it  was  then  an  infant  concept  swaddled  in  poetic  circumlocutions. 
"Tyrant  vengeance"  and  "bloody  standards"  appear  on  the  plain  where 
"spring  dissolves  in  softening  showers  in  vain."  Independence  is  at  last 
to  come  in  a  land  where  "The  flowery  garden  breathes  a  glad  perfume," 
but  it  is  to  be  achieved  not  so  much  by  force  of  arms  as  by  the  benignant 
exercise  of  poetic  justice.  "M'Fingal,"  written  in  the  next  year,  is  a 
different  sort  of  rebelliousness.  It  is  a  well-meaning  citizen  who  has  gone 
into  training  camp  and  has  stripped  off  poetic  fat  at  the  rate  of  two 
syllables  of  adjective  to  every  line. 

It  is  built  around  the  dissensions  that  arose  in  a  typical  New  England 
trwn  between  Whigs  and  Tories,  led  by  M'Fingal.  the  Loyalist,  and 
Honorius,  the  arch-rebel.  The  first  two  cantos  (1,500  lines,  originally  pub 
lished  without  division)  are  the  day-long  debate  between  the  two,  inter 
rupted  only  by  the  noon  adjournment  for  luncheon.  Honorius  made  the 
now  time-honored  appeals  to  the  Englishman's  love  of  liberty,  and  M'Fingal 
retorted  with  addresses  to  his  respect  for  law  and  authority.  The  speeches 
were  very  long  but  very  vigorous,  full  of  barbed  personal  and  local  allu 
sion,  and  so  turned  that  whether  spoken  with  the  skill  and  fervor  of 
Honorius  or  the  maladroitness  of  M'Fingal,  they  were  all  equally  effective 


610  AMERICAN    POETRY 

in  behalf  of  the  Revolutionary  cause.  The  debate  was  adjourned  in  gen 
eral  confusion  sine  die,  and  the  poem  was  left  thus  unconcluded  for  six 
years. 

After  the  defeat  of  Cornwallis  in  October,  1781,  the  work  was  carried 
on  to  completion  by  an  account  of  what  was  said  and  done  later  in  the 
same  day  and  evening.  The  third  canto  quoted  in  this  volume,  more  full 
of  action  than  the  others,  tells  how  M'Fingal  was  first  raised  on  the 
liberty  pole,  and  then  tarred,  feathered  and  left  sticking  to  its  base.  The 
fourth,  after  his  escape,  presents  a  melancholy  assemblage  in  a  Tory 
cellar,  to  whom  M'Fingal  prophesies,  from  the  viewpoint  of  1775,  the  events 
that  every  one  knew  in  1781.  Yet  even  here,  as  he  was  advising  sub 
mission  to  the  inevitable,  the  enemy  stormed  the  hiding-place,  from  which 
he  vanished  forever  into  the  night.  "The  flight  of  M'Fingal,"  says  the 
author's  genial  note,  "forms  the  grand  catastrophe  of  this  immortal  work. 
So  sublime  a  denouement,  as  the  French  critics  term  it,  never  appeared 
before  in  Epic  Poetry,  except  that  of  the  Hero  turning  Papist,  in  the 
Henriade  of  Voltaire." 

As  a  whole,  the  work  is  an  interesting  combination  of  bookishness  and 
popular  journalism.  Trumbull's  mind  was  in  some  respects  like  Macaulay's 
— it  was  packed  with  literary  lore  and  able  to  present  this  without  over 
whelming  the  reader.  He  referred  to  Homer,  Aristophanes,  Virgil,  Ovid, 
Livy;  to  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Butler,  Blackmore;  to  men  as  far  apart 
as  Berkeley  and  Rabelais;  to  the  popular  fiction  of  the  day;  but  he  never 
made  a  boast  of  his  learning.  Thus  he  wrote 

Like  ancient  oak  o'erturned  he  lay, 

Or  tower  to  tempests  fall'n   a  prey, 

Or  mountain  sunk  with  all  his  pines 

Or   flow'r  the  plow   to   dust,  consigns, 

And    more   things   else — but   all    men    know   'em 

If   slightly   versed   in    epic   poem. 

He  appealed  to  popular  prejudice  (as  all  controversial  literature  does), 
and  was  thereby  sure  of  a  sympathetic  hearing  before  he  started.  The  real 
keenness  of  observation,  already  practised  in  his  prose  essays  and  in  his 
"Progress  of  Dulness,"  was  well  tried  for  this  more  ambitious  work,  yet 
his  methods  of  workmanship  were  not  too  subtle  for  the  public  taste. 
In  every  canto  there  was  more  or  less  of  rough  horse-play.  He  resorted 
to  word  elisions  and  multiple  rhymes,  from  the  worst,  like  "ruins — new 
ones,"  "trouble  ye — jubilee,"  to  such  happy  ones  as  "shallow  way — Gallow- 
way,"  and  "league  rose — negroes."  He  had  no  conscience  to  prevent  his 
making  M'Fingal  the  weakest  of  counsels  for  an  evil  cause,  for  in  the 
process  he  gave  more  weight  to  the  occasional  passages  in  which 
Honorius  rose  to  genuine  eloquence. 

The  work  was  immensely  popular.  The  lack  of  copyright  record 
makes  the  total  number  of  editions  speculative ;  almost  certainly  twenty- 
five  or  more  appeared  before  1800.  Trumbull  was  peculiarly  well 
adapted  for  the  writing  of  Revolutionary  satire,  and  the  Revolution,  in 
all  likelihood,  was  responsible  for  reclaiming  to  this  sort  of  literature  a 
pen  which  not  long  after  was  wholly  dedicated  to  the  law. 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  611 


POETRY  OF  THE  REVOLUTION 

In  this  group  are  included  some  forty  representative  selections  which 
may  fairly  be  regarded  as  a  kind  of  verse  obligate  to  the  more  substantial 
chorus  of  revolutionary  literature.  They  extend  from  the  first  four  (1755- 
1759),  which  supply  evidence  of  a  unified  English  population  victorious 
over  French  and  Indian  foes,  through  the  decade  of  discomfort  and  doubt 
(1766-1776),  and  the  years  of  decision  and  conflict. (1776-1781).  They  are, 
for  the  most  part,  of  unknown  authorship,  or  the  work  of  men  like  John 
Dickinson  (1752-1808),  Jonathan  Mitchell  Sewall  (1748-1808),  Joseph 
Stansbury  (1750-1809),  and  Jonathan  Odell  (1737-1818),  whose  verse 
writing  was  almost  wholly  inspired  by  the  war  and  whose  work  would 
not  otherwise  have  been  included  in  this  volume.  Taken  in  conjunction 
with  the  revolutionary  poems  of  Francis  Hopkinson  (1737-1791),  John 
Trumbull  (1750-1831),  and  Philip  Freneau  (1752-1832) — see  pages  35-42, 
43-57,  and  89-117 — they  have  a  just  but  modest  claim  to  the  kind  of  atten 
tion  to  which  war  literature  is  always  entitled — the  attention  due  to 
sugar-coated  history.  About  one-third  of  the  entire  list,  chiefly  the  work 
of  Stansbury  and  Odell,  indicates  the  typical  development  of  increasingly 
clear  and  aggressive  Tory  conviction. 

I.  Texts. 

Selections  from  Early  American  Writers,  ed.  W.  B.  Cairns ;  Cyclo 
pedia  of  American  Literature,  ed.  E.  A.  and  G.  L.  Duyckinck,  1st  vol. ; 
American  War  Ballads  and  Lyrics,  ed.  G.  C.  Eggleston;  Poets  and 
Poetry  of  America,  ed.  R.  W.  Griswold;  Songs  and  Ballads  of  the 
American  Revolution,  ed.  Frank  Moore ;  Loyalist  Poetry  of  the  Revo 
lution,  and  Loyal  Verses  of  Joseph  Stansbury  and  Doctor  Jonathan 
Odell,  ed.  Winthrop  Sargent;  Library  of  American  Literature,  ed. 
E.  C.  Stedman  and  E.  M.  Hutchinson,  3d  vol.;  Poems  of  American 
History,  ed.  B.  F.  Stevenson. 

II.  Criticism. 

The  Spirit  of  the  American  Revolution  as  Revealed  in  the  Poetry 

of  the  Period,  S.  W.  Patterson;  American  Verse,  1605-1807,  W.  B. 

Otis;   Literary  History  of  the  American  Revolution,   M.   C.  Tyler, 
2  vols. 

In  the  first  four,  the  unqualified  colonial  loyalty 'is  evident  at  a  glance. 
Braddock  and  Wolfe  were  heroes  and  martyrs;  the  subjects  of  Britain 
were  fighting  the  wars  of  the  Lord.  With  the  fifth,  however,  appears 
the  first  sign  of  unrest.  "Sure  never  was  Picture  drawn  more  to  the 
Life"  appeared  the  year  after  the  Stamp  Act,  a  year  in  which  the 
words  "freedom,"  "liberty,"  and  "tyranny"  were  beginning  to  loom  large. 
It  was  characteristic  that  this  song  and  the  three  of  1768  should  all  be 
set  to  a  melody  then  popular  in  old  England,  and  it  was  significant  that 
in  1768  the  second  of  these  songs  was  an  abusive  Tory  parody  of  the 
first,  following  it  within  a  few  weeks,  and  rejoining  to  its  heroic  vocabu 
lary  with  "villains,"  "rascals,"  "Banditti,"  "brats,"  "bunters,"  and  allusions 


612  AMERICAN    POETRY 

to  the  Devil  and  to  Tyburn  gallows.  Still,  by  both  factions,  the  extreme 
that  was  suggested  was  political  insurrection  which  in  the  same  breath 
protested  against  abuse  and  asserted  its  own  loyalty  to  just  British  rule. 
As  the  break  came  nearer,  the  Tory  attitude  of  Stansbury,  and  even  of 
Odell,  was  notably  conciliatory,  and  even  the  rebel  song  of  May  31,  1775, 
which  in  the  first  stanza  sounded  the  call  to  arms,  petered  out  in  a  con' 
vivial  anti-climax. 

In  1776  comes  the  inevitable  word  "independence,"  and  a  farewell  to 
all  attempts  to  spare  the  King  at  the  expense  of  Lord  North.  The 
Colonials  became  truculent,  though  the  Loyalists  continued  to  deprecate 
and  deplore  until  the  formation  of  an  alliance  with  the  French,  and  the 
revulsion  of  feeling  caused  by  their  own  personal  hardships  transformed 
their  sorrow  into  anger.  Now  Odell  blazed  out,  his  "Congratulation"  of 
November,  1779,  and  "The  American  Times,"  of  1780,  rivalling  Freneau's 
"British  Prison  Ship"  and  "The  Political  Balance"  in  vitriolic  bitterness. 
In  the  closing  years  of  the  War,  the  Colonial  verse  relapsed  into  com 
placency  and  Odell  into  sullen  silence,  while  Stansbury  pathetically  tried 
to  be  happy  as  long  as  he  might  and  prepared  to  play  the  role  of  graceful 
loser. 

The  ways  in  which  the  verses  were  put  into  circulation  are  various 
and  interesting.  As  always  with  "occasional"  poetry,  the  regular  journals 
and  periodicals  were  the  most  effective  instruments  of  distribution..  These 
included,  among  others,  The  Virginia  Gazette,  The  Pennsylvania  Gazette, 
The  Pennsylvania  Packet,  and  The  Pennsylvania  Journal,  The  Boston 
Gazette,  The  Freeman's  Journal,  or  New  Hampshire  Gazette,^  and,  for  the 
Tories,  Towne's  Evening  Post  and  Rivington's  Royal  Gazette.  The  diffi 
culties,  after  1776,  of  getting  loyalist  material  printed  and  distributed 
naturally  made  Rivington,  who  was  safe  behind  the  British  lines,  the  chief 
agent.  Many  of  these  songs  were  originally  delivered  at  social  gatherings, 
winter  dinners,  and  summer  outings,  or  as  prologues  or  epilogues  to  plays, 
or  were  circulated  by  means  of  handbill  "broadsides."  One  was  included 
in  a  cantata,  one  was  put  out  as  a  pasquinade — simply  written  out  and  con 
spicuously  posted — and  one,  the  most  famous  of  all,  was  almost  a  folk 
poem  or  ballad  in  origin.  For  "Yankee  Doodle,"  although  attributed 
originally  to  Edward  Bangs,  a  Harvard  sophomore,  undoubtedly  had  the 
ballad  experience  of  being  modified  and  varied,  as  all  ballads  have  been 
by  this  process.  This  experience  was,  of  course,  in  a  lesser  degree,  com 
mon  to  all  of  the  songs  and  jingles  which  were  widely  repeated  or  sung. 
"Yankee  Doodle"  was  simply  the  pre-eminent  example.  Others  from 
among  this  immediate  group  are  "The  Boston  Tea  Party,"  "The  Fall  of 
John  Burgoyne,"  and  "The  Dance,"  all  of  which  are  in  conventional  ballad 
metre,  with  a  half  primitive  ruggedness  of  form  and  content,  and  "Nathan 
Hale,"  more  elaborate  in  form  and  more  self-conscious  in  tone,  a  good 
eighteenth  century  treatment  of  ballad  material  which,  if  not  actually 
"trimmed  in  the  gorgeous  eloquence  of  Pindar,"  was  at  a'ny  rate  quite 
appreciably  dressed  up. 

In  any  discussion  of  the  literary  qualities  of  these  verses  of  conflict 
and  loyalty,  the  frequently  adopted  device  of  writing  new  words  for  old 
melodies  may  be  regarded  as  next  of  kin  to  the  balladry  of  "Yankee  Doodle." 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  613 

In  the  revolutionary  days,  as  in  every  generation,  there  were  a  few  popular 
favorites  which  it  was  impossible  not  to  copy.  The  situation  is  well  illus 
trated  to-day  by  the  general  practice  in  connection  with  college  and  fra 
ternity  songs.  A  good  new  melody  is  invariably  pirated  before  its  third 
season,  and  old  ones  sometimes  have  as  many  as  five  or  six  sets  of  more 
or  less  inferior  verse  composed  to  them.  The  popular  songs  of  the 
late  1 8th  century  furnished  a  fair  stimulus  to  at  least  respectable  song 
writing.  Perhaps  the  most  famous  then  and  now  were  "Hearts  of  Oak," 
"Lords  of  the  Main,"  and  the  "Here's  to  the  Maiden  of  Bashful  Fifteen," 
still  familiar  to  the  modern  theatre-goer,  as  sung  by  Charles  Surface  in 
"The  School  for  Scandal."  These  and  their  like  were  all  well  turned  and 
graceful,  with  dashes  of  rather  magniloquent  heroism  and  turns  of  tender 
sentiment.  They  were  not  vulgar  in  tone  or  content,  still  less  were  they 
vulgar  in  the  neat  rotundity  of  their  form.  It  was  fortunate  for  the 
literary  quality  of  revolutionary  song  that  the  standard  types  of  the  day 
were  not  doggerel  nor  modern  concert  hall  drivel. 

The  four  songs  of  1766  and  1768  already  alluded  to  were  all  close 
parodies  of  "Hearts  of  Oak"  or  of  each  other,  as  was  also  Stansbury's 
"When  Good  Queen  Elizabeth  Governed  the  Realm."  Stansbury's  "Lords 
of  the  Main"  was  after  an  English  prototype,  and  the  "Volunteer  Boys," 
attributed  to  Henry  Archer,  is  very  evidently  after  the  metre  of  "Here's 
to  the  Maiden."  Sometimes  a  good  melody  was  used  without  attempt  to 
parody  the  original  words  or  sentiment.  The  tune  "Derry  Down,"  in  one 
of  the  prevailing  anapestic  measures,  for  which  were  written  the  "Satire 
on  the  Liberty  Pole"  of  1770,  and  the  satirical  "Epilogue"  of  1778,  could 
carry  several  other  of  the  selections  by  the  mere  addition  of  the  burden 
"Derry  down,  down,  hey,  derry  down";  and  the  iambic  "Maggie  Lauder" 
could  accompany  not  only  "Cornwallis  Burgoyned,"  but  any  other  of  the 
conventional  ballad  verse  which  was  not  otherwise  engaged.  Of  the  songs 
as  a  whole,  from  Wolfe's  "How  Stands  the  Glass  Around"  to  those  of 
Freneau  and  Hopkinson  forty  years  later,  it  is  fair  to  say  that  they  were 
thoroughly  English  in  form  and  sentiment.  Manly  strength,  feminine 
grace,  the  cheering  influence  of  the  social  glass,  and  a  traditionally  aristo 
cratic  point  of  view  were  implicit  in  them.  By  accident,  they  were  dedi 
cated  to  a  struggle  for  and  against  a  democratic  principle,  but  these  song 
writers,  by  common  consent  with  the  rest  of  the  radical  vintners  of  their 
day,  poured  their  new  political  wines  into  old  literary  bottles. 

Equal  in  importance  with  ballad  and  song  in  Revolutionary  verse  is 
the  satire.  The  ballad  was  composed  to  record  heroic  deeds  and  episodes, 
like  the  songs,  to  stimulate  heroic  moods.  Both  of  them  were  designed 
for  vocal  interpretation  and  were  picturesque  and  concrete  appeals  to  the 
emotions.  In  contrast,  satire  based  on  analysis  and  criticism  was  a  cal 
culated  approach  to  the  intellect.  Most  of  it  is  quite  cold-blooded;  its  sole 
emotional  challenge  is  to  righteous  wrath.  "Facit  indignatio  versum." 

In  its  most  guileless,  yet  sometimes  most  effective,  form  it  may  be  simply 
amusing,  derisive  only  by  implication.  In  such  guise  it  occurs  in  Stans 
bury's  "Pasquinade,"  a  rare  instance  of  Tory  satire  directed  at  one  of  its 
own  leaders,  and,  again,  in  the  Tory  "Fable"  attributed  to  David  Matthews, 
the  single  example  here  of  the  fable  in  verse  to  which  Pope's  generation 


614  AMERICAN    POETRY 

were  peculiarly  addicted.  It  cropped  out  here  together  with  the  companion 
type  of  primitive  allegory,  the  essay  fable  which  flourished  in  i8th  century 
periodicals,  from  the  Spectator  to  The  Citizen  of  the  World  and  beyond. 
In  verse  such  as  the  present  example  it  occurred  somewhat  infrequently 
in  Colonial  America,  but  in  prose  the  fable  was  often  used  with  effect 
by  Franklin,  Hopkinson,  and  others. 

There  is  abundant  other  satire  in  the  verse  of  the  Revolution,  for  it 
is  a  natural  weapon  in  the  times  that  try  men's  souls.  The  writing  of 
explicitly  satirical  poems  on  an  extended  scale  was  chiefly  done  for  the 
Colonials  by  John  Trumbull  and  Philip  Freneau  (see  pp.  43-57,  89-117)  and 
for  the  Loyalists  by  Jonathan  Odell. 

The  most  important  of  Odell's  contributions  were  "The  Congratulation" 
and  "The  American  Times,"  of  1779  and  1780.  At  these  stages  in  the 
war  Odell  had  lost  all  hope  for  any  but  the  most  bitter  solution,  and,  like 
Freneau,  he  had  become  filled  with  hatred  as  the  result  of  his  own  in 
defensible  hardships.  These  hot  protests  were  written  in  the  iambic 
pentameter  of  "The  Dunciad."  The  jauntier  four-foot  measure  of 
"Hudibras"  and  "The  Hind  and  the  Panther"  was 'left  to  those  who  felt 
less  deeply.  The  mock  congratulation  of  the  first  poem  plays  around  the 
twelve  times  repeated  burden: 

Toy  to  great  Congress,  joy  an  hundred  fold: 
The  grand  cajolers  are  themselves  cajoled, 

and  the  vocabulary  of  abuse  is  moderately  sounded.  In  the  second  the 
depths  are  plumbed;  "foul  Sedition  skulks"  in  the  third  line,  the  state  is 
"one  putrefying  sore,"  and  "all  the  lice  of  Egypt"  follow  Washington,  who 
is  "Patron  of  villainy,  of  villains  chief."  The  recriminative  language  of 
war  sounds  strangely  familiar  when  Odell,  in  the  third  part  of  "The  Times," 
contends  that  the  colonists  were  wanton  trouble-makers,  and  that  the  war 
clouds  would  all  have  blown  over  if  only  the  malcontents  had  not  insisted 
upon  fighting.  And  the  mental  processes  behind  war  controversy  are 
more  frankly  confessed  than  usual  in  the  couplets: 

But  arm  they  would,  ridiculously  brave; 
Good  laughter,  spare  me:    I  would  fain  be  grave: 
So  arm  they  did — the  knave  led  on  the  fool! 
Good  anger,  spare  me:    I  would  fain  be  cool. 

With  these  two  diatribes  the  bitterest  of  Loyalist  asperity  seemed  to 
exhaust  itself,  and  from  this  time  on,  in  a  somewhat  lighter  vein,  Trumbull, 
Freneau  and  their  sympathizers  laughed  best  and  laughed  last. 

PHILIP  FRENEAU   (1752-1832) 

Philip  Freneau  was  born  in  New  York  City  in  1752.  •  He  entered  the 
sophomore  class  at  Princeton,  graduating  in  1771.  He  taught  for  a  while 
after  college,  but  in  1775  gained  sudden  reputation  as  a  political  satirist. 
From  late  1775  to  1778  he  lived  in  Santa  Cruz  and  Bermuda.  In  1779  he 
made  the  voyage  to  the  Azores  and  back.  In  1780,  when  starting  on  another 
voyage,  his  vessel  was  captured,  and  he  was  held  in  British  prison  ships 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  615 

from  May  25  to  July  12.  1781-1784  he  was  editor  of  The  Freeman's 
Journal,  contributing  a  great  deal  of  prose  and  verse,  all  unsigned.  1784- 
1790  he  was  chiefly  on  the  sea  in  Atlantic  coast  trade.  Next  for  seven 
years  he  was  a  journalist  with  four  successive  papers — The  Charleston 
Daily  Advertiser,  The  National  Gazette  (Philadelphia),  The  Jersey  Chron 
icle,  The  Time  Piece  and  Literary  Companion  (New  York).  1798-1803 
he  was  in  unsuccessful  farming,  and  then  1803-1807  in  his  last  period  of 
sea  voyaging.  He  lived  until  1832. 

Most  of  his  poems  appeared  through  the  journals  of  his  day,  and  many 
also  under  independent  imprints.  They  were  assembled  in  book  form  dur 
ing  his  lifetime  in  editions  of  1786,  1788,  1795,  1809,  and  1815. 

/.  Texts. 

The  definitive  edition  of  Freneau's  poems,  from  which  the  selec 
tions  in-  this  volume  are  drawn,  is  Poems  of  Philip  Freneau,  edited, 
with  an  introduction,  for  the  Princeton  Historical  Association  by  Fred 
Lewis  Pattee,  Princeton,  1902,  3  vols.,  8vo.  The  other  chief  sources 
of  information  are : 
A  Bibliography,  by  Victor  Hugo  Paltsits.  New  York,  1903. 

II.  Biography. 

Philip  Freneau,  a  History  of  his  Life  and  Times,  by  Mary  S.  Austin. 
New  York,  1901. 

The  Political  Activities  of  Philip  Freneau,  by  Samuel  E.  Forman. 
Series  XX,  Nos.  9-10,  Johns  Hopkins  University  Studies.  Baltimore, 
1902. 

Philip  Freneau,  the  Huguenot  Patriot-Poet,  etc.,  by  E.  F.  DeLancey. 
Proceedings  of  the  Huguenot  Soc.  of  Amer.,  Vol.  II,  No.  2,  1891. 

Poems  of  Philip  Freneau  relating  to  the  American  Revolution, 
with  Introductory  Memoir  and  Notes,  by  E.  A.  Duyckinck,  1865. 

The  mistaken  liking  for  neat  formulae  to  which  many  historians  and 
critics  of  literature  are  addicted,  has  given  currency  to  two  phrases 
descriptive  of  Freneau  which  are  suggestive,  even  though  misleading. 
These  are  "Poet  of  the  American  Revolution,"  and  "Father  of  American 
Poetry."  Taken  together,  they  carry  the  quite  truthful  implication  that 
Freneau  was  a  naturally  endowed  poet,  who  gave  his  strength  to  moulding 
public  opinion  during  a  great  national  crisis.  If  one  yearns  for  a  formula 
he  may  fairly  adopt  the  equation  that  Freneau  was  to  the  Revolution 
what  Whittier  was  to  the  Civil  War.  The  two  kinds  of  writing  implied 
in  these  phrases,  while  interwoven  into  a  long  career,  may  be  considered 
separately. 

As  "Poet  of  the  Revolution,"  Freneau  came  into  sudden  prominence  in 
1775  with  the  publication  of  "The  Political  Litany"  in  June,  "American 
Liberty"  in  July,  "General  Gage's  Soliloquy"  in  August,  "The  Midnight 
Consultations"  in  September,  and  "To  the  Americans"  and  "General  Gage's 
Confession"  in  October.  In  these  four  months  the  youth  of  twenty-three 
did  nearly  half  of  his  most  effective  work  as  a  writer  of  martial  satires. 


616  AMERICAN   POETRY 

All  but  one  of  them  were  in  the  heroic  couplet,  conventionally  done  after 
the  manner  of  Pope,  with  all  the  usual  formalities  and  locutions,  but  with 
infectious  fire  and  sincerity.  The  other  chief  productions  were  "America 
Independent"  in  1778,  "George  the  Third's  Soliloquy"  in  1779,  "The  British 
Prison  Ship"  in  1781,  and  "A  Prophecy"  and  "The  Political  Balance" 
in  1782. 

Taken  as  a  group,  these  productions  lend  themselves  to  comparison  and 
contrast  with  those  of  Freneau's  leading  opponent,  Jonathan  Odell  (see 
pp.  69,  71  >  77-83).  At  the  start,  Freneau's  verses  were  more  aggressive  than 
those  of  the  conciliatory  royalist.  By  1781  they  were  as  acrid  as  Odell's, 
for  though  both  had  been  subjected  to  hardship,  Freneau  had  suffered  the 
greater  indignities  in  his  prison  ship  experiences.  In  the  last  years  of 
the  war  Odell's  bitterness  was  confirmed,  but  Freneau  adopted  a  tone  of 
caustic  levity  which  became  natural  with  the  confidence  of  success.  With 
the  end  of  the  war,  Odell's  verse-writing  waned.  So  did  that  of  almost 
all  the  "poets  of  the  Revolution";  but  not  with  Freneau,  for  he  was 
interested  in  the  course  of  human  'events  of  which  the  war  was  merely  one 
important  chapter,  and  he  continued  to  write  on  men  and  affairs  for 
another  thirty  years. 

As  a  journalist,  he  paid  his  respects  to  the  Tories  again  and  again.  He 
never  forgave  Rivington,  their  publisher,  for  the  part  he  had  played.  He 
analyzed  public  opinion,  and  what  it  demanded  of  the  public  press,  and  he 
anticipated  Irving's  "Salmagundi"  gibes  at  the  "logocracy"  by  many  years. 
He  sang  once  more  the  praises  of  liberty  in  the  days  of  the  French 
Revolution,  and  he  protested  at  British  domination  of  the  seas  as  events 
were  leading  up  to  the  War  of  1812.  Finally,  he  came  to  the  defence  of 
the  American  soldier,  "lost  in  the  abyss  of  want,"  and  of  the  negro  slave, 
"scourged  by  ruffian  hands."  To  dub  Freneau  "Poet  of  the  Revolution," 
therefore,  limits  by  implication  even  the  scope  of  his  verses  on  men  and 
events,  and  it  wholly  neglects  his  more  important  work.  It  would  be 
equally  unfair  to  estimate  Whittier  solely  as  "Poet  of  Anti-Slavery." 

To  use  the  other  favorite  epithet  for  Freneau,  "Father  of  American 
Poetry,"  is  to  be  equally  unfair  in  claiming  too  much  for  him.  He  had 
too  many  important  predecessors  and  contemporaries  in  America.  More 
over,  the  fondest  employers  of  the  phrase  have  never  stopped  to  trace  his 
poetical  posterity  in  America.  They  are  usually  content  to  rest  their 
claims  on  one  line  in  Campbell  and  another  in  Scott — a  small  and  alien 
family.  Yet  the  expression  has  its  just  significance  in  suggesting  that 
Freneau  was  a  poet  of  natural  talents  and  original  inclinations. 

Freneau's  poetical  career  was  a  long  one,  lasting  from  the  delivery  of 
his  commencement  poem  on  "The  Rising  Glory  of  America,"  in  1771,  to 
the  publication  of  the  fifth  collected  edition  of  his  poems,  forty-four  years 
later,  in  1815;  and  it  showed,  as  long  careers  are  likely  to,  several  clearly 
marked  stages  in  his  development.  At  the  outset,  he  was  bookish  and 
consciously  "literary"  in  his  inclinations.  He  speculated  on  the  artistic 
future,  of  his  country ;  aspired,  like  every  other  young  verse-writer  for  the 
next  fifty  years,  to  be  the  great  American  poet,  and  showed  an  epic 
inclination  even  before  Dwight  began  "The  Conquest  of  Canaan,"  or 
Barlow  "The  Vision  of  Columbus."  Freneau's  eighteen  "Pictures  of 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  617 

Columbus"  are  full  of  youthful  poetic  fire.  His  "Power  of  Fancy"  is 
pleasantly  Miltonic,  and  his  lines  "On  Retirement"  at  once  sincere  and 
unconsciously  imitative.  There  is  enough  in  his  work  before  1775  to 
prove  that  his  powers  were  far  from  being  evoked  by  the  War — that  they 
were,  on  the  contrary,  distracted  and  diverted  by  it.  Even  during  the 
struggle  they  were  not  wholly  dedicated  to  it.  The  sailor,  the  south  seas, 
and  the  sentimentalism  of  the  age  all  came  in  for  a  little  share  of  his  atten 
tion,  as  recorded  in  poems  like  "Lines  to  a  Coasting  Captain,"  "The 
Beauties  of  Santa  Cruz,"  and  "On  Amanda's  Singing  Bird."  These  all 
were  the  work  of  an  impressionable  young  poet,  who  wrote  as  all  young 
poets  do — as  his  most  talented  contemporaries,  Hopkinson  and  Trumbull 
did — in  clear  imitation  of  the  best  recent  models,  themselves  of  course 
English,  for  America  afforded  no  models. 

For  a  man  of  Freneau's  temper,  however,  the  fact  of  political  eman 
cipation  begat  a  desire  for  corresponding  intellectual  freedom.  The  fact 
is  perceptible  in  his  work  as  a  whole,  but  it  is  also  explicitly  recorded  in 
his  verses  of  1786  on  "Literary  Importation."  A  nation  that  could  boast 
a  Washington,  a  Franklin,  and  a  Rittenhouse,  should  not  tolerate  the 
importation  of  an  English  bishop  for  an  American  episcopacy,  or  of  English 
bookworms  for  American  colleges.  It  was  not  simply  that  Freneau  wanted 
American-born  men  in  positions  of  honor,  but  rather  that  he  wanted  Ameri 
can  ideas  propounded  in  American  churches  and  classrooms.  "If  they 
give  us  their  bishops,  they'll  give  us  their  law." 

Thus,  and  not  by  accident,  in  "The  Wild  Honeysuckle"  and  "To  a 
Caty-did"  he  wrote  simple  verse  on  American  themes  quite  as  worth  cele 
brating  as  the  wild  eglantine  or  the  skylark,  and  in  "The  Indian  Burying 
Ground"  he  found  poetic  stuff  equal  to  any  that  Scott  and  Campbell 
were  to  find  in  the  romantic  past  of  Britain.  At  the  present  day  there 
seems  nothing  remarkable  in  this,  and  there  is  assuredly  nothing  praise 
worthy.  Yet  it  is  a  fact  of  literary  history  that  poetical  conventions  dom 
inate  all  but  the  rarely  independent,  in  the  adoption  of  both  subject  matter 
and  verse  forms.  Freneau,  though  widely  read,  was  more  independent 
in  his  maturer  writing  than  many  of  the  iQth  century  American  poets, 
whose  work  was  more  literary  than  spontaneous. 

For  the  last  thirty  years  of  his  authorship  Freneau  was,  therefore,  if 
not  all  things  to  all  men,  at  least  two  sorts  of  things  to  two  sorts  of  men. 
He  was  enormously  interested  in  the  affairs  of  state  and  in  the  problems 
connected  with  them.  He  was,  consequently,  from  time  to  time,  writing 
poems  on  events  and  issues;  and  so  turning  his  gifts  as  a  versifier  to 
journalistic  account.  Yet  he  was  by  no  means  overwhelmingly  interested 
in  contemporary  problems,  for  all  the  while,  too,  his  mind  was  looking 
far  to  the  future,  was  occupied  with  the  legends  of  the  past,  and  was 
playing  with  themes  of  graceful  and  tender  sentiment.  So,  in  his  various 
moods,  he  could  write  with  almost  equal  effectiveness  "The  Political 
Balance,"  and  "The  Progress  of  Balloons,"  and  "The  Indian  Burying 
Ground,"  and  "On  a  Honey  Bee." 

There  were  both  losses  and  gains  in  Freneau's  long  and  productive 
career.  In  the  later  years  his  mastery  of  verse  was  firmer,  his  diction 
was  more  clear  cut,  his  rhymes  were  more  secure,  and  his  rhythmic  lapses 


618  AMERICAN    POETRY 

less  frequent.     Such  a  circumlocution  as  the  following  could  have  been 
written  only  in  his  youth: 

That  juice  destructive  to  the  pangs  of  care 
Which  Rome  of  old,  nor  Athens  could  prepare, 
Which  gains  the  day  for  many  a  modern  chief 
When  cool  reflection  yields  a  faint  relief, 
That  charm  whose  virtue  warms  the  world  beside, 
Was  by  these  tyrants  to  our  use  denied. 

The  short  and  ugly  word  in  this  case  was — grog.  Yet  in  genuine  poetic 
power  Freneau  did  not  display  a  growth  corresponding  to  his  improvement 
in  technique.  Two  or  three  of  his  most  famous  shorter  poems  were  com 
posed  after  he  was  forty  years  of  age,  but  the  great  promise  of  his  youth 
was  by  no  means  fulfilled.  There  was  a  certain  buoyant  readiness  of 
fancy  in  his  early  work,  and  at  times  there  were  fine  moments  of  poetic 
fervor  which  gave  hope  of  a  genius  that  never  came  to  full  development. 

I  see,   I   see 

A  thousand  kingdoms  rais'd,   cities,   and  men 
Num'rous  as  sand  upon  the  ocean  shore; 
Th'  Ohio  then  shall  glide  by  many  a  town 
Of  note;   and   where  the   Mississippi  stream 
By  forests  shaded  now  runs  weeping  on, 
Nations  shall  grow  and   States  not  less  in   fame 
Than  Greece  and  Rome  of  old;  we  too  shall  boast 
Our  Alexanders,   Pompeys,   heroes,   kings 
That  in  the  womb   of  time  yet  dormant  lye 
Waiting  the  joyful   hour   of   life  and   light. 

The  college  boy  who  wrote  these  lines  fell  upon  evil  days.  The  en 
mities  he  made  in  the  period  of  controversy  wreaked  themselves  on  him 
in  hostile  and  abusive  criticism,  and  the  dull  drudgery  of  journalism  blunted 
him.  It  is  usually  idle  business  to  speculate  on  what  a  poet*  might  have 
done  under  different  and  more  auspicious  circumstances,  but  it  is  almost 
impossible  not  to  believe  that  the  drafting  of  Freneau  into  popular  service 
prevented  him  from  larger  achievement;  that  the'  measure  in  which  he 
was  Poet  of  the  Revolution  decreased  his  claim  to  the  title  of  Father 
of  American  Poetry. 

TIMOTHY  DWIGHT   (1752-1817) 

»&V*~ 

Dwight,  a  grandson  of  Jonathan  Edwards,  was  born  in  Northampton, 
Mass.,  May  14,  1752.  After  showing  a  childish  precocity,  not  uncommon 
in  his  day,  and  almost  equal  to  that  of  John  Trumbull,  he  was  given  his 
bachelor's  degree  at  Yale  in  1769.  During  the  next  eight  years  of  teach 
ing  and  study,  two  in  a  New  Haven  grammar  school,  and  six  in  Yale 
College,  he  gave  himself  so  rigorously  to  the  asceticism  of  the  old-time 
scholar,  that  he  permanently  injured  his  health  and  his  eyesight.  In  1777- 
1778  he  was  chaplain  in  the  Continental  army.  From  1778  to  1783  he  lived 
in  Northampton,  farming  and  preaching,  as  well  as  serving  two  terms  in 
the  state  legislature.  It  was  during  his  service  as  Congregational  pastor 
at  Greenfield,  Conn.,  that  he  published  his  three  long  poems  mentioned 
below.  From  1795  to  his  death  in  1817  he  was  president  of  Yale  College. 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  619 

He  wrote  voluminously  on  theological  subjects,  but  his  only  other  work 
of  literary  interest  was  his  "Travels  in  New  England  and  New  York,"  4 
vols.,  posthumously  published  in  1823. 

/.  Texts. 

There  are  no  recent  editions  of  Dwight.    The  originals  are : 
The  Conquest  of  Canaan;  A  Poem  in  Eleven  Books.     Hartford, 
1784. 

The  Triumph  of  Infidelity:  A  Poem.  Printed  in  the  World,  1788. 
(No  name  given  of  place,  author  or  publisher.) 

Greenfield  Hill;  A  Poem,  in  Seven  Parts.    New  York,  1794. 
Travels  in  New  England  and  New  York.    4  vols.    London,  1823. 

II.  Biography. 

Memoir  prefixed  to  Dwight's  "Theology,"  in  4  vols.,  by  W.  T.  and 
S.  E.  Dwight. 

The  Life  of  Timothy  Dwight,  in  Vol.  XIV  of  Sparks's  "Library 
of  American'  Biography,"  by  W.  B.  Sprague. 

A  Sketch  in  Vol.  II  of  Sprague's  "Annals  of  the  American  Pulpit." 

///.  Criticism. 

Three  Men  of  Letters,  by  M.  C.  Tyler,  pp.  72-127. 
Introduction  to  the  Poems  of  Philip  Freneau,  edited  for  the  Prince 
ton  Historical  Association,  F.  L.  Pattee,  Vol.  I,  pp.  c,  ci. 

Timothy  Dwight  wrote,  verse  for  about  twenty  years,  although  the 
dates  of  his  chief  publications  fall  close  together  between  1785  and  1794. 
He  was  an  orthodox  grandson  of  the  last  great  champion  of  Calvinism, 
and  so  was  naturally  given  to  deep  enthusiasms  and  lofty  ambitions.  When 
the  war  came  on,  he  raised  his  voice  in  the  chorus  of  patriotic  song.  Most 
of  what  he  sung  has  been  lost,  but  his  one  paean,  "Columbia,"  is  among 
the  best  of  American  national  lyrics.  It  was  addressed  to  a  nation  in 
arms,,  who  needed  the  comfort  of  an  heroic  appeal  to  the  emotions.  He 
left  jocosity  to  Trumbull  and  Hopkinson,  and  diatribe  to  Freneau,  while 
he  sang  with  the  prophetic  zeal  of  the  Puritan  about  the  glories  that 
were  to  be: 

Thus,  as  down  a  lone  valley,  with  cedars  o'erspread, 
From  war's  dread  confusion  I  pensively  strayed — 
The  gloom   from  the  face  of  fair  heav'n   retired ;_ 
The  winds  ceased  to  murmur;  the  thunders  expired; 
Perfumes  as  of  Eden,  flowed  sweetly  along, 
And  a  voice,   as  of  angels,   enchantmgly  sung, 
"Columbia,    Columbia,    to   glory   arise, 
The  queen  of  the  world,  and  the  child  of  the  skies!" 

But  "Columbia"  was  by  no  means  Dwight's  first  fervid  national  utter 
ance.  Though  he  was  doomed  to  wait  eleven  years  for  publication,  this 
"young  Connecticut  parson,  thrilled  through  and  through,"  had  already 
poured  "his  enthusiasm  into  an  epic  of  the  wars  of  Joshua,  done  in  the 
heroics  of  Pope."  Although  the  English  poet,  Cowper,  wrote  a  long  and 
kindly  review  on  the  eleven  books  of  "The  Conquest  of  Canaan,"  Pro- 


620  AMERICAN   POETRY 

fessor  Pattee  is  only  a  shade  too  severe  on  the  output  of  Revolutionary 
epics:1  "There  was  no  burst  of  song  in  America;  instead,  there  followed 
one  of  the  most  pathetic  spectacles  in  all  literary  history — a  people  with 
a  vision  that  transported  them  into  the  clouds,  yet  powerless  through  en 
vironment  and  early  education  to  transmute  that  vision  into  song.  .  .  . 
We  see  them,  however,  struggling^  heroically  with  the  burden.  From  1774, 
when  Dwight  completed  his  'Conquest  of  Canaan/  'the  first  piece  of  this 
kind  ever  attempted  in  this  country,'  as  he  observed  in  his  preface,  until 
I8o[7J,  which  ends  the  period  with  Barlow's  'Columbiad' — the  Tolyolbion' 
of  American  poetry — the  years  are  strewn  thick  with  the  wrecks  of  epics. 
.  .  .  Charles  Brockden  Brown,  when  only  sixteen,  had  started  no  less 
than  three  of  these  Homeric  efforts;  one  on  the  discovery  of  America, 
and  one  each  on  the  conquests  of  Mexico  and  Peru.  It  was  our  heroic 
era,  but  it  yielded  almost  nothing  of  value.  Mere  exaltation  availeth  little 
unless  it  be  grounded  either  upon  genius  or  long-continued  culture." 
"The  Conquest  of  Canaan"  was  better,  however,  than  "The  Triumph  of 
Infidelity,"  of  which  little  good  can  be  said.  This  was  a  prolonged  attempt 
at  scathing  satire  on  the  part  of  a  man  who  had  no  native  sense  of 
humor.  It  is  impossible  that  it  can  have  amused  anyone,  though  it  doubt 
less  gave  grim  satisfaction  to  other  good  folk  who  were  no  less  devoted 
than  he  to  old-fashioned  orthodoxy. 

Far  the  best  of  Dwight's  longer  poems  was  "Greenfield  Hill,"  published 
the  year  before  he  accepted  the  presidency  of  Yale.  This  poem  had  many 
such  distinguished  forerunners  as  Ben  Jonson's  "Penshurst,"  John  Den- 
ham's  "Cooper's  Hill,"  and  Pope's  "Windsor^  Forest,"  the  plan  being 
simply  to  look  out  from  some  hilltop  and  derive  a  series  of  narrative  and 
descriptive  verse  from  what  the  views  suggested.  If  the  plan  was  an 
established  one,  Dwight's  original  scheme  for  working  it  out  was  even 
more  frankly  unoriginal,  for  he  had  at  first,  as  the  preface  states, 
"designed  to  imitate,  in  the  several  parts,  the  manner  of  as  many  British 
poets,  but  finding  himself  too  much  occupied,  when  he  projected  the  pub 
lication,  to  pursue  that  design,  he  relinquished  it."  Th'is  failure  was  alto 
gether  fortunate,  for  in  the  present  form  of  the  poem,  Dwight's  little 
flame  shines  stoutly  from  beneath  the  overshadowing  bushels  of  Spenser, 
Thomson,  Gay,  Goldsmith,  and  others  less  easily  recognizable.  The  whole 
is  divided  into  seven  parts,  as  follows :  I,  The  Prospect ;  II,  The  Flourish 
ing  Village,  "Fair  Verna !  loveliest  village  of  the  west";  III,  The  Burning 
of  Fairfield,  an  attempt  to  consign  to  "the  most  finished  detestation"  the 
memory  of  Governor  Tryon,  who,  in  1779,  bombarded  the  village  from 
Long  Island  Sound;  IV,  The  Destruction  of  the  Pequods,  an  heroic  chapter 
in  Connecticut  history,  narrated  in  Spenserian  stanzas ;  V,  The  Clergyman's 
Advice  to  the  Villagers,  Mr.  Dwight's  pulpit  ethics  in  verse;  VI,  The 
Farmer's  Advice  to  the  Villagers,  delivered  "on  a  pleasant  monday,"  an 
admirable  example,  taken  with  Part  V,  of  how  the  Lord's  anointed  could 
combine  worldliness  and  other- worldliness,  and  VII,  The  Vision,  or  Pros 
pect  of  the  Future  Happiness  of  America.  Thus,  in  scale,  the  poem  had 
a  sort  of  pocket-epic  magnitude  with  a  concluding  burst  of  loyalty,  but 

1 F.  L.  Pattee,  Introduction  to  "The  Poems  of  Philip  Freneau,"  Vol.  I,  pp.  c  and  ci. 


woe! 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  621 

it  was  genuinely  local  and  concrete  in  character,  and  in  point  of  view, 
as  well  as  content,  was  essentially  American.  Even  in  the  last  part, 
where  the  temptation  was  greatest  to  identify  the  future  of  America  with 
a  vaguely  glorious  millennium,  Dwight  kept  his  head  as  he  presented  in 
rhythmic  and  sometimes  poetical  numbers  the  fair  conclusions  to  be  drawn 
from  an  honest  survey  of  location,  climate,  property,  government,  and 
the  advancement  of  the  arts  and  sciences. 

"Greenfield  Hill"  is,  therefore  an  interesting  and  readable  document  in 
literary  history.  It  presents  the  workings  of  a  sturdy,  upright  New 
England  mind  and  conscience,  its  vigorous  and  narrow  prejudices,  its 
honest  zeal  for  the  country's  good.  It  is  very  evidently  an  old  document 
in  some  of  its  national  concepts.  It  showed  no  prophetic  sense  of  what 
the  new  industrialism  and  miscellaneous  immigration  were  to  bring  about. 
In  the  remotest  confines  of  Dwight's  vista  there  was  neither  slum  nor 
factory.  But,  if  in  this  social  blindness  he  seems  remotely  antiquated,  he 
shared  one  other  defect  of  vision  with  the  America  of  only  day  before 
yesterday,  for  he  was  one  of  the  earliest  to  rely  on  America's  magnificent 
isolation : 

See  this  glad  world  remote  from  every  foe, 
From  Europe's  mischief  and   from  Europe's 
Th'   Atlantic's   guardian   tide   repelling   far 
Tie  jealous  terror  and  the  veangeful  war!1 

Here,  without   walls,  the  fields   of  safety   spread, 
And,   free   as   winds,   ascends   the   peaceful   shade.* 

As  poetry,  it  amounts  to  little  more  than  "The  Conquest  of  Canaan," 
or  "The  Triumph  of  Infidelity,"  but  as  a  record  of  New  England  life  and 
thought,  it  is  immensely  worth  while,  and  deserves  to  .be  read  side  by  side 
with  an  equally  valuable  treasure-house  of  fact  and  conviction,  the  four 
volumes  of  "Travels  in  New  England  and  New  York."  To  use  a  dis 
tinction  of  modern  English  politics,  he  was  a  conservative  liberal,  a 
compound  of  Yankee  shrewdness  and  Puritan  zeal.  In  the  passage  from 
the  1 8th  century  to  the  1 9th  he  was  a  representative  character  who  car 
ried  over  the  Calvinistic  rectitude  of  Jonathan  Edwards  with  the  practical 
sagacity  of  Benjamin  Franklin.  He  achieved  no  works  or  art,  but  he 
contributed  to  the  collateral  literature  of  American  history,  and  stands 
out  boldly  in  the  history  of  American  literature. 


JOEL  BARLOW   (1754-1813) 

Barlow  was  born  in  Redding,  Conn.,  in  1754.  He  was  graduated  from 
Yale,  after  a  year  at  Dartmouth,  in  1778,  reading  a.  Commencement  poem 
on  "The  Prospect  of  Peace."  From  1780  to  1783  he  was  chaplain  in  the 
Continental  army.  During  this  period,  he  brought  to  completion  his  "Vision 
of  Columbus,"  which,  after  many  delays,  was  published  by  subscription 
in  1787,  and,  twenty  years  later,  appeared,  revised  and  expanded,  as  "The 
Columbiad."  Minor  activities  as  a  poet  resulted  in  his  official  revision 

»  "Greenfield  Hill,"  Part  VII,  lines  87-90.  »Ibid.,  lines  321,  322. 


622  AMERICAN    POETRY 

of  the  Book  of  Psalmody,  in  1785;  his  participation,  with  Hopkins, 
Trumbull,  and  Humphreys,  in  "The  Anarchiad,"  in  1786-1787;  his  "Hasty 
Pudding,"  in  1793,  and  his  "Conspiracy  of  Kings,"  in  1796. 

These  latter  two  were  produced  during  his  residence  abroad,  1788-1805, 
when  he  became  known,  and  was  by  many  discredited,  as  a  radical  re 
publican.  His  "Advice  to  the  Privileged  Orders  in  the  Several  States  of 
Europe,  Resulting  from  the  Necessity  and  Propriety  of  a  General  Revolu 
tion  in  the  Principle  of  Government"  (1792  and  1795),  was  fiercely  con 
demned  by  all  conservatives.  In  his  latter  years,  however,  he  was  in 
personal  favor  with  Presidents  Jefferson  and  Madison,  who  recognized  him 
as  an  honest  liberal.  He  lived  until  1813. 

/.  Texts. 

His  epic  is  accessible  only  in  early  editions. 

The  Vision  of  Columbus.  A  Poem,  in  Nine  Books.  1787.  (Four 
more  editions  by  1794.) 

The  Columbiad.  A  Poem  in  Ten  Books.  Philadelphia,  1807.  (A 
sumptuous  quarto  of  454  pages,  with  twelve  full-page  steel  engravings.) 

Hasty  Pudding;  a  Poem  in  Three  Cantos  with  a  Memoir  on  Maize, 
by  D.  J.  Browne.  New  York,  1847. 

//.  Biography. 

Life  and  Letters  of  Joel  Barlow,  by  C.  B.  Todd.    New  York,  1886. 

///.  Criticism. 

Three  Men  of  Letters,  by  M.  C.  Tyler,  pp.  131-180. 

Barlow  was  the  most  ambitious,  laborious,  and  persistent  of  the  i8th 
century  American  aspirants  to  epic  fame.  His  final  product,  "The  Colum 
biad,"  appeared  in  1807,  nearly  thirty  years  after  the  idea  first  occurred 
to  him.  In  1787  he  published  "a  sketch  of  the  present  poem,"  under  the 
title  of  "The  Vision  of  Columbus,"  a  sketch  which  ran  to  the  modest 
proportions  of  nine  books  and  nearly  5,000  lines.  In  its  final  shape,  it 
was  not  only  poetically  enlarged,  but  was  accordingly  magnified  in  an 
elaborately  embellished  quarto,  in  the  fashion  of  the  Baskerville  reprints 
of  the  classics,  then  in  polite  English  vogue. 

The  poem,  whose  earlier  name  is  the  more  exact,  is  really  the  old-age 
vision  of  Columbus  as  seen  from  a  mountain-top,  to  which  he  is  led  by 
the  Titan  Hesper,  guardian  genius  of  the  western  world.  To  him  is 
exhibited  the  conquest  of  South  America,  the  settling  of  the  colonies  in 
North  America,  the  French  and  Indian  Wars  in  brief,  and  the  War  of  the 
Revolution  in  prolonged  detail.  Then  follow  a  hymn  to  peace,  an  arraign 
ment  of  slavery  in  the  land  of  liberty,  and  a  survey  of  the  progress  of  the 
arts  in  America.  This  would  seem  to  have  been  enough  of  a  vision  for 
the  downcast  discoverer;  but  the  reader  is  further  enlightened  by  two 
more  books,  which  contain  what  proves  to  be  the  Vision,  of  Barlow  as 
shared  by  Columbus.  The  latter  is  somewhat  perplexed  at  the  slow 
progress  of  science  and  the  apparent  persistency  of  international  warfare, 
Until  Hesper,  with  great  erudition  and  fine  optimism,  expounds  the  law 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  623 

of  progression  in  the  physical,  moral,  and  intellectual  world,  adorning 
his  discourse  with  extended  allusions,  as  the  "Argument"  to  Book  IX  an 
nounces,  to  "the  ancient  and  modern  state  of  the  arts  and  of  society, 
Crusades,  Commerce,  Hanseatic  League,  Copernicus,  Kepler,  Newton, 
Galileo,  Herschel,  Descartes,  Bacon,  Printing  Press,  Magnetic  Needle, 
Geographical  Discoveries,  Federal  System  in  America."  And  he  concludes 
that  this  system,  extended  to  the  whole  world,  will  lead  to  the  federation 
of  nations,  the  Parliament  of  the  World. 

"The  Columbiad"  is  accompanied  by  a  twelve-page  preface,  which  is 
a  significant  piece  of  early  American  criticism.  With  reference  to  the 
form  of  the  work,  Barlow  makes  no  mention  of  his  adopting  the  heroic 
couplet,  but  takes  some  pride  in  his  rigid  observance  of  the  classical  unities 
of  time,  place,  and  action,  and  hopes  for  a  favorable  verdict  upon  "the 
disposition  of  the  parts,  the  invention  and  application  of  incidents,  the 
propriety  of  the  illustrations,  the  liveliness  and  the  chastity  of  the  images, 
the  suitable  intervention  of  machinery,"  and  the  "language  whose  energy, 
harmony,  and  elegance  shall  constitute  a  style  everywhere  suited  to  the 
matter  they  have  to  treat."  As  to  the  contents,  he  is  chiefly  interested 
in  the  introduction  of  new  poetic  material  through  the  invention  of  new 
machinery  of  warfare,  and  he  exclaims  at  the  hitherto  neglected  possi 
bilities  of  naval  combats,  quite  ignoring  Freneau's  fine  account  in  the  first 
canto  of  "The  British  Prison  Ship." 

His  chief  object,  he  says,  however,  is  of  a  moral  and  political  nature; 
artistry  is  subordinate;  and  his  epic,  in  its  moral  import,  belongs  to  his 
enlightened  age  and  embodies  its  newer  ideals  of  peace.  Homer  taught 
"that  conquest,  violence,  and  war  were  the  best  employment  of  nations"; 
"Virgil  wrote  and  felt  like  a  subject,  not  like  a  citizen."  Barlow's  avowed 
and  contrasted  object  was  "to  inculcate  the  love  of  rational  liberty,  and 
to  discountenance  the  deleterious  passion  for  violence  and  war."  The 
temptation  is  obvious  to  hold  Barlow  up  to  scorn  in  the  light  of  the  com 
parison  which  he  thus  invites,  but  the  attentive  reader  of  his  preface  will 
come  upon  one  passage  which  is  far  more  profound  than  amusing:  "I 
cannot  expect  that  every  reader,  nor  even  every  republican  reader,  will 
join  me  in  opinion  with  respect  to  the  future  progress  of  society  and  the 
civilization  of  states;  but  there  are  two  sentiments  in  which  I  think  all 
men  will  agree:  that  the  event  is  desirable,  and  that  to  believe  it  practical 
is  one  step  toward  rendering  it  so." 

The  poem,  of  course,  was  not  a  popular  success ;  such  poems  never 
are.  Nor  has  it  become  a  classic,  for  it  had  neither  the  primitive  vigor 
of  a  folk  epic  nor  the  lofty  perfection  of  a  modern  literary  masterpiece. 
Its  claims  to  the  attention  of  the  student  are  based  chiefly  on  two  facts : 
that  it  possessed  the  originalities  in  subject  matter  and  viewpoint  of  which 
its  author  made  note  in  the  preface,  and  that  it  was  the  best  of  the 
colonial  epic  attempts,  more  sustained  than  Freneau's  "Pictures  of  Colum 
bus,"  more  elevated  than  anything  of  Trumbull;s,  more  reasonable  and 
readable  than  Dwight's  "Conquest  of  Canaan,"  and  more  universal  than 
his  "Greenfield  Hill."  In  "Greenfield  Hill,"  Dwight  wrote  a  more  success 
ful  poem,  but  in  "The  Columbiad"  Barlow  came  nearer  to  achieving  really 
epic  breadth. 


624  AMERICAN   POETRY 

But  his  reach  did  not  always  exceed  his  grasp. 

One  wild  flower  he's  plucked  that  is  wet  with  the  dew 
Of   this  fresh   Western   world, 

and  that  was  his  mock-heroic  pastoral,  "Hasty  Pudding."  Homesick  in 
Savoy  one  December  day  in  1792  (he  had  been  writing  to  his  wife  in 
London  that  the  very  word  America  was  sweetness  to  his  soul),  he  and 
his  fellow  Commissioners  of  the  National  Convention  were  served  mush 
and  milk — Hasty  Pudding.  He  had  ordered  it  in  vain  in  Paris  and 
London, 

But  here,  though  distant  from  our  native  shore, 
With  mutual  glee  we  meet  arid  laugh  once  more. 

All  during  the  meal  he  dwelt  on  the  merits  of  the  dish  to  his  colleagues, 
and  doubtless  gave  them  disconnectedly  what  appears  in  this  impromptu : 
the  various  names  for  it,  its  superiority  to  other  foods,  and  then,  after  a 
long  breath,  instructions  about  the  cultivation,  of  the*  grain,  its  harvesting, 
its  husking,  its  preparation  and  serving,  the  rival  claims  of  molasses  and 
sugar,  and  even  the  choice  in  spoons.  The  whole  episode  was  simple 
and  genuine,  like  the  dish  and  his  verses  on  it.  He  was  really  enthusiastic, 
but  he  anticipated  the  polite  derision  of  his  colleagues  by  adroitly  lapsing 
into  mock-heroics.  'Mid  eighteen  years  of  roaming,  sometimes  among 
pleasures  and  palaces,  and  sometimes  in  "Alpine  Snows"  and  "Turkey's 
morbid  air,"  he  sang  with  hearty  zest  this  song  of  home,  sweet  home. 

This,  naturally  enough,  was  popular,  and  does  deserve  a  reading  to-day 
on  directly  literary  grounds — not  because  it  was  well  meant,  though  in 
effectual,  but  because  it  was  a  simple,  good-natured,  clever  bit  of  fun- 
making  by  a  man  who  was  himself  simple,  good-natured,  and  cleve'r  enough 
to  write  a  mock-pastoral, 'even  though  he  was  a  good  deal  lower  than  the 
angels,  to  whom  alone  the  writing  of  epics  should  be  delegated. 

JOSEPH  RODMAN   DRAKE    (1795-1820) 

Drake  was  born,  in  New  York  City  in  1795.  After  a  brief  business 
life  he  studied  privately  and  became  a  physician.  As  a  boy  he  was  a 
wide  reader,  and  he  early  began  writing  verse  under  various  assumed 
signatures.  "The  Culprit  Fay"  was^  written  in  1816,  before  he  was  of  age, 
though  not  published  until  "The  *  Croaker"  papers  were  written  with 
Halleck  in  the  spring'of  1819.  He  died  of  consumption  in  September,  1820. 

I.  Texts. 

The  Culprit  Fay  and  Other  Poems.     New  York,  1835. 
The  Culprit  Fay  (separate  edition).     New  York,  1859. 
The  American  Flag  (separate  edition).     New  York,  1861. 
No  recent  edition  of  Drake  has  appeared,  but  these  two  title  poems 
have  been  reprinted  in  many  collections. 

//.  Criticism. 

Southern  Literary  Messenger,  Vol.  II,  p.  326.     (E.  A.  Poe.) 
Harper's  Magazine,  Vol.  XLIX,  p.  65.     (J.  G..  Wilson.) 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  625 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake  is  usually  disposed  of  as  a  handsome  and  senti 
mental  young  New  Yorker,  who  wrote  one  striking  poem  of  fancy,  "The 
Culprit  Fay,"  and  one  fine  song  of  loyalty,  "The  American  Flag,"  who 
collaborated  with  Fitz-Greene  Halleck  on  "The  Croaker"  papers,  and  died 
an  early  and  lamented  death  in  his  twenty-sixth  year.  If  its  implications 
are  properly  followed  through,  this  is  not  an  unfair  summary. 

"The  Culprit  Fay,"  according  to  a  letter  by  Halleck,  was  the  product 
of  three  days'  writing  in  the  summer  of  1816.  It  has  been  frequently 
said  that  the  poem  was  written  as  a  conscious  attempt  to  turn  American 
scenery  to  literary  account,  Cooper  maintaining  that  it  could  not  be  done, 
just  as  it  is  said  of  a  slightly  later  date  that  Cooper  wrote  "The  Pilot" 
to  demonstrate  how  much  better  a  sea  story  he  could  produce  than  had 
the  anonymous  author  of  "The  Pirate."  It  makes  little  difference  whether 
or  not  the  anecdote  was  true ;  the  basic  self-consciousness  of  the  American 
poet  in  1820  was  prevailing,  and  Drake  gives  open  evidence  of  it  in  "To  a 
Friend,"  "Niagara,"  and  "Bronx."  But,  whether  or  not  it  was  true,  the 
fact  is  remarkable  that  nothing  in  the  poem  gives  any  active  suggestion 
that  Drake  had  any  real  background  in  mind.  It  reads  like  the  product  of 
pure  and  unbridled  fancy,  and  for  the  modern  reader  who  is  sensitive  to 
scrupulousness  of  diction,  care  in  the  use  of  verb-tenses,  and  a  reasonable 
consistency  and  harmony  in  the  imagery,  "The  Culprit  Fay"  reads  like  what 
it  actually  is — the  hurried  product  of  a  boyish  mind.1 

Yet,  in  its  day,  it  was  astonishingly  popular.  Said  Halleck :  "It  is 
certainly  the  best  thing  of  the  kind  in  the  English  language,  and  is  more 
strikingly  original  than  I  had  supposed  it  possible  for  a  modern  poem 
to  be."  2  Lots  of  other  people  thought  the  same ;  but  in  this  comment, 
and  in  its  pertinence  to  the  young  poet,  lies  what  seems  to  have  been  the 
essential  difference  between  Halleck  and  Drake.  Halleck  could  hardly 
conceive  of  originality  in  a  I9th  century  American  poem.  For  him,  art 
had  arrived  at  final  standards.  He  believed  in  Pope  and  Christopher  Wren 
and  Handel  and  Gainsborough.  There  was  nothing  left  to  do  but  ring 
the  changes  on  the  chimes  in  their — Protestant  Episcopal — temple  of  art. 
But  Drake  tried  new  things  and  rebelled  at  old.  And,  while  he  achieved 
little  in  his  short  lifetime,  his  efforts  in  poetry,  all  the  best  of  them,  were 
strainings  at  the  leash  of  i8th  century  convention. 

In  his  stanzas.  "To  a  Friend,"  addressed  to  TIalleck,  Drake  wrote  his 
best  commentary  on  "The  Culprit  Fay's"  shortcomings  and  those  ambitions 
of  his  own  with  which  Halleck  never  became  fully  infected.  Militant 
poetry,  he  said,  was  not  the  only  kind  needed;  America  should  come  to 
herself.  Fairies,  imps,  kelpies,  vampires,  spectres,  demons,  were  not  native 
to  our  soil. 

Fair  reason  checks  these  monsters  at  their  birth. 

But  there  was  left  the  whole  realm  of  primitive  American  life  and 
majestic  American  scenery.  Drake  was  still  all  for  splendidly  remote 
romance.  He  saw  no  gleam  of  poetry  in  democracy  or  the  crowded  town; 

1  For    the    most   careful   criticism    of   the   poem   yet   written   see    Poe's   comments   in   the 
Southern  Literary  Messenger,  Vol.   II,  p.   326. 
»"Life  and  Letters,"  ed.  J.  G.  Wilson,  p.   183. 


626  AMERICAN    POETRY 

yet  what  he  pleaded  for  was  better  than  Georgian  sonnets  to  milady's 
eyebrow : 

Go!   kneel   a  worshipper   at   nature's   shrine! 

For  you  her  fields  are  green,  and  fair  her  skies! 

For  you  her  rivers  flow,  her  hills  arise! 

And  will  you  scorn  them  all,  to  pour  forth  tame 

And  heartless  lays  of  feigned   or  fancied  sighs? 

Still  will  you  cloud  the   muse?   nor  blush  with  shame 

To  cast  away  renown,  and  hide  your  head  from  fame? 

The  most  spirited  and  lasting  thing  Drake  wrote  appeared  as  the 
twenty-seventh  "Croaker,"  the  only  one  of  the  series  preserved  in  the 
1835  edition  of  his  poems.  "The  American  Flag"  belongs  in  the  choicest 
group  of  national  lyrics,  with  Dwight's  "Columbia,"  Joseph  Hopkinson's 
"Columbia  the  Gem  of  the  Ocean,"  and  Key's  "Star-Spangled  Banner." 
As  poetry,  it  surpasses  them  all,  rising  to  perilous  heights  but  never  quite 
falling  into  bathos.  It  is  the  more  remarkable  because  it  was  not  inspired 
by  any  momentary  fear  of,  or  lust  for,  battle.  This,  with  his  "Niagara," 
shows  the  promise  and  the  ambition  that  were  in  him,  and  they  lead  the 
modern  critic  to  feel  that  although  "The  Culprit  Fay"  has  been  a  very  much 
overrated  poem,  the  early  death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake  is  still  to  be 
lamented. 

FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK  (1790-1867). 

Halleck  was  born  in  Guilford,  Conn.,  in  1790.  As  a  boy,  he  read 
eagerly  from  the  popular  English  poets,  and  wrote  imitative  verse.  After  a 
common  school  education,  he  went  into  business  in  Guilford,  1805-1811.  For 
nearly  forty  years  following,  he  held  subordinate  confidential  clerkships  in 
New  York  City,  with  Jacob  Barker,  1811-1829,  and  in  the  office  of  John  Jacob 
Astor,  1832-1849.  From  then  till  his  death  in  1867  he  lived  in  bachelor 
retirement  at  Guilford,  his  own  savings  being  supplemented  by  a  small 
annuity  from  J.  J.  Astor  and  a  further  gift  from  W.  B.  Astor.  His 
first  success  came  with  the  "Croaker"  papers,  written  anonymously  by 
himself  and  Joseph  Rodman  Drake,  and  printed  March-July,  1819 — mainly 
in  the  New  York  Evening  Post.  In  December,  1819,  appeared  the  satirical 
poem,  "Fanny,"  and  from  this  time  on  to  the  end  of  his  career  he  enjoyed 
the  intense  admiration  of  his  fellow  townsmen,  the.  respect  of  literary 
America,  and  the  genial  attentions  of  the  kindlier  spirits  in  London. 

/.  Texts. 

The  Poetical  Writings  of  Fitz  -Greene  Halleck.  With  extracts  from 
those  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake.  Edited  by  J.  G.  Wilson.  New  York, 
1869.  (This  includes  "The  Croakers.") 

Other  important  editions  are:  Fanny.  New  York,  1819.  Alnwick 
Castle,  with  Other  Poems.  New  York,  1827.  Fanny  and  Other  Poems. 
New  York,  1839.  Poems  by  Fitz-Greene  Halleck.  New  York,  1839. 
Poetical  Works,  now  first  collected.  New  York,  1847.  Complete 
Edition  of  Poems  of  Fitz-Greene  Halleck.  New  York,  1858.  The 
Croakers.  First  complete  edition.  Printed  for  the  Bradford  Club. 
New  York,  1860. 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  627 

II.  Biography. 

Life  and  Letters  of  Fitz-Greene  Halleck.    Edited  by  J.  G.  Wilson. 
New  York,  1869. 

///.  Criticism. 

New  England  Magazine,  August,  1831. 
Graham's,  September,  1843. 

Southern  Literary  Messenger,  November  25,  1843. 
The  Nation,  December  6,  1867,  p.  459. 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck  was  the  leading  poet  of  the  Knickerbocker  School, 
the  New  York  admirers  of  Irving.  Although  born  in  a  southwestern 
Connecticut  town  in  the  late  i8th  century,  he  was  really  a  product  of 
New  York  City  in  the  early  iQth.  He  was  only  seven  years  younger 
than  Irving,  and  one  year  than  Cooper,  and  thus  subject  to  the  same 
formative  influences.  None  were  college  graduates ;  all  had  educative 
business  experience,  and  all  travelled  abroad.  Coming  up  to  New  York  as 
a  young  man,  Halleck  was  taken  into  the  company  of  the  literary  and 
of  the  consciously  cultured  social  class.  The  people  with  whom  he  con 
sorted  were  excitedly  interested  in  the  English  literature  of  the  hour,  and 
for  the  most  part  were  undisturbed  by  any  desire  for  a  native  American 
literature.1  They  were  revelling  in  "The  Lady  of  the  Lake"  and  "Marmion" ; 
in  Campbell's  "Pleasures  of  Hope,"  Rogers's  "Pleasures  of  Memory," 
Moore's  "Melodies,"  Miss  Porter's  "Scottish  Chiefs"  and  "Thaddeus  of 
Warsaw,"  and,  a  little  later,  in  "Waverley,"  "Guy  Mannering,"  and  "The 
Antiquary" — a  succession  of  works  that  produced,  said  Halleck,  "a  wide 
spread  enthusiasm  throughout  Great  Britain  and  this  country,  which  has 
probably  never  been  equalled  in  the  history  of  literature."  2 

With  the  rest  of  his  generation,  he  was  uncomfortably  conscious  that 
in  actual  American  life  the  moon  of  romance  had  waned,  and  the  sun  of 
commercialism  was  at  high  noon.  The  not  unnatural  reactions  against 
these  two  sets  of  facts  led  him  at  some  times  into  sentimentalism  and  at 
others  into  satire:  ^  ' 

A  heart  that  worshipp'd  in  Romance 

The  Spirit  of  the  buried  Time, 
And  dreams  of  knight,  and  steed,   and  lance, 

And    ladye-love,    and    minstrel-rhyme, 
These  had  been,  and  I  deemed  woul'd  be 

My  joy,  whate'er  my  destiny. 

This  regret  for  the  passage  of  the  old  days  continually  recurred  in  his 
verse,  and,  particularly,  in  the  lines  which  he  wrote  between  the  ages 
of  twenty-five  and  thirty,  ft  appeared  in  "Alnwick  Castle,"  "Red- 
Jacket,"  "A  Sketch,"  "A  Poet's  Daughter,"  and  "Wyoming,"  sometimes 
in  simple  lament  at  what  had  been  lost  and  sometimes  in  protest  at  what 
had  replaced  it. 

^'Life  and  Letters,"  ed.  J.   G.  Wilson,  pp.  262-3.  «Ibid.,  p.   162. 


628  AMERICAN   POETRY 

The  people  of  to-day 

Appear  good,  honest,  quiet  men   enough, 
And  hospitable  too — for  ready  pay; 
With  manners,  like  their  roads,  a  little  rough 
And  hands  whose  grasp  is  warm  and  welcoming,  though  tough. 

Yet  not  despairing  entirely,  he  celebrated  the  chivalry  of  the  Revolu 
tion  in  "The  Field  of  Grounded  Arms,"  made  his  greatest  stroke  for 
popular  favor  with  the  oft-declaimed  "Marco  Bozzaris,"  and,  as  a  man  of 
seventy-five,  came  out  in  "Young  America"  with  one  more  flash  at  the 
sound  of  battle,  though,  rather  sadly,  with  one  concluding  bit  of  cynicism 
at  the  en'd  of  this  valedictory. 

Such  a  discontent  as  he  felt  with  the  uninspired  and  uninspiring 
qualities  of  American  life  found  its  more  effective  expression  in  satire.  If 
he  could  not  emulate  Scott,  he  could  imitate  Byron,  and,  in  a  mild  and 
well-mannered  way,  he  did  play  with  the  measures  of  "Beppo"  and  "Don 
Juan,"  and  suggests  their  author  in  his  lighter  moods.  "It  would  be 
heaven,"  he  had  said  one  day  in  his  twenty-third  year,  "to  lounge  upon 
the  rainbow,  and  read  Tom  Campbell."  Young  Dr.  Joseph  Rodman  Drake, 
standing  by,  was  delightedly  eager  to  share  the  perch.  So  their  friend 
ship  began,  but,  working  by  logical  contraries,  what  they  arrived  at  some 
six  years  later  was  the  quite  different  experience  of  sitting,  as  it  were, 
in  a  metropolitan  bay-window  and  reading  the  social  signs  of  the  times. 

What  they  read  was  recorded  in  the  National  Advocate  and  The  New 
York  Evening  Post,  under  the  signature  of  "The  Croakers."  Their  success 
was  equal  to  that  of  Irving  and  his  associates  in  the,  also  anonymous,  "Sal 
magundi  Papers"  of  a  dozen  years  earlier.  But  "The  Croakers,"  through 
the  Evening  Post,  had  a  much  wider  circulation  than  did  the  independently 
printed  "Salmagundi's,"  and,  coming  in  rapid  succession,  thirty-five  in 
about  one  hundred  days,  were  far  more  startling  than  the  earlier  series  of 
twenty-odd  which  extended  through  a  whole  year.  Finally,  through  their 
more  direct  satire,  which  was  addressed  to  city  celebrities  by  name,  they 
challenged  and  held  the  attention  of  the  townsfolk,  who  were  amused  at 
what  they  read  and  curious  to  know  where  the  lightning  would  next  strike. 

The  most  personal  and  local  of  these  verses,  as  one  looks  back,  have 
the  least  title  to  respect  to-day,  for  the  reason  tha't  they  rely  on  immediate 
breakfast-table  reading,-  by  offering  jaunty  impertinences  in  the  place  of 
either  sense  or  sentiment.  The  more  general  in  theme  had  in  them  the 
same  satirical  canniness  which  belonged  to  the  "Salmagundi's"  and,  in  their 
simple  and  sometimes  brutal  directness,  must  have  afforded  then,  as  they 
do  now,  an  immense  relief  to  the  reader  who  had  been  surfeited  on  the 
pompous  imitations  of  the  would-be  classical  poets. 

Go  on  great  painter!   dare  be  dull; 

No   longer   after    nature   dangle; 
Call   rectilinear  beautiful;  „ 

Find  grace  and   freedom  in   an  angle: 
Pour  on  the   red — the   green — the  yellow — 

"Paint   till   a   horse   may   mire   upon    it," 
•  .  And   while    I've   strength    to   write   or   bellow, 

I'll  sound  your  praises  in   a  sonnet. 

So,  in  "The  man  who  frets  at  worldly  strife,"  and  "To  Simon,"  and  "The 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  629 

Love  of  Notoriety,"  the  young  critics  used  shotguns  instead  of  rifles  as 
they  popped  at  cheap  pessimism,  social  extravagance,  and  self-puffery. 
For  three  months,  from  behind  the  ambush  of  their  pseudonym,  they  bom 
barded  the  delighted  city  with  their  poetical  confetti. 

The  death  of  Drake,  in  September,  1820,  which  inspired  Halleck's  most 
famous  lyric,  broke  up  this  literary  partnership;  but  before  that  time 
Halleck  had  responded  to  the  general  applause  with  another  popular 
satire,  "Fanny."  This  was  a  poem  of  175  six-lined  stanzas,  done  in 
Halleck's  best  Byronesque  manner.  It  was  unsigned,  like  "The  Croakers," 
but  generally  understood  to  be  by  one  of  the  same  hands.  It  tells  the  story 
of  the  sky-rocket  rise  and  fall  of  Fanny  and  her  father  in  wealth  and 
social  position,  a  story  which  gave  every  opportunity  for  cynical  com 
mentary  on  the  ways  of  the  world  in  general  and  New  York  in  particular. 
In  the  literature  of  Manhattan,  Stedman's  "Diamond  Wedding"  has  been 
the  only  thing  to  approach  it,  and  both  of  them  have  been  broadly  and 
keenly  applicable  to  the  life  of  any  rapidly  growing  commercial  city. 

When,  two  years  later,  at  the  age  of  about  thirty,  Halleck  had  written 
''Marco  Bozzaris,"  the  best  expression  of  his  romantic  side,  he  had  risen 
to  his  highest  point.  With  his  nicety  of  taste,  his  keen  eye,  his  fund  of 
humor,  and  his  frankness,  he  was  an  established  literary  and  social 
favorite.  He  was  the  kind  of  handsome  and  courtly  gentleman  of  the 
old  school,  as  was  Irving  also,  who  became  a  friend  and  associate  of  the 
leading  financier  of  the  day.  There  was  nothing  restless  or  disconcerting 
about  him.  He  was  a  critic  of  manners,  but  not  of  the  social  order.  He 
probably  knew  little  of  Emerson,  and  he  certainly  disapproved  of  Whitman. 
In  1848,  when  less  than  sixty  years,  of  age,  he  went  back  to  his  native 
town  in  Connecticut,  and  lived  there  till  after  the  Civil  War,  totally 
unaffected  as  a  man  of  letters,  except  as  the  conflict  seems  to  have  silenced 
him.  But  he  was  not  alone,  for  when  he  sank  into  eclipse,  all  the  "Knicker 
bockers"  disappeared  with  him.  Their  vogue  was  over. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT   (1794-1878) 

Bryant  was  born  at  Cummington,  Mass.,  in  1794.  He  could  trace  his 
descent  through  both  parents  to  the  oldest  Plymouth  stock.  After  his 
early  education,  which  was  largely  under  clergyman  tutors,  his  father,  'a 
country  doctor,  was  able  to  send  him  to  college,  at  Williams,  for  only  one 
year.  He  subsequently  became  an  attorney,  and  practised  law  from  1816 
to  1825.  Within  the  first  three  years,  he  had  come  to  feel  a  repugnance 
to  drudging  "for  the  dregs  of  men,"  *  and  the  tastes  of  success  given  him 
by  his  verses  in  the  North  American  Review,  his  Phi  Beta  Kappa  poem 
at  Harvard  in  1821,  and  his  volume  of  poems  in  the  same  year,  made 
natural  his  decision  to  go  into  magazine  work  in  New  York  in  1825.  The 
New  York  Review  and  Athenaeum  Magazine  failed  in  a  year,  but  after  a 
few  months  of  return  to  the  law,  Bryant  was  offered  the  assistant  editor 
ship  of  The  New  York  Evening  Post.  Three  years  later,  in  1829,  he  suc- 

*  See  closing  stanza  of  "Green  River." 


630  AMERICAN   POETRY 

ceeded  to  the  editorship,  which  he  held  with  distinction  until  his  death, 
in  1878. 

Although  the  shift  from  law  to  journalism  did  not  withdraw  him  from 
"the  sons  of  strife,"  it  made  him  more  than  an  adjuster  of  their  difficulties. 
As  a  moulder  of  public  opinion,  he  was  doing  God's  work  in  "Quickening 
the  restless  mass  that  sweeps  along."  1  His  seven  trips  abroad,  and  his 
nine  publications  of  poetry  in  book  form,  after  he  came  to  New  York, 
prove  that  his  life  was  not  utterly  absorbed  in  the  routine  of  newspaper 
editing. 

Bryant's  career  as  a  poet  was  very  long,  extending  from  the  prepara 
tion,  at  thirteen,  of  a  volume  of  school  poems,  paraphrases  and  transla 
tions,  to  the  writing  of  "A  Lifetime"  and  "The  Flood  of  Years,"  sixty- 
eight  years  later,  in  1876.  Volumes  of  poems  from  his  pen  appeared  in 
1808,  1821,  1831,  1834,  1836,  1842,  1844,  1854,  1863,  1870,  1872. 

I.  Texts. 

Poems,  Vols.  Ill  and  IV,  in  Life  and  Works  of  W.  C.  Bryant,  by 
Parke  Godwin.  New  York,  1883. 

Prose,  Vols.  V  and  VI,  in  Life  and  Works  of  W.  C.  Bryant,  by 
Parke  Godwin.  New  York,  1883-1884. 

Poetical  Works.    "Roslyn"  edition,  1903. 

//.  Biography. 

Life  and  Works  of  W.  C.  Bryant,  Vols.  I  and  II,  by  Parke  Godwin. 
New  York,  1883. 

W.  C.  Bryant  (American  Men  of  Letters),  by  John  Bigelow. 
W.  C.  Bryant  (English  Men  of  Letters),  by  W.  A.  Bradley. 

///.  Criticism. 

Poets  and  Poetry  of  America,  by  Churton  Collins. 
Atlas  Essays,  by  G.  H.  Palmer. 
Works  of  E.  A.  Poe,  Vols.  VIII,  IX,  X,  XIII. 
Ppets  of  America,  by  E.  C.  Stedman. 
America  in  Literature,  by  G.  E.  Woodberry. 

The  Nation,  "Growth  of  Thanatopsis,"  by  Carl  van  Doren,  Vol. 
CI,  p.  432. 

IV.  Supplementary. 

Publication  of  Century  Association  on  the  Bryant  Festival,  Novem 
ber  5,  1864. 

The  Bryant  Memorial  Meeting,  November  12,  1878. 

The  most  startling  event  that  took  place  in  Bryant's  long  poetic  career 
was  the  publication  of  "Thanatopsis,"  in  1817.  It  appeared  in  ihe  midst 
of  an  extremely  arid  period  in  American  literature,  and  of  a  correspond 
ingly  fruitful  one  in  England.  Southey  had  only  recently  become  poet 
laureate,  and  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Scott,  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Keats 

1  See   "Hymn    of  the   City"   and   also   "I   broke  the    Spell   that   Held   me   Long,"   and   "I 
Cannot  Forget  with  What  Fervid  Devotion." 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  631 

were  all  at  the  height  of  their  powers.  In  America,  at  this  time,  however, 
poetry  quite  properly  shared  the  fate  of  Wordsworth's  Lucy,  "whom  there 
were  none  to  praise,  And  very  few  to  love."  In  the  period  from  1813 
to  1817,  when,  in  addition  to  the  English  poets  mentioned  above,  Crabbe, 
Campbell,  Rogers,  Hunt,  Jane  Austen,  and  Maria  Edgeworth  were  pour 
ing  forth  their  best;  the  finest  that  America  had  produced  was  Allston's 
"Sylphs  of  the  Seasons,"  Payne's  "Juvenile  Poems"  and  "Lispings  of  the 
Muse,"  Carey's  "Olive  Branch,"  Mrs.  Sigourney's  "Moral  Pieces,"  Pier- 
pont!s  "Airs  of  Palestine,"  and — the  one  volume  worth  remembering — 
Freneau's  "Poems  on  American  Affairs."  James  K.  Paulding  was  per 
haps  the  best  known  native  writer;  Irving  was  in  his  decade  of  silence 
between  the  "Knickerbocker  History"  and  "The-  Sketch  Book,"  and  Cooper 
and  Halleck  and  Drake  had  not  published  anything.  Naturally,  the  appear 
ance  of  a  great  poem  would  have  been  sufficiently  amazing  even  if  it  had 
not  been  composed  by  a  boy  in  the  'teens.  But,  for  this  fact,  Bryant  has 
had,  in  a  way,  to  suffer  ever  since,  for  popular  estimation  has  neglected 
or  refused  to  recognize  that  in  the  length  of  his  career  he  ever  showed 
any  real  development  in  artistry  or  increase  in  power. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  "Thanatopsis"  was  an  extraordinary  combination 
of  boyishness  and  genius.  The  genius  lay  in  its  fine  mastery  of  blank 
verse,  in  its  free  and  sonorous  rhythmic  flow.  The  boyishness  resided  in 
Bryant's  quite  natural  inclination  to  make  his  own  statement  of  the  theme 
that  "All  that  lives  must  die,  passing  through  nature  to  eternity."  He 
was  at  the  stage  in  life  where  such  meditations  rise  in  a  young  man's  mind 
as  were  recorded  in  poem  after  poem  of  his  until  he  went  down  to  New 
York,  where  life  became  more  fascinating  to  him  than  death.  He  came 
from  an  ancestry  that  made  the  Hebraic x  application  in  the  concluding 
lines  as  natural  as  the  last  couplet  in  Milton's  sonnet  "On  arriving  at  the 
Age  of  Twenty  Three."  He  lived  in  a  period  when  the  influence  of  the 
"Graveyard  Poets,"  Blair,  White,  and  Porteus,  was  widely  prevailing, 
and  he  was  in  part  stimulated  to  the  "Thanatopsis"  writing  as  a  commentary 
on  and  a  reply  to  White.2 

The  wonder  of  the  poem  is,  therefore,  not  that  it  represented  unusual 
maturity  of  thought,  but  that  it  gave  evidence  of  such  poetic  skill  that 
Dana  should  have  exclaimed  upon  seeing  it  ".  .  .  no  one  on  this  side 
of  the  Atlantic  is  capable  of  writing  such  verses." 

In  respect  to  its  poetic  form,  Bryant,  perhaps,  did  not  excel  this  in  any 
other  of  his  youthful  efforts  or  even  in  the  work  of  his  later  years.  In 
content  and  general  pervasive  effect  of  his  point  of  view,  his  work,  as  a 
whole,  was  quite  in  harmony  with  it  as  long  as  he  remained  in  the  little 
New  England  towns,  but  quite  different  after  he  had  thrown  himself  into 
the  metropolitan  tide  of  affairs.  Up  to  about  1829,  when  he  was  thirty-five 
years  old,  Bryant's  thought  was  prevailingly  self-conscious  and  strongly 
tinged  with  religious  sentimentalism.  The  religious  predilection  was  born 
in  him,  the  self-consciousness  was  the  characteristic  of  his  immaturity, 
the  sentimentalism  belonged  to  his  literary  generation.  He  was  like  any 

1  See  Matthew  Arnold's  "Culture  and  Anarchy,"  chapter  on  "Hebraism  and  Hellenism." 
a  See    "The    Nation,"   Vol.    101,   p.    432.      Article   by    Carl    van    Doren    on    "Growth   of 
Thanatopsis." 


632  AMERICAN    POETRY 

other  impressionable  youth  in  being  a  part  of  all  he  looked  upon,  and  in 
his  literary  vista,  little  that  he  looked  upon  was  real.  "It  was  a  needle 
work  world,  a  world  in  which  there  was  always  moonlight  on  the  lake 
and  twilight  in  the  vale ;  where  drooped  the  willow  and  bloomed  the  eglan 
tine,  and  jessamine  embowered  the  cot  of  the  village  maid;  where  the  lark 
warbled  in  the  heavens,  and  the  nightingale  chanted  in  the  grove  'neath 
the  mouldering,  ivy-mantled  tower."  l 

Poem  after  poem  in  these  years  was  given  a  personal  religious  appli 
cation — not  only  "Thanatopsis,"  but  "The  Waterfowl,"  "A  Forest  Hymn," 
"The  Poet,"  and  even  "To  the  Fringed  Gentian."  Poem  after  poem  was 
overshadowed  by  the  thought  of  dissolution.  The  "Hymn  to  Death,"  he 
acknowledged,  was  built  upon  a  fallacy,  but  he  preserved  it  nevertheless. 
He  thought  of  the  forest  as  a  vast  cemetery,  of  June  as  a  pleasant  month 
to  die  in,  of  the  flowers  as  reminders  of  the  brevity  of  human  life.  In 
two  bits  of  reminiscence,  he  sentimentalized  over  his  abandonment  of 
poetry,  evidently  feeling  that  poetry  was  nothing  deeper  than  a  mildly 
emotional  obligato  to  life — such  a  thing  as  Monument  Mountains  2  are 
made  of. 

But  during  the  latter  half  of  his  life  the  general  tenor  of  his  work  was 
changed.  Entrance  into  the  world  of  opinions  gave  him  more  of  an 
interest  in  life  itself,  and  less  in  its  embellishments.  Journalism  absorbed 
most  of  his  time  and  strength,  and  participation  in  public  meetings  no 
small  share  of  his  margin.  There  was  no  complete  reversal  of  attitude 
in  Bryant's  work,  but  he  suffered  a  sea  change  of  which  there  were  two 
broad  indications.  The  first  and  less  important  was  that  nature  did  not 
inevitably  lead  to  mournful  or  even  sober  thoughts.  "The  Planting  of  the 
Apple  Tree"  is  serenely  recorded  in  "quaint  old  rhymes";  the  stanzas  on 
"Robert  of  Lincoln"  are  positively  jolly. 

The  other  sign  of  change  appears  in  the  increasing  proportion  of  poems 
which,  like  his  editorial  articles  and  his  commemorative  addresses,  were 
definitely  related  to  life.  He  went  on-  at  once,  in  the  "Hymn  of  the  City," 
to-  celebrate  the  presence  of  God.  in  town  as  well  as  country,3  and,  in  "The 
Battle  Field,"  to  display  his  zest  for  justice  and  good'  citizenship:  "The 
Antiquity  of  Freedom"  and  "O  Mother,  of  a  Mighty  Race"  are  both  songs 
of  democracy.  So,  too,  with  direct  reference  to  the  Civil  War,  are  "Our 
Country's  Call"  and  the  small  group  that  follow  it.  And,  in  a  larger  way, 
the  "Song-  of  the  Sower"  chants  an  ample  chorus  upon  the  implications 
of  democracy,  which  deserves  more  attention  than  it  has  yet  received. 
It  is  the  logical  predecessor  of  Timrod's  "Cotton  Boll"  in  its  broadest 
sweep,  and  of  Lanier's  "Symphony"  in  its  sense  of  the  invading  forces 
of  industrialism. 

At  the  very  end  of  his  career,  in  his  "Lifetime"  and  "The  Flood  of 
Years,"  he  seems,  at  first  glance  to  have  reverted  to  his  youthful  point  of 
view;  but  this  is  not  a  fair  statement  of  the  case,  for  old  age  may  justify 
what  was  forced  and  exotic  in  young  manhood.  It  was  natural  enough 
that  at  eighty-two  the  retrospect  should  be  tinged  with  sadness  and  that 

'"Nathaniel   Parker  Willis,"  by  H.   A.    Beers,   p.    78. 

'  See  text,  pp.   171-173. 

8  Compare  Wordsworth's  sonnet  "Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge." 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  633 

the  prospect  should  include  the  life  after  death.  The  two  poems,  taken 
together,  are  an  old  man's  fitting  valedictory.  Like  his  salutatory  to  the 
world  at  large,  they  present  another  glimpse  of  death,  but  this  time  it  is 
a  fair  prospect  of 

A  present-  in   whose  reign  no  grief   shall   gnaw 
The   heart,    and   never    shall   a    tender    tie 
Be    broken. 

In  any  general  estimate  of  Bryant's  contribution  to  American  life  and 
literature,  the  estimates  of  his  contemporaries  at  his  literary  birthday 
party  of  1864  are  highly  suggestive.  Holmes  sang  his  praises — rather 
vaguely — as  a  nature  lyrist,  a  poet  of  solemn  cadences  which  baffled  the 
commentator.  By  the  implications  in  his  allusions  to  "Thanatopsis,"  the 
Bryant  of  seventy  could  hardly  aspire  to  do  more  than  emulate  the  Bryant 
of  seventeen.  This  is,  in  all  likelihood,  the  uncritical  but  prevailing  estimate 
even  of  to-day.  Properly  expanded,  it  gives  him  recognition  for  his  first 
hand  treatment  of  native  life  and  scenery,  and  for  his  emancipation  from 
the  inflexible  verse  forms  of  the  i8th  century.  Lowell  went  a  step  farther 
in  --paying  tribute  to  Bryant  as  a  poet  of  faith  and  freedom,  and  as  a 
publicist  who  gave  heart  and  life  to  the  nation  during  the  crisis  of  the 
Civil  War.  In  this  respect,  the  author  of  "The  Song  of  the  Sower"  was 
quite  as  much  of  a  pioneer  as  in  his  poems  about  birds  and  flowers.  He 
was  far  ahead  of  most  of  his  countrymen  in  his  sense  of  America  as  a 
nation  among  nations — not  merely  in  the  half  petulant  mood  of  "O 
Mother  of  a  Mighty  Race,"  but  better  in  his  sense  of  new  occasions  and 
new  duties.  Finally,  Whittier  extolled  Bryant  as  a  man.  With  all 
admiration  for  his  art, 

His  life  is  now  his  noblest  strain 
His  manhood  better  than  his  verse. 

In  the  light  of  these  tributes,  his  own  lines  on  "The  Poet,"  written  in  this 
same  year,  are  very  much  to  the  point.  An  artist's  criticism  of  his  art 
is  almost  always  defective  or,  fragmentary,  but  almost  always  illuminating 
in  its  presentation  of  his  ideal.  In  1864,  Bryant  was  writing  of  the  poet 
of  stirring  times,  and  so  he  wrote  of  flame,  burning  words,  tears,  and 
passion.  To  contrast  these  stanzas  with  Lowell's  earlier  criticism  of 
Bryant's" "iceolation"  in  "The  Fable  for  Critics,"  is  to  ignore  the  difference 
between  '48  and  '64.  In  those  sixteen  years,  Lowell  had  changed  his 
mind  partly  because,  Bryant  had  changed  his  method.  For  the  fact 
is  that  Bryant  sometimes  deserved  Lowell's  comments  and  sometimes 
deserved  his  own. 

He  was  what  is  often  meant  by  the  term  "classical"  in  showing  a  refined 
and  controlled  sense  of  form,  and  in  giving  evidence  of  serene  poise  where 
there  was  no  occasion  for  excitement;  but  he  was  also  in  the  truest  sense 
classical  in  giving  vent  to  depth  and  heights  of  feeling  on  themes  which 
evoked  feeling.  As  a  philosopher,  he  was  not  so  much  restrained  as  quietly 
meditative.  As  a  participant  in  the  life  of  his  generation,  he  was  full 
of  ardor. 


634  AMERICAN   POETRY 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON   (1803-1882) 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  descendant  of  a  line  of  Puritan  clergymen,  was 
born  in  Boston  in  1803.  The  death  of  his  father  in  1811  left  the  family 
in  straitened  circumstances,  yet  the  courageous  mother  succeeded  in 
educating  all  five  of  her  sons.  Ralph  prepared  for  college  in  the  Boston 
Latin  School,  and  matriculated  at  Harvard  in  1817.  He  was  at  no  time 
distinguished  as  a  student.  After  graduating  at  eighteen,  he  taught  school 
— an  occupation  he  cordially  disliked — and  later  entered  the  Harvard 
Divinity  School ;  the  family  tradition  was  clerical. 

Perhaps  the  chief  event  of  his  brief  ministry  was  the  leaving  of  it. 
In  1832  he  found  that  he  could  not  conscientiously  administer  the  com 
munion,  and  he  resigned  the  pastorate — it  was  the  Hanover  Street  Church 
in  Boston.  He  had  been  married  in  1829  to  Ellen  Tucker,  to  whom  several 
love  lyrics  are  addressed,1  but  her  health  was  frail,  and  she  died  two 
years  later.  To  obtain  surcease  from  sorrow,  Emerson  went  abroad, 
founding  on  this  journey  (1832-1833)  his  lifelong  friendship  with  Carlyle. 

Upon  his  return  to  Concord,  the  poet  began  a  long  and  serene  career 
as  a  lecturer  and  writer.  "The  American  Scholar"  (1837),  and  the  Divinity 
School  address  (1838),  aroused  controversies  whose  proportions  we  cannot 
now  appreciate.  His  first  book,  "Nature,"  appeared  in  1836;  the  famous 
"Essays"  (first  series)  in  1841,  and  the  second  series  of  essays  in  1844. 
He  was  married  to  Lydian  Jackson  in  1835. 

The  chief  events  of  Emerson's  life  are  largely  domestic :  the  loss  of 
one  brother  in  1834,  and  of  another  in  1836,  commemorated  in  the  "Dirge," 
and  the  death  of  his  eldest  son  in  1842,  that  "sweet  and  wonderful  boy," 
who  lives  forever  in  the  "Threnody."  Yet  his  life  was  golden,  enriched 
by  many  famous  friends  and  by  the  reverence  of  the  public  which  he 
slowly  won.  In  the  storm  and  stress  preceding  the  Civil  War,  Emerson 
took  an  inconspicuous  personal  part,  but  his  influence  was  all-pervading. 
To  him,  said  Lowell,  "the  young  martyrs  of  our  Civil  War  owe  the 
astounding  strength  of  [their]  thoughtful  heroism." 

His  first  collection  of  poems  appeared  in  1846  (1847)  >  another  collec 
tion,  "May  Day  and  Other  Pieces,"  in  1867,  and  "Select  Poems"  in  1876. 

Emerson  made  several  trips  to  Europe  and  innumerable  American 
journeys,  on  which  he  lectured  to  audiences  that  always  reverenced  him, 
if  they  could  not  always  understand  him.  About  1870  his  mind  began  to 
fail,  but,  fortunately,  his  work  was  done.  He  died  April  24,  1882. 

/.  Texts. 

Centenary  Edition  of  the  Works  .of  R.  W.  Emerson,  12  vols.,  1904, 
Vol.  IX.    New  Household  Edition,  i  vol. 

II.  Biography. 

See  Bibliography  appended  to  His  Life,  Writings  and  Philosophy, 
by  G.  W.  Cooke,  for  minor  references.    Memoir,  by  J.  B.  Cabot,  2  vols. ; 

•  See  "Thine  Eyes  Still  Shined,"  p.  196. 


•    CRITICAL   COMMENTS  635 

Life,  by  O.  W.  Firkins  (uniform  with  Centenary  Edition)  ;  Life,  by 
O.  W.  Holmes  (American  Men  of  Letters) ;  Life,  by  G.  E.  Woodberry 
(English  Men  of  Letters) ;  Emerson  the  Lecturer,  by  J.  R.  Lowell, 
in  Literary  Essays,  Vol.  I 

///.  Criticism. 

Discourses  in  America,  by  Matthew  Arnold;  American  Prose  Mas 
ters,  by  W.  C.  Brownell ;  Emerson  and  Other  Essays,  by  J.  J.  Chapman; 
Partial  Portraits,  by  Henry  James;  Memories  and  Studies,  by  William 
James ;  Interpretations  of  Poetry  and  Religion,  by  George  Santayana. 

Contemporary  reviews  of  Emerson's  poetry  in  periodicals  -include : 
Atlantic  Monthly,  Vol.  XX,  p.  376,  by  W.  D.  Howells;  Christian 
Examiner,  Vol.  XLII,  p.  255,  by  C.  A.  Bartol;  Democratic  Review, 
Vol.  I,  p.  319;  Literary  World,  Vol.  XI,  p.  176,  by  F.  H.  Hedge; 
Nation,  Vol.  IV,  p.  430,  by  C.  E.  Norton;  North  American  Review, 
Vol.  LXIV,  p.  406,  by  F.  Bowen;  Vol.  CV,  p.  325,  by  C.  E.  Norton; 
Vol.  CXXXVI,  p.  i,  by  E.  P.  Whipple;  Radical,  Vol.  II,  p.  760,  by 
D.  A.  Wasson. 

We  who  have  assimilated  triuch  of  Emerson's  doctrine  find  it  hard  to 
realize  that  when  he  first  began  his  work  he  was  commonly  regarded  as  a 
dangerous,  fanatical,  and  revolutionary  thinker.  Only  by  recalling  the 
period  from  1830  to  1845,  tne  time  °f  his  pioneer  activities,  can  we  under 
stand  why  the  mild  heterodoxy  of  the  Divinity  School  address  raised  the 
storm  it  did.  It  was  a  period  when  the  dreams  and  enthusiasm  of  setting 
up  a  new  state  had  faded,  and  when  the  moral  quickening  of  the  anti- 
slavery  agitation  had  not  yet  come.  In  religion,  a  stern  and  heroic  Calvin 
ism  Had  decayed  into  theological  schools,  which  "ran  to  systems,"  as 
Professor  Hart  remarks;  when  respectable  people  made  of  Sunday  "a 
serious  and  depressing  day,"  and  disapproved  mightily  of  Emerson  and 
Abolition;  when  the  foundation  of  missions  in  Africa  did  not  hinder  the 
breeding  of  slaves  in  Carolina,  and  the  Washington  temperance  societies 
flourished  comfortably  beside  the  manufacture  of  New  England  rum. 

Politically,  it  was  our  most  distressing  period.  Local  government,  out 
side  of  New  England,  was  vividly  bad.  In  national  affairs  there  was  the 
Missouri  compromise  (1820),  a  measure  which  entirely  dodged  the  moral 
issue.  It  was  the  period  of  our  two  indefensible  wars — the  Black  Hawk 
disgrace  of  1832  and  the  Mexican  War  of  1846-1847.  Tocqueville,  Emer 
son,  and  Carlyle  were  all  observing  the  new  democracy  with  wondering 
eyes  and  delivering  verdicts  that  deepened  in  pessimism;  their  Jeremiads 
are  excusable  only  when  we  remember  Mr.  Jefferson  Brick  and  the  Hon. 
LaFayette  Kettle. 

New  England  was  the  intellectual  head  of  the  nation,  but  it  was,  as 
Mrs.  Trollope  was  fond  of  telling  us,  a  head  without  a  body,  and  even 
in  Massachusetts  Horace  Mann  "exhausted  his  vocabulary"  describing  the 
wretched  state  of  the  public  schools.  Elsewhere  says  a  careful  historian, 
"the  leading  feature  of  American  society  was  its  commonplaceness." 
Dickens  and  Miss  Martineau  agreed  that  our  manners  were  intolerable 
("Martin  Chuzzlewit"  began  publishing  in  January,  1843),  and  where  we 


636  AMERICAN   POETRY 

did  not  eat  with  our  knives  we  paid  an  exaggerated  deference  to  women 
that  led  to  prudery:  "the  corset  could  not  be  named  to  ears  polite,  and 
Philadelphia  ladies  roamed  by  pairs  through  the  statuary  hall,  and  fled 
at  the  sound  of  'a  male  footstep."  The  usual  accompaniments  of  an 
apathetic  moral  order  began  to  appear — hysterical  reformers,  character 
ized  by  Emerson  in  a  gently  satirical  essay;  great  revival  movements;  the 
founding  of  the  Mormons  in  1830,  and  the  monotonous  rise  and  fall  of 
various  socialistic  communities. 

Yet  the  ground  swell  of  a  change  was  already  felt.  As  always,  col 
leges  and  academies  were  excellently  endowed.  From  1815  to  1840  was 
the  period  of  our  scholastic  migration  to  German  universities.  The 
Lyceum  movement  could  flourish,  and  if  the  theatre  was  in  a  depressing 
state,  music  received  liberal  support.  It  was  the  period,  too,  of  Irish  and 
German  immigration,  which  boded  well  for  the  republic.  In  letters,  though 
the  "Dial"  died  in  1844,  largely  of  inanition,  the  golden  age  of  American 
literature  had  dawned,  and  men  of  letters  were  receiving  hearty  support 
from  earnest  men  throughout  the  nation.1 

To  the  youth  of  this  time,  Emerson's  messages  came  like  trumpet  calls, 
so  that  at  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  address  "young  men  went  out  from  it  as 
if  a  prophet  had  been  proclaiming,  'Thus  saith  the  Lord.'  "  To  them  his 
appeal  was  largely  as  an  essayist  and  lecturer,  but  to  many  minds  nowa 
days,  as  Woodberry  says,  his  poems  seem  of  higher  value  than  his  prose. 
Emerson  felt  freer  to  express  himself  in  verse,  where  he  had  no  audience 
to  consult,  so  that  many  poems  were  written  at  first  for  no  eye  but  his 
own.  Many  more  are  terser,  more  pregnant  phrasings  of  the  essays,  and 
poem  and  essay  must  often  be  read  together  for  a  full  understanding 
of  each.  For  these  reasons,  we  come  closer  to  the  real  Emerson  in  his 
verse. 

At  the  same  time,  we  must  not  forget  that  there^  is  wide  disagreement 
as  to  his  merits  in  this  field.  Matthew  Arnold,  for1  instance,  finding  his 
poetry  neither  simple,  sensuous,  nor  passionate,  concluded  in  his  lordly 
fashion  that  Emerson  was  no  poet  at  all.  Whether  we  agree  with  Arnold 
or  with  Woodberry,  we  must  admit  that  much  of  the  adverse  criticism  has 
been  foolish,  and  that  much  of  it  has  come  from  the  school  which  quarrels 
with  an  author  because  he  does  not  have  the  qualities  of  somebody 
else.  With  Whitman,  Emerson  is  probably  our  most  individual  American 
poet. 

In  general,  the  poems  are  of  two  kinds :  patriotic,  occasional,  and  per 
sonal  pieces,  like  the  "Concord  Hymn"  and  the  "Ode  to  Channing,"  and 
poems  which  express  some  aspects  of  Emerson's  philosophy.  Of  the  first 
class,  the  student  can  judge  for  himself;  some  of  them  have  the  quaint 
felicity  of  Marvell,  and  some,  as  Holmer,  wrote,  seem  to  have  been  carved 
on  marble  for  a  thousand  years.  It  is  the  second  class,  with  their  un 
kempt  rhymes,  their  disillusioning  metres,  and  their  frequent  obscurity, 
that  repulses  many  readers.  We  no  longer  stop  college  professors  on  the 

1  For  excellent  studies  of  this  period  see  A.  B.  Hart,  "Slavery  and  Abolition"  in  the 
American  Nation  series,  chaps,  i  and  ii;  and  James  Schouler,  "History  of  the  United  States 
of  America,"  vol.  iv.,  chap.  13. 

See  also  Emerson's  essays  on  "The  New  England  Reformers"  and  "The  Chardpn  Street 
Convention." 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  637 

street  corners  to  find  out  what  "Brahma"  is  about,  but  we  may  well  be 
puzzled  before  such  doggerel  as 


or  the  obscurity  of 


In  the  woods  he  travels  glad, 
Without  better  fortune  had, 
Melancholy  without  bad, 


Bring   the   moonlight    into    noon 
Hid   in   gleaming  piles  of  stone, 


which  seems  to  disrupt  the  laws  of  heaven  and  earth  and  common  sense 
all  together. 

Many  passages  become  clearer  if  we  read  the  appropriate  essays  first.1 
Others  are  more  intelligible  when  we  remember  that  Emerson  held  a 
peculiar  view  of  the  poet's  function.  Emerson  was  a  transcendentalist ; 
hence,  like  Richter,  he  felt  that  poet  was  interchangeable  with  prophet. 
Such  a  bard  is  admirably  pictured  in  Emerson's  own  essay  on  the  poet 
("Essays,"  Second  Series),  and,  less  clearly,  in  such  poems  as  "Merlin," 
"Guy,"  "Bacchus,"  and  "Saadi."  The  striking  points  of  the  essay  are  the 
emphasis  on  the  ejaculatory  nature  of  the  poet,  on  the  relation  of  thought 
a'nd  symbol,  and  the  contempt  for  metre,  rhyme,  and  anything  that  might 
cramp  the  direct  utterance  of  the  god.  There,  seems  no  reason  to  suppose 
that..  Emerson  did  not  himself  write  verse  "with  the  intellect  inebriated 
by  nectar." 

"There  is  no  fact  in  nature,"  he  says  in  the  essay,  "which  does 
not  carry  the  whole  sense  of  nature."  If  we  examine  such  a  poem  as 
"Heroism" : 

Ruby  wine   is  drunk  by  knaves, 
Sugar  spends  to  fatten  slaves, 
Rose  and  vine-leaf  deck  buffoons: 
Thunder-clouds  are  Jove's  festoons, 
Drooping   oft   in   wreaths   of   dread, 
Lightning-knotted  round  his  head; 
The  hero  is  not  fed  with  sweets, 
Daily  his  own  heart  he  eats; 
Chambers   of  the   great   are  jails, 
And    head-winds    right    for    royal   sails. 

we  find  it  merely  a  succession  of  images.  At  the  end,  as  Mr.  Firkins 
says,  two  questions  are  equally  pertinent — why  so  many  images?  and  why 
not  twice  as  many?  But  since  each  image  represents  the  whole  of  the 
poem,  as  each  fact  represents  the  whole  of  nature,  this  circular  structure 
must  always  follow.  Emerson  frequently  writes  in  this  repetitive  fashion. 
Whether  this  is  great  poetry  or  no,  petulance  alone  will  deny  that  lines 
of  startling  beauty  often  result.  After  jog-trotting  through  half  a  dozen 
prosy  statements,  Emerson,  with  no  apparent  effort,  will  fling  out  a 

1  For  most  of  the  poems  quoted  here  parallel  passages  in  the  prose  are  easily  found. 
The  following  more  difficult  poems  are  clearer  if  the  suggested  essay  be  read  first: 
"Written  in  Naples"  and  "Written  in  Rome" — the  essay  on  "History";  "Each  and  All" 
—''Compensation";  "The  Problem" — the  essays  on  "Art"  and  "Compensation";  "Merlin"— 
"The  Poet"  (essay);  "The  World  Soul" — "Nominalist  and  Realist"  and  "The  Over-soul"; 
"Hamatreya" — "Compensation";  "Musketaquid" — "Nature";  "Etienne  de  la  Boece" — the 
essay  on  "Friendship";  "Brahma" — "Circles"  and  "The  Over-soul." 


638  AMERICAN    POETRY 

jewel  five  words  long  that  more  careful  poets,  despite  their  polishing, 
never  achieve.  Next  door  to  so  painful  a  couplet  as 

And   summer  came  to  ripen  maids 
To  a  beauty  that  not  fades 

we  find  the  grave  beauty  of 

I  saw  the  bud-crowned  Spring  go  forth 

to  the  end  of  that  felicitous  passage.    Lines  like 

O  tenderly  the  haughty  day 
Fills  his  blue  urn  with  fire, 

once  said,  are  said  forever.  They  display  an  unexpected  and  arresting 
observation  of  beauty  in  nature  that  is  far  above  the  mere  botanizing 
facility  of  many  bards. 

Emerson  begins  the  essay  on  "Self-Reliance"  thus:  "I  read  the  other 
day  some  verses  written  by  an  eminent  painter  which  were  original  and 
not  conventional.  Always  the  soul  hears  an  admonition  in  such  lines,  let 
the  subject  be  what  it  may.  The  sentiment  they  instill  is  of  more  value 
than  any  thought  they  may  contain."  Perhaps  that  is  Emerson's  own 
value  as  a  poet. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE   (1809-1849) 

Edgar  Allan  Poe,  son  of  an  actress  and  a  disinherited  father,  was  born 
in  Boston  in  1809.  Two  years  later,  on  the  death  of  his  mother,  and  the 
disappearance  of  his  father,  he  was  taken  in  charge  by  John  Allan,  a 
Richmond  merchant.  The  schooling  which  prepared  him  for  his  brief 
career  at  the  University  of  Virginia  was  partly  in  England  (1815-1820) 
and  partly  in  Virginia.  He  left  the  university  at  the  end  of  the  first  year 
on  Mr.  Allan's  refusal  to  pay  his  heavy  gambling  debts.  From  1827  to 
1829  he  served  in  the  U.  S.  Army,  was  released  and  appointed  to  West 
Point  through  Mr.  Allan's  influence,  but  in  1831  contrived  to  have  himself 
court-martialled  and  dismissed. 

"His  life  was  now  linked  up  with  a  succession  of  magazine  editorial 
jobs.  These  included,  after  two  obscure  years,  the  winning  of  a  $100 
prize,  offered  by  the  Baltimore  Saturday  Victor,  an  assistant  editorship  on 
The  Southern  Literary  Messenger  (1835-1837),  another  open  period,  the 
editorship  of  Burton's  Gentleman'.s  Magazine  (1839-1840)  and  of  Graham's 
Magazine  (1841-1842),  miscellaneous  writing,  a  minor  position  on  The 
Evening  Mirror  (New  York,  1844-1845),  the  founding  and  failure  of  The 
Broadway  Journal  (1845),  an^  a  contributorship  to  Godey's  Lady's  Book 
(1846-1847). 

During  most  of  this  struggle  Poe  was  happy  in  the  love  of  his  girl-wife^ 
Virginia  Clemm,  whom  he  married  in  1836.  She  became  a  confirmed  in 
valid  soon  after  the  marriage.  The  nervous  strain  upon  Poe  was  great; 
her  death  in  1847  was  a  shock  to  him;  and,  as  a  result,  the  last  two  years 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  639 

of  his  life,  Poe  was  himself  in  continuous  bad  health.  In  July,  1849,  he 
visited  Richmond,  which  he  left  the  last  of  September.  On  October  3, 
he  was  found  unconscious  in  a  polling  place  in .  Baltimore,  the  victim 
either  of  foul  play  or  of  intemperance.  He  died  four  days  later. 

/.  Texts.  ____- 

The  best  complete  editions  are  the  Virginia  Edition,  17  vols.  (in 
cluding  life  and  letters),  edited  by  James  A.  Harrison,  T.  Y.  Crowell 
&  Co.,  1902;  Poe's  Works,  10  vols.  (with  memoir,  critical  introductions, 
and  notes),  edited  by  E.  C.  Stedman  and  G.  E.  Woodberry,  Stone 
&  Kimball,  Chicago,  1894-1895,  now  published  by  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons,  N.  Y.  The  best  single  volume  editions  of  the  poems  are  the 
volume  of  this  last  set  containing  the  poems,  with  Notes  by  both 
editors  and  Introduction  by  Stedman,  J.  H.  Whitty's  The  Complete 
Poems  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  Houghton  Mifflin  Co.,  1911,  and  Killis 
Campbell's  The  Poems  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  Ginn  &  Co.,  1917. 

//.  Biography. 

Griswold's  Memoir  (revised  edition,  New  York,  1858,  suppressed), 
cannot  be  disregarded,  but  requires  constant  correction.  See  John  H. 
Ingram,  Life,  Letters,  and  Opinions  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  London, 
1886  (out  of  date  but  impartial)  ;  George  E.  Woodberry,  Edgar  Allan 
Poe  (American  Men  of  Letters  Series),  Boston,  1884  (standard)  ; 
James  A.  Harrison,  Life  and  Letters  of  Poe,  1904;  Emily  Lou- 
vriere,  Edgar  Poe:  Sa  Vie  et  son  (Euvre,  Paris,  1904;  John  Macy, 
Edgar  Allan  Poe  (Beacon  Biographies),  1907;  J.  H.  Whitty,  Memoir, 
in  his  edition  of  Poe's  Poems,  1911;  W.  P.  Trent,  Edgar  Allan  Poe 
(to  be  published  in  the  English  Men  of  Letters  Series). 

///.  Criticism. 

French :  See,  besides  Lpuvriere's  volume,  Charles  Baudelaire,  Edgar 
Poe,  sa  vie  et  ses  oeuvres,  in  his  translations,  Histoires  extraordinaires, 
also,  Notes  nouvelles,  in  the  supplementary  volume;  Arvede  Barine 
(Mme.  Cecile  Vincens),  Nevroses;  Anatole  France,  La  vie  litteraire, 
Vol.  IV;  Emile  Hennequin,  Ecrivains  francises;  Stephane  Mallarme, 
Divagations,  and  Poemes  de  Edgar  Allan  Poe;  Camille  Mauclair, 
Edgar  Poe  Idealogue,  in  L'art  en  Silence.  Most  of  these  writers  have 
been  influenced  by  Poe." 

British:  J.  C.  Collins,  The  Poetry  and  Poets  of  America;  Ed 
mund  Gosse,  Questions  at  Issue;  R.  H.  Home,  Letter  to  the  Poe 
Memorial;  R.  H.  Hutton,  Contemporary  Thought  and  Thinkers; 
Andrew  Lang,  Letters  to  Dead  Authors,  and  preface  to  his  edition 
of  the  poems  (1883);  John  M.  Robertson,  New  Essays  towards  a 
Critical  Method;  Leslie  Stephen,  Hours  in  a  Library,  First  Series; 
A.  C.  Swinburne,  Under  the  Microscope,  and  Letter  to  the  Poe 
Memorial. 

American  criticism  includes  much  that  is  mere  repetition.  See, 
however,  W.  M.  Baskerville,  Southern  Writers;  Joel  Benton,  In  the 
Poe  Circle;  Lewis  E.  Gates,  Studies  and  Appreciations;  C.  W.  Kent, 


640  AMERICAN    POETRY 

Poe  the  Poet;  H.  W.  Mabie,  Foe's  Place  in  American  Literature 
(Vol.  II,  Virginia  Edition  of  the  Works)  ;  Brander  Matthews,  Intro 
duction  to  the  Study  of  American  Literature,  Chap.  XII ;  P.  E.  More, 
Shelburne  Essays,  First  Series;  M.  J.  Moses,  Literature  of  the 
South;  H.  T.  Peck,  Studies  in  Several  Literatures;  C.  F.  Richardson, 
American  Literature,  Vol.  Ill,  Chap.  IV;  E.  C.  Stedman,  Poets  of 
America,  and  Introduction  in  Vol.  X  of  the  Stedman- Woodberry  Edi 
tion,  and  the  Introduction  to  Poe  in  Southern  Writers;  Barrett 
Wendell,  Stelligeri  and  Other  Essays ;  G.  E.  Woodberry,  America  in 
Literature,  Chap.  IV.  Bibliographies  are  appended  to  the  principle 
editions ;  see,  especially,  Vol.  X  of  the  Stedman- Woodberry  edition. 

For  one  whose  lasting  work  is  so  slight  in  quantity,  Poe  labored  in 
an  astonishing  number  of  fields.  He  is  the  first  short-story  writer  of 
genius,  the  first  American  critic,  and  the  first  native  poet  to  propound  a 
unique  and  influential  theory  of  verse.  In  the  field  of  short-story  writing, 
though  he  borrowed  from  E.  T.  A.  Hoffman  1  and  DeQuincey,  and  though 
Voltaire  wrote  detective  stories  before  him,  Poe's  work  is  unique  and 
creative.  In  the  detective  story,  all  workers  owe  something  to  Poe,  so 
that  he  is  the  captain  of  a  motley  band  containing  Wilkie  Collins,  Emile 
Gaboriau,  Victorien  Sardou,  "Sherlock  Holmes,"  "Lupin,"  R.  L.  Stevenson, 
the  "Father  Brown"  of  G.  K.  Chesterton,  and  the  "thrillers"  of  Anna 
Katherine  Green.  As  the  founder  of  the  scientific  hoax,  and  the  scientific 
short-story,  Poe  inevitably  suggests  Jules  Verne  and  the  earlier  romances 
of  Mr.  H.  G.  Wells.  In  another  department — that  of  the  fantastic  and 
horrible — it  is  sometimes  said  that  Poe  has  no  followers ;  but  one  has  only 
to  recall  the  mystery  stories  of  Fitz  James  O'Brien,  and  the  masterpieces 
of  horror  by  Ambrose  Bierce  in  America;  the  "Suicide  Club"  and  the 
"Thrawn  Janet"  of  Stevenson)  Kipling's  "The  Return  of  Imray"  or  "The 
Man  Who  Would  Be  King,"  A.  T.  Quiller-Couch,  and  Hardy  (notably 
"The  Withered  Arm")  in  England;  Baudelaire,  Daudet,  and  Zola  in 
France,  and  the  belated  German  school,  to  se'e  how  widespread  Poe's 
influence  has  been.  The  present  writer  cannot  but  help  thinking,  too, 
that  Jack  London,  Conrad,  and  Kipling  (notably  in  "A  Mattes- of  Fact") 
owe  something  of  the  power  of  their  sea-scrapes  to  Poe's  marine  studies 
in  "A  Manuscript  Found  in  a  Bottle"  and  "Arthur  Gordon  Pym."  Finally, 
Poe  enunciated,  in  the  "Philosophy  of  Composition,"  the  technique  adopted 
by  such  masters  as  Maupassant  and  Kipling — indeed,  by  everyone  who 
succeeds  with  the  short-story  at  all. 

To  his  own  time,  Poe  was  best  known  as  the  ruthless  critic  whose  orbit 
no  one  could  predict.  Though  many  of  his  stories  and  poems  were  widely 
read,  the  conditions  of  periodical  literature  were  such  as  to  b*ring  little 
lasting  fame  to  writers ;  material  was  passed  from  magazine  to  magazine 
much  after  the  fashion  of  the  newspaper  "filler"  to-day,  and,  in  the  pas 
sage,  much  of  it  became  perforce  anonymous  and  evanescent.  Poe's 
criticism,  however,  was  too  smashing  to  be  clipped  by  the  average  magazine 
editors,  and  the  proprietor  of  a  journal  to  which  Poe  became  temporarily 
attached,  therefore,  counted  on  a  sure  increase  in  his  own  circulation  as 

1  See  Gustav  Gruener's  article  in  "Publications  of  the  Mod.  Lang.   Assoc.,"  xix,  p.    1,  S. 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  641 

soon  as  Poe's  articles  appeared.  He  was  relentless  and  peculiar,  he  backed 
every  damaging  accusation  by  careful  citation  from  his  victim,  and  if  he 
praised,  he  praised  according  to  a  definite  theory  which  might  be  wrong 
but  which  could  not  be  misunderstood.  It  is  doubted  that  the  general 
public  gained  much  from  his  articles;  they  were  craftsman's  arguments 
addressed,  not  to  the  man  who  read,  but  to  the  man  who  wrote,  and  when 
the  writer  went  down  to  a  deserved  oblivion,  he  dragged  his  critic  with 
him.  Yet  it  cannot  be  wrong,  even  from  a  priori  reasoning,  to  suppose 
that  fifteen  years  of  such  criticism  had  its  effect  in  raising  the  standards 
of  authorship  and  art. 

Poe  is  a  deathless  refutation  of  the  statement  that  a  poet  cannot 
theorize  on  verse  and  still  write  poetry.  He  worked  out  his  own  idea  of 
the  purposes  of  poetry,  and  he  consistently  wrote  his  poems  according  to 
his  own  theories.  Despite  the  easy  jibe  that  "The  Raven"  could  not 
possibly  be  produced  by  the  mechanics  of  the  "Philosophy  of  Composition," 
the  fact  remains  that  all  of  his  poems  are  built  on  one  principle,  and 
that  Poe  probably  knew  what  he  was  talking  about.  He  was  sometimes 
dishonest  in  matters  of  fact,  but  he  was  usually  honest  in  matters  of  art. 

A  poem  may  have,  in  Poe's  opinion,  no  other  purpose  than  to  give 
pleasure;  its  object  is  not  truth,  but  "the  rhythmical  creation  of  beauty." 
Didactic  poetry  has  no  plate  in  Poe's  theory :  Longfellow,  he  said,  was 
all  wrong  in  his   idea   of  the  ends  of  art.     Furthermore,   the   pleasure; 
aroused  by  a  poem  should  be  emotional  and  indefinite,  the  "value  of  the 
poem  is  in  the  ratio  of  this  elevating  excitement,"  but,  as  "all  excitements^ 
are,  through  a  psychal  [sic]  necessity,  transient,"  the  "degree  of  exciten 
"ment  which  would  entitle  a  poem  to  be  so  called  at  all,  cannot  be  sustained! 
throughout  a  composition  of  any  great  length."     "Paradise  Lost"  is,  the»^ 
merely  a  succession  of  short  poems  connected  by  platitudes.1    This  excite 
ment   is   "of   the   soul,   quite   independent  of   that   passion   which   is   the 
intoxication  of  the  heart,  or  of  that  truth  which  is  the  satisfaction  of 
the  reason."     Beauty  is  the  sole  end  of  art.     But  "beauty  of  whatever: 
kind,  in  its  supreme  development,  invariably  excites  the  sensitive  soul  to] 
tears."     Hence,  the  best  "tone"  for  a  poem  is  sadness,  to  be  produced,  in 
method,  b^La  refrain,  since  a  refrain  in  lyric  verse  "depends  for  its  im 
pression  upon  the  force  of  monotone  both  in  sound  and  thought,"  and  in 
theme,  by  "the  most  melancholy  of  topics  most  poetrcal,"  the  death  of  S] 
beautiful  woman.     Moreover,  "the  lips  best  suited  for  such  [a]  topic  arej 
those  of  a  bereaved  lover."  2    Thus  clearly  and  concisely  is  the  matter  put. 

It  has  been  carelessly  assumed  that  Poe  would  reduce  the  world's 
poetry  to  that  part  of  it  which  deals  with  the  death  of  beautiful  women, 
but  this  is  surely  running  an  argument  into  the  ground.  Poe  states  merely 
that  that  poem  which  will  soonest  arouse  the  elevating  excitement  of  soul 
which  is  the  end  of  poetry,  will  deal  with  this  theme ;  he  does  not  deny  the 
possibility  of  beauty  to  a  hundred  other  themes — indeed,  he  specifically 
praises  poems  as  diverse  as  Shelley's  "Serenade,"  Willis's  "The  Shadows 
Lay  Along  Broadway,"  Pinkney's  "Health,"  and  the  "Fair  Ines"  of  Hood. 

1  On  the  other  hand,  says  Poe.  "it  is  clear  that  a  poem  may  be  improperly  brief," 
since  a  very  short  poem  "never  produces  a  profound  or  enduring  effect."  He  cites  the  songs 
of  Beranger  as  an  instance. 

1  See   "The    Philosophy    of   Composition"    and    "The    Poetic    Principle"    in    the    "Works." 


642  AMERICAN    POETRY 

Nor  does  he  deny  the  possibility  of  an  ethical  intent  in  poetry;  his  own 
poems  are  themselves  allegorical  (Poe  was  no  Parnassian),  and  those  who 
call  him  unmoral,  in  the  sense  that  Lamb  spoke  of  the  Restoration  drama 
tists  as  unmoral,  have  read  him  carelessly.  What  Poe  denies  is  the  pos 
sibility  that  a  bare  and  naked  didacticism  or  metaphysical  reasoning  in 
verse  can  be  poetry. 

Poe's  theory  is  plausible,  direct,  and  logical.  Like  the  doctrines  of 
Calvin,  once  the  first  step  is  admitted,  everything  must  follow  as  a  matter 
of  course.  It  provides  respectable  shelter  for  the  many  who  ar<e  bored  by 
epics  or  by  "Prometheus  Unbound,"  and  "The  Ring  and  the  Book."  It 
expresses,  furthermore,  a  repugnance  which  every  cultivated  reader  feels 
to  verse  that  is  obviously  didactic;  one  remembers  "The  Psalm  of  Life," 
and  "Conductor  Bradley,"  Kirke  White,  and  the  Gary  sisters.  But  if  Poe's 
theory  has  a  certain  plausibility  when  confronted  by  the  "Columbiad"  and 
most  of  Whittier — to  keep  in  the  American  field — when  called  upon  to 
account  for  poems  as  diverse  as  "Snowbound"  or  "Ichabod,"  it  falls 
clattering  to  the  ground.  "Snowbound" — since  it  is  obviously  logical  to 
measure  the  worth  of  other  poems  by  Poe's  own  compositions — has  no 
strangeness  in  beauty,  it  is  not  melancholy,  it  is  much  longer  than  "The 
Raven,"  and  it  does  not  produce  that  excitement  of  the  soul  that  comes 
from  reading  "Ulalume."  As  for  that  flawless  piece,  "Ichabod,"  it  derives 
its  whole  force  from  a  fierce  moral  energy — from  truth  and  passion,  and 
not  from  beauty  (to  keep  Poe's  distinction),  and  the  emotions  in  which  it 
traffics  are  not  melancholy,  but  pity  and  indignation.  Poe's  basic  error 
lies  in  his  identification  of  means  and  effect;  in  his  confusion  of  the  effect 
of  the  contemplation  of  beauty  with  the  actual  substance  of  things  beautiful, 
and  the  identity  of  poetry  with  a  mood.  Beauty  may  or  may  not  be  sub 
jective,  wholly  or  in  part;  but  the  high  excitement  which  Poe  speaks  of 
may  spring  from  a  dozen  sources  other  than  a  poem,  or  even  a  piece  of 
literature.  Moreover — and  this  concerns  long  poems — Poe  makes  no  allow 
ance  for  the  effect  of  'structure — for  the  pleasure  that  lies  in  architectonics, 
in  the  symmetry,  for  instance,  of  the  "^neid."  Finally,  his  distribution  of 
beauty  to  the  soul,  passion  to  the  heart,  and  truth  to  the  reason — especially 
in  view  of  Poe's  use  of  "beauty" — will  not  stand  examination. » 

Critics  of  Poe  will  not  admit  what  he  admitted  of  himself,  that  his  was 
a  supremely  logical  mind,  and  choose  rather  to  regard  the  ratiocinative 
stories  as  a  puzzling  anomaly  against  the  grotesques  and  arabesques  of 
his  tales,  and  the  phantasmagoria  of  his  poetry.  Rather,  the  paradox  fol 
lows  almost  of  necessity  from  the  facts.  The  analytic  mind  does  not  reason 
or  construct  in  the  large  sense  in  which  we  speak  of  Aristotle  or  Bacon 
as  thinkers;  it  finds  its  occupation  in  the  process,  the  chain,  the  machinery 
of  thought.  Preeminently,  it  is  analytic,  and  deductive ;  it  proceeds  by  the 
method  of  trial  and  error;  it  proceeds,  in  other  words,  by  a  destructive 
method.  In  its  moments  of  play  it  finds  pleasure  in  the  fantastic,  the 
grotesque,  and  the  bizarre.  Thus,  among  mathematicians,  we  find  the 
author  of  "Alice  in  Wonderland,"  a  grotesque  that  has  all  the  power  of  a 
dream,  containing  such  maddeningly  singable  verses  as  the  "White  Rabbit's 
Testimony" ;  and  in  our  own  day  nonsense  is  notably  purveyed  by  Stephen 
Leacock,  author  of  a  political  economy  and  of  "Behind  the  Beyond.' 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  643 

Furthermore,  the  analytic  mind  will  be  fascinated  by  the  mysterious,  the 
'  question  that  cannot  be  analyzed,  the  fact  without  form  from  which  nothing 
can  be  drawn.  Finally,  such  a  mind  is  fascinated,  as  Poe  was  fascinated, 
by  death.  It  needs  scarcely  to  be  pointed  out  that  Foe's  followers  are  of 
the  analytic  order — self-conscious  artists,  whether  pessimists  or  decadents ; 
that  is,  they  have  adopted  programmes  based  on  an  analysis  of  aesthetic 
principles,  and,  like  their  master,  they  find  fascination  in  death,  and  in  the 
treatment  of  death  and  morbidity. 

At  the  basis  of  Poe's  poems  will  be  found  the  same  logical  impossibili 
ties  as  in  "Alice  in  Wonderland."  It  is  impossible  for  a  city  to  exist  in 
the  sea  in  the  same  way  that  it  is  impossible  for  an  egg  to  move  from 
counter  to  counter  of  the  grocery  in  "Through  the  Looking-Glass,"  but 
once  admitting  the  incredibility,  certain  minds  take  pleasure  in  working 
the  thing  out  as  completely  as  possible.  The  theatre  of  "The  Conqueror 
Worm/'  is  simply  beyond  comprehension;  "The  Raven"  is,  from  one  angle, 
a  tissue  of  absurdities,  and,  generally  speaking,  the  Poe  landscape — "out 
of  space,  out  of  time" — has  the  same  basic  absurdity  as  nonsense  verses, 
nightmares,  or  the  etchings  of  Piranesi.  What  fascinates,  whether  in  the 
stories  of  Frank  R.  Stockton,  or  in  the  "Haunted  Palace,"  is  the  gravity 
with  which  the  impossible  is  carried  out.  To  this  Poe  owes  much,  but, 
of  course,  not  all,  of  his  power. 

As  a  master  of  verbal  music,  Poe  is  unique.  He  depends  upon  none 
of  the  obvious  devices  of  Swinburne,  nor  upon  the  subtler  ones  of  Rossetti ; 
he  has  an  eerier  music  all  his  own.  In  "The  City  in  the  Sea,"  consider 
such  a  passage  as: 

There   shrines   and   palaces   and   towers 
(Time-eaten    towers    that    tremble    not!) 
Resemble   nothing  that   is   ours. 
Around,    by   lifting   winds   forgot, 
Resignedly   beneath   the   sky 
The    melancholy    waters    lie 


No  rays  from  the  holy  heaven  come  down 
On   the   long  night-time  of  that   town 
But    light    from   out   the   lurid   sea 
Streams   up    the   turrets   silently 

The  viol,   the  violet,   and   the  vine 

.     .     .     from   a   proud   tower   in   the  town 
Death  looks   gigantically   down. 

Here  the  rhytlim  is  basically  iambic,  but  how  smoothly  it  is  changed  in 
such  a  line  as: 

On  the  long  night-time  of  that  tr.wn 

where  long  night-time  holds  up  the  march  of  the  verse  while  indefinite 
hours  roll  leadenly  on.  Or  in  the  last  two  quoted  lines  note  how  the  ow 
sounds  gradually  slow  down  the  metre  preparatory  to  the  adagio  of 
gigantically!  Yet,  radical  as  such  a  metric  change  may  be,  the  poem  re 
tains  its  iambic  beat  throughout,  much  as  a  nocturne  of  Chopin's  keeps 


644  AMERICAN    POETRY 

its  rhythmic  outlines  beneath  any  irregularity  in  the  melody.  How  deli 
cately  the  assonance  is  handled  in  that  unforgettable  line: 

Time-eaten   towers   that    tremble   not 

and  how  unobtrusively  the  same  letter  does  yeoman  service  in: 

Streams  up  the  turrets  silently! 

Such  hidden  harmonies  and  rich  chords  of  language  suggest  only  one 
comparison:  Poe  is  the  Chopin  of  poetry. 

Poe's  images  are  always  vague,  vast,  and  mysterious: 

Hell   rising  from   a  thousand   thrones, 
Shall  do  it  reverence. 

What  awful  thing  is  this,  we  ask  ourselves,  that  is  seated  on  a  thousand 
thrones  somewhere  under  the  sea?  So  the  "Haunted  Palace"  has  no  shape 
or  substance,  and  all  we  know  of  the  shadowy  graves  in  which  Poe's 
heroines  lie  buried  is  that  at  the  end  of  an  alley  of  Titanic  cypresses 
there  is  somewhere  a  "legended  tomb,"  and  that  another  sepulchre  lies 
"by  the  sounding  sea."  The  geography  of  Poe  has  no  outlines,  all  is 
conveyed  in  that  hurrying  and  indistinct  imagery  by  which  Milton  is 
differentiated  from  Dante  in  Macaulay's  essay. 

Yet  Poe  is  not  to  be  explained  by  these  devices,  nor  by  any  others.  He 
remains  what  all  geniuses  remain — inscrutable.  Out  of  some  darkness  rose 
cities  and  palaces  seen  of  no  man  else ;  lit  by  impossible  stars  and  fragrant 
with  dead  men's  feet  and  many  colored  grasses;  remote,  horrible,  and 
tremendous.  There,  girt  by  dreadful  waters,  "les  morts,  les  pauvres  morts, 
ont  de  grandes  douleurs,"  and  there  Poe  heard  that  orchestra  sighing  fit 
fully  a  weird  music  which  he  wove  afterwards  in  sadness  and  desolation 
of  soul.  In  one  brief  sentence  Frederick  Myers  characterized  the  genius 
of  Swinburne  as  tinged  by  "the  conviction  that  has  stolen  over  many 
hearts,  that  there  is  a  mortality  of  spirit,  as  well  as  flesh."  So  can  we 
speak  of  Poe. 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER    (1807-1892) 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  son  of  a  Quaker  farmer,  was  born  in  the  east 
parish  of  Haverhill,  Essex  County,  Massachusetts,  1807,  the  second  of  four 
children.  He  spent  his  boyhood  on  the  farm,  developing  that  deep  affinity 
for  rustic  things  which  marks  his  verse,  but,  as  it  proved,  permanently 
injuring  his  health  by  exposure  and  overexertion.  His  first  published  verse 
appeared  in  the  Newburyport  Free  Press,  June  8,  1826,  and  occasioned  a 
lifelong  friendship  with  William  Lloyd  Garrison. 

Whittier  worked  his  way  through  two  terms  of  the  Haverhill  Academy 
by  making  shoes;  then,  in  1829,  he  began  editorial  work.  The  crisis  of 
his  life  came  in  1833,  wnen  ne  Put  aside  opportunities  for  a  successful 
political  career  by  writing  "Justice  and  Expediency,"  an  abolition  pamphlet. 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  645 

He  was  a  delegate  to  the  first  convention  of  the  American  Anti-Slavery 
Society  (1833);  he  repeatedly  forced  abolitionist  pledges  from  unwilling 
candidates ;  he  helped  secure  Sumner's  nomination  to  the  Senate ;  he  was 
instrumental  in  importing  George  Thompson  from  England  for  the  cause, 
and  he  was  several  times  in  great  personal  danger.  He  ceased  to  write 
imitations  of  Byron,  Moore  and  Scott,  and  commenced  to  pour  out  a  stream 
of  anti-slavery  poems  which  circulated  from  Maine  to  Kansas. 

In  1843,  with  "Lays  of  My  Home  and  Other  Poems,"  he  began  the  pub 
lication  of  poems  of  country  life,  of  New  England  traditions,  and  of  nature. 
This  field  he  found  more  and  more  engrossing. 

Whittier  continued,  however,  to  take  an  active  interest  in  politics  up 
to  the  Civil  War.  During  that  struggle  he  wrote  little,  but  among  his 
few  productions  is  "Barbara  Frietchie"  (1863),  the  most  famous  ballad 
of  the  time.  Once  the  strain  was  over,  "Snowbound"  appeared  in  1866, 
"The  Tent  on  the  Beach"  in  1867,  "Among  the  Hills"  in  1869,  "Ballads 
of  New  England"  in  1870.  These  contain  his  maturest  work.  He  also  wrote 
much  in  prose. 

After  the  death,  in  1864,  of  his  sister,  Elizabeth,  who  was  to  him  what 
Dorothy  Wordsworth  was  to  her  brother,  Whittier's  life  became  un 
eventful.  Like  Tennyson's,  his  old  age  was  prolific.  A  dinner  on  his 
seventieth  birthday  was  the  occasion  of  a  great  outburst  of  national 
appreciation.  Whittier  died  September  7,  1892. 

/.  Texts. 

The  complete  works  are  in  the  Riverside  Edition,  7  vols.  (I-IV, 
poetical  works;  V-VII,  prose),  Houghton,  Mifflin  Co.  The  Standard 
Library  Edition  includes  Pickard's  Life.  The  best  one-volume  edition 
of  the  poems  is  the  Cambridge  Edition,  Houghton,  Mifflin  Co. 

//.  Biography. 

Life  and  Letters  of  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  by  S.  T.  Pickard, 
2  vols.,  1895.  The  best  brief  biography  is  by  G.  R.  Carpenter  (Ameri 
can  Men  of  Letters).  There  is  also  one  by  T.  W.  Higginson  (English 
Men  of  Letters). 

///.  Criticism. 

E.  C.  Stedman's  Poets  of  America;  Bliss  Perry,  Whittier  for 
To-day,  in  Park  Street  Papers;  Barrett  Wendell,  Stelligeri  and  Other 
Essays;  George  E.  Woodberry,  Makers  of  Literature.  The  Mind  of 
Whittier,  by  Chauncey  J.  Hawkins  (New  York,  1904),  is  an  interesting 
study  of  Whittier's  religion. 

What  it  meant  to  Whittier  to  join  the  abolitionists  is  hard  for  us  to 
realize.  In  the  thirties,  Garrison's  followers  were  utterly  despised  and 
rejected  of  men.  Some  idea  of  the  temper  of  the  times  is  gained  from 
the  fact  that  Dr.  Reuben  Crandall,  of  Washington,  was  thrown  into  jail 
in  the  capital  of  the  nation,  and  kept  there  until  his  health  was  destroyed, 
all  because  he  had  given  a  copy  of  "Justice  and  Expediency"  to  a  fellow 
doctor.1  In  1835,  while  Samuel  J.  May  was  addressing  an  anti-slavery 

1  Commemorated  by  Whittier  in   his  poem   "Astraea   at  the  Capitol." 


646  AMERICAN    POETRY 

meeting  in  the  Christian  church  of  Haverhill,  "a  heavily  loaded  cannon  had 
been  dragged  near  the  church  and  at  the  same  time  the  wooden  steps  at 
the  doors  had  been  pulled  away.  The  plan  of  the  miscreants  was  to  break 
the  windows  and  discharge  the  cannon,  thus  causing  a  rush  to  the  doors, 
and,  the  steps  being  removed,  the  audience  would  have  been  precipitated 
several  feet;  limbs  would  have  been  broken,  and  perhaps  lives  lost  in  the 
panic."  A  few  days  later,  Whittier  and  George  Thompson  were  driven  out 
of  Concord  by  mob  violence.  In  October  of  that  year,  "men  of  property 
and  standing"  united  to  drag  Garrison  through  the  streets  of  Boston  with 
a  halter  round  his  neck.  In  1837  Whittier  was  driven  out  of  Newburyport 
by  a  shower  of  rotten  eggs;  in  1838  the  office  of  the  Pennsylvania  Freeman, 
of  which  he  was  then  editor,  was  sacked  and  burned  by  a  mob.  During 
all  this  period,  as  the  poet  says,  "my  pronounced  views  on  slavery  made 
my  name  too  unpopular  for  publishers'  uses."  1 

Whittier's  "mind  was  formed,  his  imagination  kindled,"  says  Bliss 
Perry,  "and  his  hand  perfected  amid  the  fiery  pressure  of  events."  The 
struggle  changed  the  whole  tenor  of  his  verse.  In  considering  his  place 
as  a  poet,  we  may  put  aside  practically  everything  written  before  1834. 
It  was  then  he  began  to  denounce  slavery  in  rhyme,  to  celebrate  some 
martyr  to  the  cause,  or  pen  a  poetic  obituary,  or  to  phrase  a  trenchant 
political  argument  in  verse.  Strange  as  it  seems  to  us,  verse,  for  sixty 
years  of  the  igth  century,  was  the  most  powerful  vehicle  for  political 
argument.  As  Bryant's  youthful  satire  on  the  embargo  act  (written  at 
thirteen)  ran  to  two  editions,  so  immigrants  went  into  Kansas  chanting 

We   cross   the   prairie    as   of   old 

The  pilgrims  crossed  the  sea, 
To    make    the    West,    as    they    the    East, 

The    homestead    of    the    Free. 

Whittier  was  one  of  the  last  and  greatest  of  our  rhyming  pamphleteers. 

Of  the  anti-slavery  poems,  the  writer  himself  preserved  less  than  a 
hundred,  and,  even  of  these,  the  greater  part  are  occasional  and  transitory. 
In  their  rhetorical  appeal  they  resemble  his  "Songs  of  Labor"  and  Elliott's 
"Corn  Law  Rhymes."  About  ten  stand  out  as  worth  preserving,  among 
them  the  awful  denunciation  of  "Ichabod,"  the  stern  thunder  of  "Expos 
tulation,"  "Massachusetts  to  Virginia,"  and  "Laus  Deo,"  the  final  paean. 
In  this  list  should  be  included  one  of  the  finest  pieces  of  irony  in  American 
literature,  the  "Letter  from  a  Missionary  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church 
South."  In  these  poems,  the  emotions  of  the  time  live  forever. 

The  rest  of  Whittier's  work  falls  into  three  general  classes — ballads 
and  narrative. verse,  poems  of  country  life  and  nature,  and  religious  poems. 
In  the  ballads,  Whittier's  instinct  was  thoroughly  right,  so  that  Stedman 
calls  him  "our  most  natural  balladist."  Yet  the  attempt  to  displace  Long 
fellow  as  a  narrative  poet  in  Whittier's  favor  is  an  effort  to  exile  Aristides. 
At  his  best — in  "Barclay  of  Ury"  (excepting  the  last  four  stanzas),  or 
"Skipper  Ireson's  Ride" — he  sometimes  equalled  Longfellow,  but  such 


.  For  studies  of  the  abolition  movement  see  Harriet  Martineau,  "The  Martyr  Age 
TT  ,™nenca  for  a  contemporary  report;  and  Henry  Wilson,  "History  of  the  Rise  and 
Fall  of  the  Slave  Power  in  America,"  8th  ed..  Vol.  I,  especially  chaps,  xvi,  xvii,  xx, 
xxi,  xxvn;  also  the  life  of  Garrison  by  his  children  (New  York,  1885),  2  vols. 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  '  647 

poems  are  rare.  If  Longfellow  wrote  "The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus"  with 
out  making  a  trip  to  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe,  in  "Barbara  Frietchie" 
Whittier  has  involved  himself  in  a  succession  of  military  absurdities.  More 
over,  Whittier's  Indian  stories  are  all  failures,  and,  structurally  or  as 
narrative,  "The  Tent  on  the  Beach"  cannot  compare  with  "Tales  of  the 
Wayside  Inn." 

Truth  to  tell,  Whittier  was  too  diffuse  to  write  good  narrative,  espe 
cially  good  ballad  narrative.  He  lacked  a  sense  of  form ;  he  lacked  dramatic 
power;  he  lacked,  above  all,  Longfellow's  literary  tact,  the  ability  to  esti 
mate  his  material.  Many  of  Whittier's  ballads  seem  almost  on  the  verge 
of  being  vivid  and  real,  but,  somehow,  they  never  quite  succeed.  It  is 
characteristic  that  in  "Miriam"  the  setting  occupies  258  lines,  and  the  in 
cident,  itself  loosely  told,  only  206.  Moreover,  Whittier's  attempt  to 
moralize  everything  (as  in  "The  Three  Bells"  and  "Conductor  Bradley"), 
recalls  the  misplaced  ingenuity  of  the  "Gesta  Romanorum."  To  our  taste, 
most  of  his  narrative  is  insipid. 

As  the  poet  of  New  England  country  life,  Whittier  fares  better.  Sted- 
man  is  especially  happy  in  calling  him  the  Teniers  of  American  verse. 
"Snowbound,"  "The  Barefoot  Boy,"  and  "Telling  the  Bees"  are  as  genuine 
as  Crabbe,  or  the  Scotch  parts  of  "The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  or  "The 
Ole  Swimmin'  Hole,"  and  they  appeal  to  the  same  audiences.  Perhaps  the 
farm-life  of  Haverhill  was  not  the  farm-life  of  South.  Dakota  or  Texas, 
but  it  was  a  life  which  everybody  understands  and  appreciates  and  which 
Whittier  has  fixed  imperishably.  The  charm  of  such  verse  lies  in  its  very 
simplicity,  in  the  mood  of  tender  reminiscence  with  which  it  is  told.  Yet 
it  is  characteristic  that  he  missed  the  obverse  of  the  picture,  those  tragedies 
of  lonely  life  which  Mr.  Robert  Frost,  working  in  the  same  field,  has 
powerfully  depicted.  Unlike  Burns,  Whittier  is  narrowed  by  his  rusticity. 

Whittier  is  less  successful  as  a  nature  poet.  It  is  commonly  supposed 
that  the  farmer-poet  is  the  most  successful  nature-poet,  but  such,  in  the 
nature  of  things,  cannot  be.  The  farmer  is  too  close  to  his  fields  to  see 
them.  The  successful  nature-poet  is  either  a  philosopher,  like  Wordsworth, 
or  a  painter,  like  Tennyson.  Poets  must  either  interpret  landscapes  or 
view  them  in  a  Claude  Lorraine  glass,  and  Whittier  did  neither.  He 
was  usually  content  with  a  catalogue.  He  was  "color-blind  and  tone- 
deaf,"  his  landscapes  lack  distinctness,  and  page  after  page  of  his  nature- 
verse  slips  through  the  mind  with  the  deadly  vacuity  of  five-finger  exer 
cises.  He  was  as  incapable  of  writing 


By  the  long  wash  of  Australasian  seas 


as  he  was  of  writing 


Rolled  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course 
With  rocks  and  stones  and  trees. 


Exception  should  be  made,  however,  of  "The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn," 
which,  if  it  does  not  paint  a  landscape,  at  least  conveys  a  mood. 

Whittier's  religion  "is  the  life  of  his  genius,  out  of  which  flow  his 
ideas  of  earthly  and  heavenly  content."  His  poems  have  furnished  hymns 
of  wide  popularity.  Curiously  enough,  he  made  rabid  attacks  on  the  clergy, 


648  AMERICAN    POETRY 

as  in  "The  Pastoral  Letter,"  and  his  denunciation  of  Pius  Ninth  is  as 
strong  as  Swinburne's  "Dirse."  Yet  poems  like  "The  Eternal  Goodness," 
and  lines  like 

The  healing  of  His  seamless  dress 

Is  by  our  beds  of  pain; 
We  touch  Him  in  life's  throng  and  press, 

And  we  are  whole  again, 

have  in  them  the  benediction  of  a  vesper  organ.  They  satisfied  the  mood 
of  his  own  times;  it  is  less  likely  that  they  will  satisfy  ours.  Whittier 
attempted  no  philosophical  grasp  of  things;  there  is  nothing  in  his  faith, 
however  beautifully  expressed,  for  the  'mind  to  bite  on,  and  readers  are 
less  and  less  inclined  to  turn  to  Whittier  for  spiritual  consolation. 

In  general,  it  must  be  confessed  that  Whittier  lacked  many  essential 
elements  of  a  great  poet.  "Point,  decoration,  and  other  features  of  mod 
ern  verse,"  says  Stedman,  his  most  sympathetic  apologist,  "are  scarcely 
characteristic  of  Whittier."  He  was  deficient  in  sensuous  beauty,  in  passion, 
in  color,  in  thought.  He  wrote  too  fluently  and  too  much.  He  lacked  a 
sense  of  form;  he  was  careless  in  workmanship;  too  often  he  felt  called 
upon  to  write  a  poem  when  he  did  not  have  a  poem  to  write.  Frequently 
he  was  merely  rhetorical.  And  even  as  a  moralist  his  ideas  were  narrow. 
Yet  he  gave  us  one,  unequalled  picture  of  New  England  country  life;  a 
handful  of  stirring  appeals  for  action;  a  dozen  ballads,  and  a  slight 
quantity  of  lasting  religious  verse.  Like  Longfellow,  he  is  read  by  the 
children,  and  his  fame  is  therefore  secure.  In  the  American  pantheon  he 
will  always  hold  an  honorable  place ;  but  the  trend  of  development  is  away 
from  him,  and  it  seems  probable  that  he  will  sink  to  the  safe  dignity  of 
a  minor  sectional  poet. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL   (1819-1891) 

Lowell  was  born  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  in  1819.  He  inherited  from  his 
father,  the  Rev.  Charles  Lowell,  his  pronounced  ethical  impulses,  and  from 
his  mother  his  imaginative  temperament  and  his  love  of  poetry  and  music. 
His  schooling  included  a  stiff  drill  in  Latin  and  French.  He  was  graduated 
from  Harvard  in  1838  after  a  brilliant  but  mildly  erratic  career,  during 
which  he  showed  marked  literary  promise.  He  took  his  law  degree  in  1840, 
but  did  not  practise,  dividing  his  energies  for  the  next  several  years  between 
reform  activities,  including  two  editorships,  and  writing  poetry,  of  which 
he  published  volumes  in  1841  and  1844.  The  agitation  over  the  annexa 
tion  of  Texas  drew  from  Lowell  the  indignant  protest  of  "The  Present 
Crisis"  (written  1844),  and  his  devotion  to  an  unpopular  cause  became  not 
only  as  whole-souled  as  Whittier's,  but  possibly  cost  him  quite  as  much. 

The  next  eight  years  were  the  first  great  productive  period  in  his  life, 
culminating  with  1848,  in  which  were  published  "Poems,  Second  Series," 
the  first  group  of  "Biglow  Papers,"  "A  Fable  for  Critics,"  "The  Vision  of 
Sir  Launfal,"  and  several  prose  essays.  Following  on  a  series  of  lectures 
on  poetry  at  the  Lowell  Institute  in  Boston,  1854-1855,  he  was  called  to 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  649 

succeed  Longfellow  as  Smith  Professor  of  French  and  Spanish  at  Harvard, 
a  position  which  he  held,  with  brief  absences,  until  1877.  Although  a  close 
and  enthusiastic  scholar,  he  combined  this  work  with  equally  important 
responsibilities,  for  he  was  the  first  editor  of  The  Atlantic  Monthly  (1857- 
1861),  and,  with  Charles  Eliot  Norton,  joint  editor  of  The  North  American 
Review  (1864-1872).  During  these  years  appeared  many  of  his  most 
significant  essays  on  public  affairs,  as  well  as  the  volumes  of  poetry  and 
prose,  "The  Harvard  Commemoration  Ode,"  "Under  the  Willows  and 
Other  Poems,"  "Among  My  Books,"  and  "My  Study  Windows." 

From  1877  to  1885  he  was  Minister  first  to  Spain  and  then  to  England. 
He  continued  writing,  chiefly  in  prose,  until  the  end  of  his  life  in  1891, 
publishing  "Democracy,  and  Other  Addresses"  (1886),  "Political  Essays," 
and  "Heartsease  and  Rue"  (1888),  and  leaving  manuscripts  which  were 
assembled  in  the  following  volumes  after  his  death:  "Latest  Literary 
Essays  and  Addresses"  (1891),  "The  Old  English  Dramatists"  (1892), 
"Letters"  (two  volumes,  edited  by  C.  E.  Norton,  1892),  and  "Last  Poems" 
(1895). 

I.  Texts. 

Complete  Works,  Riverside  Edition,  1 1  vols.,  of  which  4  contain 
the  poems;  Cambridge  Edition  of  Poems,  I  vol. 

//.  Biography. 

Letters  of  Lowell,  edited  by  C.  E.  .Norton,  2  vols. ;  Life,  H.  E. 
Scudder,  2  vols.;  Life,  Ferris  Greenslet;  Lowell  and  His  Friends, 
E.  E.  Hale;  Life,  E.  E.  Hale,  Jr.  (Beacon  Biography  Series). 

///.  Criticism. 

American  Prose  Masters,  W.  C.  Brownell;  Literary  Leaders  of 
America,  Richard  Burton ;  Essays  in  .London  and  Elsewhere,  Henry 
James;  International  Perspective  in  Criticism,  Gustav  Pollak;  Excur 
sions  in  Criticism,  William  Watson;  Makers  of  Literature,  G.  E. 
Woodberry. 

The  Critic,  Vol.  IX,  p.  86,  an  article  by  Theodore  Roosevelt. 

Any  discussion  of  Lowell's  work  begins  almost  instinctively  with  his 
personality.  Like  Dr.  Johnson's  and  Charles  Lamb's,  his  individuality  was 
more  vivid  than  anything  he  wrote,  and  in  this  respect  he  is  unique  in 
American  letters.  To  one  who  reads  the  volumes  of  Norton,  Lowell  moves 
across  the  stage  of  our  literature  like  a  being  from  another  world,  scat 
tering  essays  and  epigrams  as  he  goes.  Or,  to  change  the  figure,  he  is 
like  a  transplanted  shrub,  perhaps  a  little  exotic  and  precious ;  as  though 
an  article  from  the  Edinburgh  Review  should  be  printed  without  comment 
in  the  Saturday  Evening  Post.  It  is  at  once  incredible  and  hopeful  that 
in  the  welter  of  inanity  which  then  passed  in  America  for  criticism,  the 
essay  on  Chaucer  could  have  been  written  by  a  New  Englander,  and,  being 
written,  could  get  itself  read. 

Lowell  was  at  once  an  essayist,  a  critic,  a  poet,  a  college  professor, 
a  bibliophile,  a  philologist,  a  politician,  a  diplomat,  an  editor,  an  orator,  a 


650  AMERICAN    POETRY 

savant,  and  a  man  of  the  world.  In  the  brilliant  quality  of  his  learning, 
and  in  the  versatility  of  his  mind,  he  seems  to  belong  to  the  court  of 
Francis  the  First,  or  to  the  Italian  Renaissance  rather  than  to  Puritan 
Massachusetts.  It  is  a  tribute  to  the  good  sense  of  the  Hayes  administra 
tion  that,  like  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,  it  could  send  a  man  of  letters  on 
a  difficult  diplomatic  mission;  it  is  equally  characteristic  that  the  man  of 
books  succeeded  incomparably  well  as  an  ambassador.  Yet  the  same  man 
who  steered  a  safe  course  through  the  perplexities  of  the  Parnell  agita 
tions,  wrote  "Endymion,"  offered  sound  political  advice  to  his  countrymen 
in  the  North  American  Review,  and  could  turn  from  a  microscopic — even 
a  pedantic — examination  of  Hazlitt  to  the  chthonic  satire  of  the  "Biglow 
Papers,"  and  from  that  to  a  college  class  in  Dante,  or  to  a  technical 
discussion  of  Old  French  romances. 

Lowell  succeeded  Longfellow  at  Harvard  as  Longfellow  succeeded  Tick- 
nor,  and  the  three  men  curiously  exemplify  the  change  in  national  culture 
of  half  a  century.  When  Ticknor  took  the  chair,  we  were  literally  igno 
rant,  not  only  of  Spanish  literature,  but  of  belles-lettres  in  general.  The 
"History  of  Spanish  Literature"  is  a  valuable  book  because  it  is  expository 
and  little  more;  because  it  systematically  presents  facts  for  the  ignorant. 
The  bent  of  Ticknor's  mind,  says  his  biographer,  was  likewise  expository 
and  not  critical ;  on  an  age  innocent  of  even  the  names  of  Spanish  writers, 
criticism  would  have  been  wasted.  Next  came  Longfellow,  whose  task  it  was 
to  interpret  the  facts  which  Ticknor  had  presented ;  to  meditate ;  to  make 
of  literature  an  appealing  and  a  necessary  thing.  Thus  when  Lowell  took 
the  chair  he  found  the  times  were  ripe  for  evaluation,  or  criticism.  Lowell 
could  not  have  written  the  recondite  essay  on  Masson's  "Life  of  Milton" 
in  1819,  but,  likewise,  Ticknor  would  have  been  unnecessary  in  1877,  when 
Lowell  laid  down  the  office.  The  development  between  these  dates  is 
natural,  but  it  becomes  well-nigh  miraculous  when  it  is  recalled  that  such 
a  change  took  place  in  less  than  sixty  years. 

There  can  be  no  question  that  Lowell's  office  was  critical,  whether  in 
politics,  diplomacy,  or  literature.  There  can  be  no  question  that  he  is  the 
foremost  American  critic.  Certain  essays  of  his,  notably  the  "Chaucer" 
and  the  "Dante,"  like  Carlyle's  "Burns"  and  Macaulay's  "Boswell,"  are 
among  the  permanently  necessary  essays.  He  was  an  intuitive  critic. 
More  than  that,  he  was  an  intuitive  critic  with  a  passion  for  labor.  He 
dared  not  write  until  his  mind  was  big  with  his  subject.  Once  begun,  the 
essay  quickly  passed  from  the  narrowness  of  book  reviewing,  or  the 
petulancies  of  controversy,  to  the  broad  heights  of  final  values.  He  wrote, 
not  for  an  age,  but  for  all  time;  his  criticism  is  no  more  American  than 
it  is  Chinese. 

Yet,  because  his  method  was  largely  intuitive,  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
the  essays  are  sometimes  badly  put  together:  the  one  on  Milton,  for  in 
stance,  begins  as  badinage,  passes  to  a  favorite  philological  hobby,  then 
to  questions  of  prosody,  and  ends  with  a  hasty  general  estimate  of  the 
poet.  Lowell  literally  knew  too  much;  he  was  far  from  bearing  all  his 
weight  of  learning  lightly  like  a  flower ;  his  facts  smothered  his  form ; 
and  all  these  faults  have  crept  into  his  verse. 

His   more  orthodox  poems   fall   into  two   classes,   the   lyric   and  the 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  651 

reflective,  and  with  these  Lowell  labored  with  something  of  the  devotion 
of  a  man  to  a  lost  cause.  Poetry  was  his  left  hand.  The  muse  asks  more 
than  intermittent  devotion.  None  of  the  Florentines,  who  were  so  many 
things,  and  with  whom  we  have  compared  Lowell,  is  numbered  among  the 
great  Italian  poets,  and,  despite  his  own  passion  for  verse,  the  American 
is  similarly  handicapped.  The  very  quality  which  makes  his  essays  ruins 
his  verse:  so  little  of  it  is  indigenous  and  local.  This  fact  is  curiously 
proved:  readers  do  not  turn  to  Lowell  as  they  do  to  Longfellow,  for  a 
body  of  verse ;  and  though  certain  lyrics  are  individual  favorites,  they  are 
such  as  two  or  three  other  poets  might  have  written.  "To  the  Dandelion" 
is  Keatsian;  many  readers  confuse  "The  First  Snowfall"  with  Bryant's 
poem  on  the  same  theme,  and  "The  Present  Crisis"  inevitably  suggests 
Whittier. 

Lowell  felt  this  want  of  permanence  all  his  life.  In  "L'Envoi"  he  wrote, 
as  he  did  elsewhere, 

I  draw  near 

To   mate   with  words   the   various   theme. 
Life  seems  a  whiff  of  kitchen   steam. 
History    an    organ-grinder's    thrum, 
For   thou   hast   slipt   from   it   and   me 
And  all  thine  organ-pipes  left  dumb, 
Most  mutable  Perversity! 

The  bald  prosiness  of  the  third  line,  the  repetition  of  "organ"  in  two 
senses,  and  the  curiously  uncertain  metre  of  this  passage  are  typical  of 
his  artistic  faults. 

One  poem  of  Lowell's,  generally  slighted,  requires  more  than  passing 
comment.  This  is  "Endymion,"  written  toward  the  end  of  his  life,  and 
the  only  one  of  his  poems,  says  a  biographer,  which  suggests  more  than 
it  says.  It  is  to  a  thoughtful  reader  what  "The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal," 
beloved  of  school  teachers,  is  to  the  obvious  mind,  and  it  succeeds  where 
"The  Cathedral"  fails.  "Endymion"  repeats  the  lesson  of  "L'Envoi": 

In  dreams  I  see  her  lay  the  goddess  down 

With   bow    and    quiver     .     .     . 

.     .     .     down   to  mine  she  deigns   her   longed-for  lips; 

And   as   her   neck  my   happy    arms   enfold, 

Flooded    and    lustred   with    her    loosened    gold, 

She  whispers  words  each   sweeter  than   a   kiss; 

Then,    wakened    with    the    shock    of    sudden    bliss, 

My  arms  are  empty,  my  awakener  fled, 

but  it  ends  otherwise: 

My  moon  is  set;  my  vision  set  with  her; 

No    more    can    worship    vain    my    pulses    stir. 

Goddess    Triform,    I    own    thy    triple    spell, 

My  heaven's  queen — queen,  too,  of  my  earth  and  hell! 

It  is  one  of  a  small  group  of  poems,  including  the  "Turner's  Old  Teme- 
raire"  and  the  "Oracle  of  Gold  Fishes"  (curiously  parodied  by  Rupert 
Brooke),  which  suggests  that  Lowell  might  have  been  a  great  mystic 
poet  if  he  had  let  himself  go.  He  knew  himself  to  be  touched  that  way, 
but  he  had  humor,  which  a  mystic  may  not  have;  he  had  culture,  which 


652  AMERICAN    POETRY 

a  mystic  may  not  have,  and  he  led  an  active  life  far  different  from  the 
Brahmin's  whom  he  satirized. 

It  is  commonly  said  that  Lowell's  chief  claim  to  immortality  is  the 
"Biglow  Papers,"  certainly  the  finest  satire  ever  produced  in  American 
verse.  Political  poetry  is  dead  in  this  country,  but  it  died  with  the  second 
series  of  the  "Biglow  Papers"  grasped  in  its  hand.  "Very  far  from  being 
a  popular  author  under  my  own  name,"  said  Lowell  in  the  introduction  to 
the  series,  "I  found  the  verses  of  my  pseudonym  copied  everywhere;  1 
saw  them  pinned  up  in  workshops;  I  heard  them  quoted  and  their  author 
ship  debated,"  and  it  was  even  proved  in  his  hearing  that  he  could  not 
have  written  them.  Yet  satire,  be  it  never  so  trenchant,  is  a  frail  piece 
of  pottery  to  go  floating  down  to  immortality;  Caesar  and  Cicero  still  hold 
their  places  in  the  schools,  while  Juvenal  is  read  only  of  scholars ;  Dryden 
and  Voltaire  are  names,  and  who  reads  the  "Biglow  Papers"  to-day?  Un 
gracious  as  it  may  seem,  it  must  be  admitted  that  their  reputation  is  kept 
up,  like  that  of  less  worthy  productions,  by  academic  bellows  only,  and 
though  the  Mexican  crisis  of  1916  gave  plenty  of  opportunity  for  quota 
tion  (from  B.  Sawin  especially),  the  chilly  fact  remains  that  the  "Biglow 
Papers"  did  not  figure  in  public  discussion.  In  addition  to  being  satire, 
they  labor  under  the  difficulty  of  dialect,  and  dialect  verse,  despite  Burns, 
has  not  generally  proved  lasting.  Moreover,  the  fun  of  Parson  Wilbur 
is  largely  scholar's  fun,  something  like  the  lame  artillery  of  Middleton's 
wit  in  "The  Egoist."  Despite  the  mass  of  opinion  to  the  contrary,  it 
does  not  seem  that  the  "Biglow  Papers"  are  Lowell's  best  claim  to  poetical 
immortality. 

It  is  when  we  come  to  the  odes  that  we  come  to  the  province  in  which  he 
is  easily  ahead.  No  nobler  expression  of  American  patriotism  than  the 
"Harvard  Commemoration  Ode"  has  ever  been  shaped  in  our  history; 
the  closest  approach  is  Lowell's  own  work,  the  "Three  Memorial  Poems" 
of  1877.  The  failure  of  such  gifted  men  as  Woodberry,  Mackaye,  Witter 
Bynner,  and  others,  to  achieve  lasting  results  in  the  difficult  field  of  public 
poetry  is  sufficient  comment  on  Lowell's  achievement.  The  only  produc 
tions  which  can  be  considered  in  the  same  breath  with  Lowell's  are  Moody's 
"Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation"  and  "On  a  Soldier  Fallen  in  the  Philippines," 
and  these  were  not  meant  for  recitation.  Even  English  literature,  despite 
Dryden,  Swinburne  and  Tennyson,  yields  no  parallel. 

The  ode  intended  for  public  recital  has  to  grapple  with  difficulties  that 
confront  no  other  branch  of  poetry.  It  is  perhaps  because  so  few  succeed 
in  overcoming  these  difficulties  that  distinction  in  the  ode  is  not  more  highly 
appreciated.  The  public  ode  must  be  appropriate  without  being  occasional. 
It  must  be  dignified,  noble,  sonorous,  and  yet  hit  the  average  intelligence 
of  its  audience.  It  has  no  place  for  the  delicate  music,  the  overtones  of 
closet  poetry;  it  cannot  deal  heavily  in  formal  figures  of  speech,  which 
might  distract  from  the  main  trend  of  the  discourse,  and  yet  it  must  im 
press  its  hearers  then,  and  from  the  printed  page,  as  being  the  stuff  of 
poetry.  It  must  combine  with  this  something  of  oratory,  so  that  it  admits 
of  necessity  (in  the  very  fact  that  it  is  to  be  recited)  a  dangerous  quan 
tity  of  rhetoric.  It  must  have  intellectual  content  without  losing  in  grace 
or  beauty;  it  must  have  an  ethical  trend  without  sinking  to  the  merely 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  653 

didactic;  it  must  have  occasional  elegances  without  obscuring  the  structure 
of  the  whole.  Above  all — and  in  these  two  particulars  many  attempts  fail 
— it  cannot  be  written  in  regular  stanzaic  form,  because  a  long  poem  in 
regular  stanzas  can  be  neither  read  nor  heard  without  monotony;  in  the 
regulation  of  his  long  and  short  lines  the  poet  must  exercise  all  his  skill 
as  metrist,  and  in  the  placing  of  his  rhymes  he  needs  all  his  skill  as  a 
melodist;  and  finally,  the  ode  must  be  vigorous,  masculine,  and  unashamed. 

To  make  clear  Lowell's  peculiar  eminence  in  this  field,  the  distinction 
cannot  be  too  often  made  that  the  ode  to  be  recited  is  a  far  different  thing 
from  the  ode  to  be  read,  as  different  as  acting  drama  is  from  the  dramatic 
monologue.  In  melody,  in  richness,  in  the  management  of  intricate 
metres,  in  lofty  and  sustained  thought,  no  English  poet  working  in  this 
field  has  ever  surpassed  Swinburne's  ode  written  for  the  three  hundredth 
anniversary  of  the  defeat  of  the  Armada.  But  if  the  ode  were  recited  to 
an  audience  gathered  to  celebrate  the  occasion,  it  would  put  them  to  sleep. 
Whereas  Lowell  with  his  memorial  poems  not  only  held  his  audience, 
he  convinced  them  that  what  he  was  speaking  was  poetry,  and  when  they 
read  it  afterward  they  were  still  convinced. 

For  us  the  occasion  of  the  Harvard  Ode  has  long  passed  by,  but,  like 
the  audience  which  heard  it,  we  are  still  convinced.  As  poetry  it  offers 
us  such  lines  of  high  beauty  as  this  of  Truth: 

They  followed  her  and  found  her 

Where   all   may    hope   to   find, 

Not    in   the   ashes   of   the   burnt-out   mind, 

But  beautiful,  with  danger's  sweetness  round  her, 

and  the  sudden  rapture  of 

O  Beautiful,  my  Country!  ours  once  more! 
Smoothing    thy    gold    of    war-dishevelled    hair 
O'er  such  sweet  brows  as  never  other  wore! 

Passage  after  passage  is  packed  with  memorable  phrases : 

Something  that  gives  our  feeble  light 
A  high  immunity  from  Night 

Such  was  he,  our  Martyr-Chief, 
Whom    late   the   Nation    he   had    led, 
With   ashes   on    her    head, 
Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief. 

Before  my  musing  eye 

The    mighty    ones    of   old    sweep    by, 

Disvoiced   now   and   insubstantial   things, 

As    noisy    once    as   we;    poor    ghosts    of   kings, 

Shadows   of   empire   wholly   gone   to  dust, 

And   many   races,   nameless   long   ago, 

To  darkness  driven   by  that  imperious  gust 

Of  ever-rushing  Time. 

Equally  fresh  are  the  opening  of  the  Concord  Ode : 

Who  cometh  over  the  hills, 
Her   garments  with  morning  sweet, 
The  dance  of  a  thousand  rills 
Making  music  before  her  feet? 


654  AMERICAN    POETRY 

and  the  image  of  the  nation  (like  a  mural  by  Puvis  de  Chavannes)  with 
which  the  Fourth  of  July  poem  begins. 

In  fairness,  it  should  be  said  that  the  general  consensus  of  opinion  holds 
that  the  "Biglow  Papers"  are  Lowell's  chief  work.  Yet  the  "Biglow 
Papers,"  as  Lowell  himself  admitted,  are  worked  in  clay,  where  the  Odes 
are  cut  in  marble;  Parson  Wilbur  has  not  outlived  his  generation,  while 
with  the  Harvard  poem  we  have  forgotten  the  occasion  and  remember 
only  the  large  message  of  ideal  Americanism  which  it  voices.  Both  the 
satires  and  the  odes  are  original  as  nothing  else  in  Lowell's  volume  is 
original,  but  the  odes  are  the  greater  and  the  more  lasting  work. 

J. 

THE  POETRY  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR 

Under  the  heading  of  "The  Poetry  of  the  Civil  War,"  there  are  pre 
sented  here  together  thirty-seven  well  known  and  representative  pieces  of 
verse  which  are  either  anonymous  or  by  authors  from  whom  no  other 
works  are  quoted.  As  every  poet  cited  in  this  volume  who  was  productive 
from  1860  to  1865  wrote  his  own  contributions,  the  total  number  of  poems 
classifiable  under  this  head — as  the  index  shows — is  far  more  than  thirty- 
seven.  In  Stevenson's  "Poems  of  American  History"  more  than  one-fourth 
of  the  entire  book  is  based  on  the  Civil  War.  The  chief  collections 
consulted  in  making  up  the  present  brief  list  are  as  follows: 

Texts. 

Lyrics  of  Loyalty,  Personal  and  Political  Ballads,  Songs  for  the 
Soldiers,  and  Rebel  Rhymes,  all  edited  by  Frank  Moore,  New  York, 
1864.  The  Southern  Amaranth,  edited  by  Sallie  A.  Brock.  War  Poets 
of  the  South  and  Confederate  Camp  Fire  Songs.  War  Songs  of  the 
South,  Richmond,  1862.  Lyrics  for  Freedom,  New  York,  1862.  Wai- 
Songs  of  the  South,  London,  1866.  The  Poetry  of  the  Civil  War, 
edited  by  Richard  Grant  White,  Albany,  1866. 

The  system  of  grouping  implied  in  the  titles  of  Frank  Moore's  three 
volumes  of  Northern  war  poems  is  available  in  any  generalized  statement 
about  the  contributions  from  either  side.  The  lyrics  of  loyalty  reveal  a 
sober  and  usually  elevated  background  in  the  minds  of  the  combatants  as 
the  war  advanced.  They  progress  in  the  North  from  the  early  calls  to 
arms  in  verses  like  Tilton's  "Great  Bell  Roland"  and  Edna  Dean  Proctor's 
"Who's  Ready?"  to  Thomas  Buchanan  Read's  "Closing  Scene"  and  William 
Winter's  "After  All" ;  and  in  the  South  from  St.  George  Tucker's  "Southern 
Cross"  to  Father  Ryan's  "Sword  of  Robert  Lee."  They  include,  moreover, 
certain  poems  of  sentiment,  like  George  H.  Boker's  "Battle  Hymn"  or 
"Dirge  for  a  Soldier,"  Ethel  Lynn  Beers's  "Picket  Guard"  and  the  anony 
mous  "Claribel's  Prayer,"  which  are  poems  of  war  time,  and  except  for 
single  phrases  are  transferable  to  any  time  and  any  conflict. 

The  personal  and  political  ballads  are,  on  the  other  hand,  most  defi 
nitely  localized.  The  "Farewell  to  Brother  Jonathan"  is  incomplete  till 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  655 

one  has  read  Holmes's  "Brother  Jonathan's  Lament  for  Sister  Caroline" 
(see  page  440).  John  R.  Thompson's  "On  to  Richmond"  and  "Farewell 
to  Pope"  refer  to  events  just  as  definite  as  those  behind  Read's  "Sheridan's 
Ride,"  or  Whittier's  "Barbara  Frietchie."  These  recall  aspects  or  phases 
of  the  war,  events  of  sometimes  national  and  sometimes  individual  signifi 
cance,  glimpses  of  great  men,  acts  of  heroism  by  the  common  soldiery. 
Their  tone  is  less  lofty  than  in  the  lyrics  of  loyalty,  and  they  are  bitter 
or  jaunty,  mournful  or  sublime,  as  befits  the  various  subjects. 

The  songs  for  the  soldiers  are  the  most  spontaneous  fruits  of  the  war, 
and,  as  a  group,  are  far  better  known  than  other  more  literary  products. 
"John  Brown's  Body,"  "Dixie,"  "Marching  Through  Georgia,"  and  "When 
Johnny  Comes  Marching  Home"  are  known  to  millions  now  as  they  were 
in  war  times  because  spirited  words  were  combined  with  inspiring  tunes. 
They  became  folk  poetry  and  experienced  the  changes  both  through  oral 
transmission  and  through  deliberate  composition  of  variants  to  which  the 
most  popular  songs  are  often  subject.  A  nobler  song,  like  Julia  Ward 
Howe's  "Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic,"  with  which  the  populace  was  less 
inclined  to  be  familiar,  came  out  at  the  end  of  the  war  unscathed  from 
the  ordeal  by  song. 

The  authorship  of  the  war  verses  was  very  widespread.  If  wars  do 
not  often  stimulate  great  literature,  they  do  beyond  doubt  awaken  the 
sleeping  doggerels  that  more  peaceful  times  leave  undisturbed.  As  parody 
offers  a  helping  hand  to  the  unoriginal  by  setting  both  a  metre  and  a 
sequence  of  thought,  many  of  the  fireside  favorites  appeared  in  this  masque 
of  Poesie  in  every  degree  of  artistic,  amusing,  and  grotesque  disguise. 
Among  these  were  "America,"  "Dixie,"  "Excelsior,"  "The  Night  Before 
Christmas,"  "The  Star-Spangled  Banner,"  "The  Campbells  are  Coming," 
"John  Anderson,  My  Jo,"  Gray's  "Elegy,"  Hood's  "The  Song  of  the  Shirt," 
and  even  the  "Hearts  of  Oak,"  which  had  done  valiant  service  in  the  War 
of  the  Revolution.  In  this  secondary  zone  of  martial  verse,  however,  there 
is  almost  nothing  worth  preserving  which  was  not  composed  by  authors 
who  had  at  least  sectional  reputations.  The  freshest  note  from  those  who 
would  otherwise  be  generally  forgotten  was  struck  by  two  Southerners, 
John  R.  Thompson,  author  of  "On  to  Richmond"  and  "Farewell  to  Pope," 
and  Albert  B.  Pike,  author  of  the  best  of  many  versions  of  Dixie.  Thomp 
son's  work  is  excellent  jovial  satire.  He  has  an  easy  mastery  of  verse, 
control  of  double  and  multiple  rhymes,  which  are  always  effective  in 
lighter  moods,  a  pungent  humor,  and  an  abounding  and  infectious  jollity. 
When  at  his  best  in  this  vein  he  challenges  comparison  with  Lowell. 

On  the  whole,  with  reference  to  all  of  this  verse,  whether  written  by 
the  most  or  the  least  eminent,  we  are  driven  to  the  admission  that  the  dust 
and  smoke  of  battle  are  suffocating  to  the  Muse.  The  poets  who  can  soar 
on  Pegasus  are  rather  awkward  on  Bucephalus,  and  the  lesser  ones  who 
belong  with  the  infantry  are  unimpressive  spectacles  on  any  sort  of  steed. 


656  AMERICAN   POETRY 


HENRY  TIMROD   (1829-1867) 

Timrod  was  born  in  Charleston,  S.  C.,  December  8,  1829.  His  grand 
father  was  a  soldier  in  the  War  of  the  Revolution,  and  his  father,  a  man 
of  literary  tastes,  contracted  a  fatal  illness  in  the  Seminole  engagements 
of  1836.  The  boy  was  a  schoolmate  of  Basil  L.  Gildersleeve  and  Paul 
Hamilton  Hayne.  For  two  years,  apparently  from  1847  to  l&49>  ne  was 
enrolled  in  the  University  of  Georgia,  though  the  period  was  chiefly 
marked  by  the  writing  of  adolescent  love  songs  for  the  Charleston  Evening 
News  and  by  a  series  of  contributions  to  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger 
over  the  pen-name  of  Aglaus,  which  he  used  till  1853.  In  the  meantime, 
he  had  gone  into  and  out  of  a  law  office,  and  had  started  a  ten-year  career 
as  a  teacher,  first  as  an  assistant  in  a  private  school,  a«d  then  as  tutor  in 
two  families.  In  1859  ^s  ^rst  book  of  poems  was  published,  by  Ticknor 
&  Fields,  in  Boston.  The  volume,  containing  thirteen  sonnets  and  thirty 
longer  pieces,  was  cordially  commended  by  the  critics. 

During  the  Civil  War,  he  was  actively  writing — as  correspondent  for 
the  Charleston  Mercury,  as  associate  editor  of  the  South  Carolinian,  and 
as  author  of  inspiring  songs  for  the  Confederacy.  With  Sherman's  march 
to  the  sea  he  was  reduced  to  utter  poverty,  from  which  he  never  recovered 
before  his  death  from  a  series  of  hemorrhages  in  1867. 

/.  Editions. 

Timrod's  poems,  have  appeared  as  follows:  In  Boston,  1860:  in 
New  York,  edited  by  P.  H.  Hayne,  1872  and  1873;  m  Boston,  the 
edition  under  the  auspices  of  the  Timrod  Memorial  Association,  1899, 
and  the  same  in  Richmond,  1901. 

//.  Biography  and  Criticism. 

Memoir  prefixed  to  editions  of  1899  and  1901 ;  Sketch  with  edition 
of  1873  by  P.  H.  Hayne;  Henry  Timrod,  Laureate  of  the  Confederacy, 
G.  A.  Wauchope,  North  Carolina  Review,  May  5,  1912;  Dr.  Frank 
Ticknor  and  Henry  Timrod,  S.  A.  Link,  published  by  the  Methodist 
Episcopal  Church  Society;  in  Holy  Grail,  six  addresses,  J.  A.  B. 
Scherer,  1905;  introduction  to  selections  in  Library  of  Southern 
Literature. 

Timrod  is  one  of  the  several  American  poets  of  genuine  achievement 
who  died  before  middle  life,  and,  of  these,  one  of  the  men  who  had  pro 
gressed  the  fastest  and  showed  the  largest  relative  promise.  As  a  boy  and 
growing  man,  it  is  clear  in  the  record  of  his  life,  as  well  as  in  his  verses, 
that  he  was  an  extravagant  and  self-indulgent  sentimentalist.  He  went 
through  all  the  emotional  ebullitions  of  normal  youth,  but  he  went  through 
them  with  abnormal  intensity,  and  he  was  complacently  self-conscious  of 
what  he  was  doing.  He  recorded  with  pride  his  susceptibility  to  spring, 
to  roses,  to  babies  and  older  children,  to  night,  to  the  mocking-bird,  and 
to  a  steady  succession  of  inamoratas.  Emotion  was  an  end  in  itself.  Few 
poets  have  ever  so  celebrated  the  praises  of  what  Jane  Austen  called  sensi- 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  657 

bility.  In  fact,  this  i8th  century  term  gives  the  cue  not  only  to  Timrod's 
earlier  career  but  to  certain  prevailing  Southern  traits.  Whatever  the 
origin  of  Southern  speech  and  manners,  they  did — and  still  do  in  some 
measure — resemble  those  which  we  associate  with  the  generations  of  Mrs. 
Radcliffe  and  Laurence  Sterne.  Both  are  marked  by  a  somewhat  elevated 
formality  of  phrasing — much  of  it  conventionalized — an  inclination  to 
forensics,  a  vocal  insistence  upon  honor  and  chivalry,  an  opulent  show  of 
deference  to  beauty  and  to  woman ;  and  both  at  times  topple  on  the  verge 
of  that  histrionic  insincerity  which  follows  hard  on  the  heel  of  any 
traditionalized  forms  of  speech.  Such  habits  of  thought  and  expression 
became  what  is  called  "second  nature"  to  the  youthful  Timrod,  and, 
although  in  the  best  of  his  mature  writing  he  overcame  them  by  summoning 
his  self-conscious  "first  nature"  to  the  fore,  they  reasserted  themselves 
during  his  last  illness,  and  have  unhappily  been  printed  and  reprinted  by 
the  admiring  recorders  of  his  dying  hours. 

Yet  even  in  Timrod's  earliest  volume  there  is  poem  after  poem  to  show 
that  the  white  flame  of  real  creative  fervor  could  burn  away  the  flimsy 
covering  of  decorative  verbiage  whenever  he  became  more  concerned  with 
his  subject  than  with  self-analysis  or  self-display.  To  be  sure,  much  of 
it  is  imitative  of  Tennyson  at  his  feeblest;  much  is  utterly  commonplace. 
He  makes  the  morning  stars  sing  together,  turns  water  into  wine,  and 
asserts  that  truth  is  beauty  as  gravely  as  though  it  had  never  been  said 
before.  But  in  the  same  poem  that  is  beclogged  with  passionate  lyres, 
bleeding  patriots,  and  azure  heights,  he  likens  the  poet's  words  to  "bright 
cataracts  that  front  a  sunrise,"  and  in  such  flashes  preludes  the  dawn  of 
his  maturer  powers.  The  whole  sonnet,  "I  know  not  why,  but  all  this 
weary  day"  (p.  348),  points  the  fine  distinction  between  sentiment  and 
sentimentalism,  and  in  its  premonitory  despair  is  as  poignant  as  Rossetti's 
"Sea  Limits,"  which  it  preceded  by  several  years: 

Now    it    has    been   a    vessel    losing   way, 
Rounding    a    stormy    headland;    now    a    gray 
Dull  waste  of  clouds  above  a  wintry  main; 
And    then,    a    banner,    drooping    in    the    rain, 
And    meadows   beaten    into    bloody    clay. 

With  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  the  feminine  strain  in  Timrod  asserted 
itself  in  the  heroic  endurance  "and  self-restraint  that  more  propitious  cir 
cumstances  might  never  have  developed.  All  through  it  he  was  singularly 
free  from  the  abusive  rancour  that  always  rises  as  a  shrill  obligato  in  the 
times  that  try  men's  souls.  Of  course,  he  felt  deep  conviction,  but  he 
expressed  it  in  honest  passion,  and,  except  for  rare  and  momentary  out 
bursts,  never  in  hate. 

"Ethnogenesis,"  the  birth  of  a  nation,  is  naturally  not  a  love  poem 
addressed  to  the  North,  and  the  middle  sections  are  unfriendly  and  un 
charitable,  as  vulnerable  in  these  respects  as  a  great  deal  of  Lowell's  and 
Whittier's  verse  written  in  wartime.  But  the  vital  fact  about  this  ode 
is  a  positive  one,  that  with  ardent  faith  it  celebrates — especially  in  the 
analogy  on  the  benevolent  influence  of  the  Gulf  Stream — the  aspirations 
of  the  Confederacy.  "Carolina"  starts  with  "despots"  and  ends  with  "Huns" 
— how  limited  and  outworn  is  the  language  of  national  abuse! — but  it  is 


658  AMERICAN    POETRY 

a  real  and  stirring  call  to  arms,  as  generous  as  such  appeals  may  be. 
"Charleston"  is  utterly  unsullied  by  any  emotion  lower  than  fine  and 
solemn  resolution.  "Christmas"  is  a  lovely  song  of  hope  for  peace.  Con 
sidered  thus,  bit  by  bit,  and  more  strikingly  still,  when  considered  in  the 
light  of  2oth  century  war  poetry,  what  Timrod  wrote  in  the  heat  of  the  con 
flict  is  remarkably  magnanimous.  If  he  had  never  shown  anger  in  a  single 
line  the  total  effect  would  have  been  rather  flabby,  as  the  utterance  of  a 
man  who  did  not  lose  his  temper  because  he  had  none  to  control ;  but 
Timrod  blazed  out  just  often  enough  to  prove  that  he  was  genuinely 
large-hearted  in  his  self-restraint. 

The  inevitable  fact  is  that  the  immediate  effect  of  war  upon  the  arts 
is  a  blighting  one.  It  is  the  one  conclusion  to  be  drawn  from  the  works 
of  any  poet  who  has  also  written  in  times  of  peace,  and  it  is  a  conclusion 
to  be  derived  even  from  Timrod's  best  known  poem.  The  theme  of  the 
poem  is  a  noble  one,  and  has  been  frequently  attempted.  It  is  that  the 
work  of  the  farmer  is  the  strengthening  of  the  sinews  of  the  world.  Tim- 
rod  felt  this  as  Lanier  was  to  see  it  a  little  later,  and  as  Bryant  had  already 
done ;  and  with  a  cotton  boll  in  his  hand  he  found  in  it  a  spell  that  unfolded 
before  him  a  vista  as  broad  as  the  world — a  world  in  which  he  visioned 
an  idealized  commerce  that  "only  bounds  its  blessings  by  mankind."  But 
now  in  this  fine  mood  of  optimism  the  grim  fact  of  war  intruded  on  his 
calm  as  he  weaved  his  woof  of  song,  and  in  a  moment,  in  spite  of  every 
effort  to  keep  himself  in  hand,  he  was  berating  the  "Goth"  even  while 
resolving  to  be  merciful  to  him.  The  poet  who  always  keeps  his  balance 
in  wartimes  must  be  either  superhuman  or  subhuman.  Personal  hardship 
Timrod  endured  without  flinching.  In  the  face  of  the  ghastly  devastation 
wrought  by  Sherman's  army,  the  scars  of  which  are  still  to  be  seen,  he 
had  no  word  except  one  of  hope  for  the  reconstruction  which  he  did  not 
live  to  behold: 

A  time  of  peaceful  prayer, 

Of  law,   love,   labor,   honest  loss  and   gain — 

These_  are  the  visions  of  the  coming  reign 
Now    floating    to    them    on    this   wintry    air. 

Timrod,  Lanier  and  Poe  each  lived  less  than  forty  years,  and  Timrod 
slightly  less  than  either  of  the  others.  Of  the  three,  all  ill-fated,  his  lot 
was  perhaps  the  hardest  and  his  development  was  less  complete;  but  in 
his  poetry  he  came  to  closer  grips  with  life  than  they.  The  worlds  of  the 
other  two  were  more  subjective,  and  their  interest  in  art  was  vastly  more 
involved  in  problems  of  technique ;  so  much  so,  that  the  reader  often  for 
gets  what  they  are  saying  in  his  attention  to  the  way  in  which  they  are 
expressing  it.  But  Timrod,  who  in  his  youth  was  lamentably  imitative  and 
self-conscious,  was  redeemed  as  an  artist  in  the  ordeal  by  battle,  and  in 
his  later  work  spoke  simply  and  truly  as  one  who  was  talking  in  his 
native  idiom. 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  659 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE   (1830-1886) 

Hayne  was  born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  on  New  Year's  Day, 
1830.  He  was  a  student  in  Charleston  College,  and  grew  up  under  the 
influence  of  his  distinguished  uncle,  Robert  Y.  Hayne,  remembered  as  the 
objective  of  Webster's  "Reply,"  and  as  Senator  for  and  Governor  of  his 
State.  Before  the  opening  of  the  Civil  War,  he  published  volumes  of 
poems  in  1855,  1857,  and  1859,  and  in  1857  he  became  editor  of  the  choice 
but  short-lived  Russell's  Magazine.  He  was  not  strong  enough  for  actual 
field  service  in  the  war,  but  was  for  a  while  a  member  of  the  Governor's 
staff.  After  the  destruction  of  his  home  and  library,  he  removed  with  his 
wife  to  "Copse  Hill,"  Georgia,  where  he  lived  in  rather  splendid  poverty 
till  the  end  of  his  life.  His  writing  brought  him  in  a  bare  subsistence, 
but  he  would  not  submit  to  any  other  form  of  money-getting.  He  wrote 
abundantly  for  the  periodicals,  and  brought  out  the  following  volumes: 
"Legends  and  Lyrics,"  1872;  edition  of  Timrod's  poems,  with  introduc 
tion,  1873;  "The  Mountain  of  the  Lovers  and  Other  Poems,"  1875;  lives 
of  Robert  Y.  Hayne  and  Hugh  S.  Legare,  1878,  and  Complete  Poems,  1882. 

I.  Texts. 

Complete  Edition  (his  own  selection),  1882,  with  biographical 
sketch  by  Margaret  Preston. 

II.  Biographical  and  Criticism. 

There  is  no  adequate  biography  of  Hayne.  The  introduction  to 
the  selections  in  the  Library  of  Southern  Literature  is  well  supple 
mented  by  his  own  reminiscences  in  the  same  volume  reprinted  from 
The  Southern  Bivouac.  See  also  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne,  S.  A.  Link, 
Pub.  M.  E.  Ch.  Soc.,  and  the  passages  in  the  survey  histories. 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  was  a  long  way  from  being  a  great  poet  or  a 
great  man;  yet  in  a  secondary  way  he  is  significant  as  a  real  repre 
sentative  of  a  period  and  a  locality.  A  man  cannot  be  egregious  without 
having  a  grex — or  flock — from  which  to  emerge,  and  in  the  Charleston  of 
of  Hayne's  day  there  was  a  genuine  literary  flock.  The  chief  of  the  clan 
was  William  Gilmore  Simms,  the  most  picturesque  and  vigorous  of  them 
all,  as  well  as  longest  lived  and  the  most  prolific — a  South  Carolina  com 
bination  of  Dr.  Johnson  and  Anthony  Trollope,  with  a  dash  of  G.  P.  R. 
James  thrown  in.  Around  him  and  John  Russell,  the  bookseller,  there 
rallied  a  group  who-  were  to  Charleston  what  the  frequenters  of  the  Old 
Corner  Book  Store  were  to  Boston,  or  the  daily  visitors  to  Putnam's  offices 
were  to  New  York. 

We  have  Hayne's  own  description  of  the  old  city  and  the  bookish 
people  in  it  in  a  series  of  articles  to  the  Southern  Bivouac  in  the  autumn 
of  1885,  just  before  his  death. 

In  a  city  which  cared  more  for  the  art  of  living  than  for  getting  and 
spending,  John  Russell — a  man  of  sufficient  presence  to  have  once  been 
mistaken  on  a  channel  steamer  for  the  English  Prime  Minister — made 


660  AMERICAN    POETRY 

his  bookshop  a  social  centre  long  before  the  social  centre  had  been  capi 
talized  and  turned  into  an  institution.  "Everybody"  came  to  the  store 
during  business  hours,  and  later  in  the  day,  in  the  back  room,  the  men 
came  together  in  the  spirit  of  a  literary  club,  though  without  organization 
or  name.  Russell's  Magazine  was  just  as  natural  a  consequence  of  these 
meetings  and  the  talk  that  took  place  in  them,  as  was  The  Atlantic  of 
similar  meetings  in  Boston  at  exactly  the  same  time,  or  as  had  been  The 
Dial  sixteen  years  earlier.  With  its  founding,  young  Hayne  was  made 
editor. 

It  was  in  work  of  this  literary  journalism  that  Hayne's  talents  should 
have  been  allowed  to  exercise  themselves.  He  was  a  man  certainly  of 
no  greater  calibre  than  Aldrich  and  Howells  and  Gilder  and  Stoddard — all 
men  of  nice  discrimination,  poetic  gifts  and  the  consequent  critical  powers 
that  are  more  often  needed  than  secured  in  editorial  offices.  The  reason 
that  they  all  carried  their  editorships  with  such  distinction  was  that  each 
of  them  was  in  a  way  just  a  little  too  good  for  that  sort  of  drudgery. 
Yet  they  were  not  much  too  good,  for  the  highest  creative  abilities  simply 
will  not  be  chained  to  a  desk.  Furthermore,  each  of  these  other  men  con 
tinued  to  write,  as  well  as  to  market  other  people's  writings,  and  each  of 
them  grew  steadily  in  power.  But  a  career  like  theirs  was  denied  to 
Hayne  by  the  fact  that  Charleston  was  in  the  path  of  the  war.  Russell's 
was  discontinued  in  1860  never  to  be  revived,  and  Hayne  was  forced  into 
the  most  precarious  of  existences — that  of  writing  for  a  living.  The 
result  was  unfortunate  not  only  to  his  purse  but  to  his  productive  powers 
as  well.  He  had  to  force  himself,  and  he  wrote,  in  consequence,  the  sort 
of  poetry  that  must  be  the  result  of  industry  and  good-will. 

Much  of  it  was  in  the  form  of  occasional  poetry,  with  the  result  that 
the  public  fell  into  the  habit  of  looking  to  him  for  the  ready  delivery  of 
a  few  appropriate  verses  on  demand,  and  that,  worse  still,  he  came  to 
regard  all  sorts  of  events  as  necessary  subject-matter  for  poetical  treat 
ment.  Thus  he  wrote  for  ceremonies  all  the  way  from  the  Carolina  Art 
Association  Anniversary  in  1856  to  the  International  Cotton  Exposition 
twenty-five  years  later.  He  got  into  the  way  of  doing  the  conventional 
ipth  century  thing,  regardless  of  any  connection  with  his  own  experience 
or  even  observation:  dramatic  sketches  located  in  Westmoreland,  Savoy, 
Candia;  legends  of  Greece,  Sicily,  Brittany,  India,  Australia,  "The  Coast 
of  Astolf ,"  Paradise,  which  were  all  equally  legendary  to  him ;  and  always, 
betweentimes,  sonnets  and  yet  more  sonnets.  Had  Russell's  survived,  or 
could  some  other  magazine  have  demanded  him  after  the  war,  the  blue 
pencil  would  have  usurped  most  of  his  time,  and  might  have  made  him 
more  self-critical  when  he  took  up  the  pen. 

The  work  of  Hayne's  that  counts  for  most  is  contained  in  the  poems 
which  touched  the  universal  through  the  simple  and  unpretentious  treat 
ment  of  native  themes.  Some  of  his  war  lyrics  are  effective,  though  not 
up  to  the  best  of  Timrod's.  Some  of  his  post-bellum  protests  are  as 
vigorous  as  need  be,  but  far  less  vitriolic  than  they  might  have  been. 
"South  Carolina  to  the  States  of  the  North"  and  "The  Stricken  South 
to  the  North"  suggest  of  the  Reconstruction  Period  what  Tourgee's  novel, 
"A  Fool's  Errand,"  presents  in  detail,  and  with  an  equal  combination 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  661 

of  candor  and  charity.  And  Hayne's  poems  of  nature  ring  finely  true. 
Of  these,  the  most  impressive  are,  of  course,  not  the  ones  in  which  he 
protests  his  passion  in  abstract  terms,  but  those  in  which  he  reveals  his 
"intimate  knowledge  and  delight."  Most  of  all,  the  southern  pine  fascinates 
him  by  its  perennial  grace  and  strength  and  its  mysterious  voices.  A  pine 
tree  anthology  could  be  culled  from  his  verses.  He  was  (at  his  best  when 
he  turned  to  "something  in  the  pastoral  line." 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW   (1807-1882) 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  descended  on  his  mother's  side  from 
Priscilla  Alden,  was  born  in  Portland,  Maine,  February  27,  1807.  He  was 
the  second  of  eight  children.  His  mother  read  Cowper,  Hannah  More  and 
"Ossian"  to  the  family;  these,  with  the  "Sketchbook,"  formed  the  poet's 
literary  taste.  His  first  verses  appeared  in  the  Portland  Gazette  in  1820. 
The  home  library  contained  Milton,  Pope,  Dryden,  Moore,  and  "Don 
Quixote" ;  Gray  and  Chatterton  he  discovered  in  college,  and  he  thus  early 
acquired  that  mild  romanticism  which  never  left  him. 

In  1822  Longfellow  matriculated  as  a  sophomore  at  Bowdoin  College, 
where  Hawthorne  was  a  classmate.  His  college  career  was  marked  by 
exemplary  conduct,  a  few  melancholy  poems  (a  "Dirge  Over  a  Nameless 
Grave"  is  an  early  production ! ) ,  and  a  seven-minute  commencement 
address  on  "Our  Native  Writers."  In  spite  of  parental  opposition,  he  early 
determined  on  a  literary  career;  upon  his  graduation  in  1825  the  trustees 
of  the  college,  impressed,  it  is  said,  by  a  translation  of  Horace,  and  desirous 
of  emulating  Harvard,  offered  the  professorship  of  modern  languages  to 
Longfellow.  As  European  preparation  was  made  a  condition  of  the  offer, 
the  young  professor  sailed  for  France  in  1826.  Upon  this  journey  he 
mastered  the  Romance  languages  and  acquired  material  for  several  prose 
sketches,  culminating  in  "Outre-Mer"  (1835),  a  frank  imitation  of  Irving. 

Upon  his  return  in  1829  he  began  teaching.  In  those  Arcadian  days, 
Longfellow  had  to  prepare  his  own  textbooks ,  and  serve,  besides,  as  the 
college  librarian.  His  modest  salary  ($900)  enabled  him  to  marry,  how 
ever,  in  1831,  the  bride  being  Mary  Story  Potter.  He  had  time,  too,  to 
publish  his  sonorous  translation  of  the  Coplas  of  Jorge  Manrique  (1833) 
— it  was  the  time  of  our  interest  in  things  Spanish — a  book  which  secured 
for  him  Ticknor's  approbation  and  the  appointment  to  Harvard  as  his 
successor.  Again  a  European  journey  prefaced  the  poet's  college  work; 
the  Longfellows  sailed  for  England  in  1835,  visiting  northern  Europe  so 
that  the  poet  could  familiarize  himself  with  the  Teutonic  languages.  On 
this  trip  he  fell  under  the  spell  of  German  romanticism,  especially  of 
Richter,  and  on  this  journey  Mrs.  Longfellow  died  (1835). 

Longfellow  began  teaching  at  Harvard  the  following  year,  holding  the 
chair,  despite  growing  distaste  for  his  occupation,  until  1854.  In  1839 
he  published  "Hyperion,"  a  romance  of  the  Werther  school,  and  once  a 
guidebook  for  Americans  in  Germany.  "Voices  of  the  Night,"  his  first 
important  book  of  verse,  containing  "A  Psalm  of  Life,"  "The  Reaper  and 


AMERICAN    POETRY 

the  Flowers,"  and  other  popular  favorites,  appeared  that  same  year.  The 
"Ballads" — "The  Skeleton  in  Armor,"  "The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus"  and 
others — were  printed  two  years  later.  After  his  third  voyage  to  Europe, 
on  which  he  met  Freiligrath,  a  life-long  friend,  he  brought  out  seven 
"Poems  on  Slavery,"  an  extremely  mild  contribution  to  polemics.  "The 
Spanish  Student,"  a  play  in  verse,  appeared  in  1842. 
On  this  last  journey  Longfellow  wrote: 

Half   of    my    life   is    gone,    and    I    have    let 
The  years   slip    from   me   and   have   not   fulfilled 
Tlie   aspiration   of   my    youth,   to   build 
Some   tower    of   song   with    lofty   parapet     .     .     . 
.    .    .    sorrow,  and  a  care  that  almost  killed, 
Kept    me    from    what    I    may    accomplish   yet. 

He  was  searching  at  once  for  peace  and  for  something  more  substantial 
than  swallow-flights  of  didactic  song.  Domestic  happiness,  which  he  most 
needed,  came  in  1843,  with  his  marriage  to  Fanny  Appleton,  who  helped 
him  with  his  next  work,  an  anthology,  "Poets  and  Poetry  of  Europe" 
(1845).  He  wrote  in  December  of  that  year:  "Peace  to  the  embers  of 
burnt-out  things;  fears,  anxieties,  doubts,  all  are  gone."  "The  Belfry  of 
Bruges  and  Other  Poems"  (1846)  marks  the  transition  to  his  middle  period. 

Longfellow's  best  work  was  done  from  1845  to  1861.  In  this  epoch 
he  began  to  write  narrative  verse,  and  his  three  great  American  poems 
appeared,  "Evangeline"  in  1847,  "The  Song  of  Hiawatha"  in  1855,  and 
"The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish"  in  1858.  "The  Seaside  and  the  Fire 
side,"  containing  "The  Building  of  the  Ship"  (almost  the  only  reflection 
in  his  verse  of  the  troubles  of  the  republic)  and  his  finest  sea-lyrics,  ap 
peared  in  1849.  In  that  same  year  he  took  up  "the  sublimer  Song  whose 
broken  melodies  have  for  so  many  years  breathed  through  my  soul  .  .  ." 
whose  message  should  furnish  some  equivalent  expression  "for  the  trouble 
and  wrath  of  life,  for  its  sorrow  and  mystery."  This  was  the  conception  of 
his  trilogy,  "Christus :  A  Mystery,"  which  dominated  his  literary  life.  The 
second  part,  and  by  far  the  best,  "The  Golden  Legend,"  was  published  in 
1851.  He  began  in  1860  the  series  of  narrative  poems  which  were  pub 
lished  as  "Tales  of  the  Wayside  Inn"  (1863). 

The  great  break  in  the  poet's  life  came  in  1861  with  the  tragic  death 
of  his  wife.  For  a  time  he  kept  up  desultory  production,  but  his  great 
work  was  the  translation  of  Dante  (1867-70).  His  last  years  were,  like 
Browning's,  a  period  of  steady  literary  production,  increasing  fame,  hosts 
of  friends,  and  no  great  change  in  poetic  achievement.  "The  Bells  of 
San  Bias"  is  to  Longfellow  what  the  "Epilogue  to  Asolando"  is  to  Brown 
ing.  He  completed  his  trilogy  with  "The  New  England  Tragedies"  (1868) 
and  the  "Divine  Tragedy"  (1871).  The  second  part  of  the  Wayside  Inn 
appeared  in  1872  (in  "Three  Books  of  Song"),  the  third  in  1873  (in 
"Aftermath").  "The  Hanging  of  the  Crane"  was  written  in  1874,  the  year 
of  "Morituri  Salutamus."  His  last  volume  bore  the  pathetic  title,  "Ultima 
Thule"  (1880).  He  died  March  24,  1882. 

A  posthumous  collection  of  lyrics,  "In  the  Harbor,"  was  brought  out 
in  1882,  and  the  following  year  saw  the  publication  of  "Michael  Angelo, 
A  Fragment,"  the  moving  utterance  of  the  poet's  serene  old  age.  Those 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  663 

who  believe  that  Longfellow  had  no  thought  on  art  or  life  except  a  shallow 
optimism  cannot  do  better  than  study  the  relevant  parts  of  "Christus"  and 
"Michael  Angelo."  There  is  pathos  in  the  picture  of  Howells's  "White 
Mr.  Longfellow"  toiling  in  his  old  age  over  "Michael  Angelo,"  which 
concludes : 

.     .     .     I    am   so    old   that    Death 

Oft  plucks  me  by  the  cloak  to,   come  with   him; 

And   some   day,   like   this   lamp,   shall   I    fall   down, 

And  my   last   spark   of   life   will   be   extinguished. 

Ah  me!  ah  me!  what  darkness  of  despair 

So  near  to  death,  and  yet  so  far  from  God. 

/.  Texts. 

Complete  Works,  Riverside  Edition,  II  vols. ;  Standard  Library 
Edition,  with  the  life,  14  vols. ;  Cambridge  Edition  of  the  poems,  I  vol. 

II.  Biography. 

Life,  Samuel  Longfellow,  3  vols.;  Life,  T.  W.  Higginson  (American 
Men  of  Letters);  Life,  G.  R.  Carpenter  (Beacon  Biographies).  See 
also  My  Literary  Friends  and  Acquaintances,  W.  D.  Howells. 

///.  Criticism. 

Interpretations  of  Literature,  Lafcadio  Hearn;  Views  and  Re 
views,  W.  E.  Henley;  My  Literary  Passions,  W.  D.  Howells;  Park 
Street  Papers,  Bliss  Perry;  successive  criticisms  by  E.  A.  Poe,  in 
Works,  Virginia  Edition,  Vol.  X,  pp.  39,  40;  71-80;  Vol.  XI,  pp.  64-85; 
Vol.  XII,  pp.  41-106;  Vol.  XIII,  pp.  54-73;  American  Literature,  C.  F. 
Richardson,  Vol.  II,  ch.  iii;  Longfellow  and  Other  Essays,  W.  P.  Trent; 
Specimen  Days — The  Death  of  Longfellow — Walt  Whitman. 

In  the  roll  of  American  poetry  Longfellow's  work  undoubtedly  bulks 
the  largest.  Nevertheless,  critics  nowadays,  comparing  him  with  Poe,  or 
Emerson,  or  Whitman,  decry  his  didacticism,  the  sentimentality  and  pretti- 
ness  of  his  verse,  forgetting  that  poets  as  original  as  Poe,  as  independent 
as  Whitman,  or  with  the  intellectual  drive  of  Emerson  were  as  exceptional 
in  their  time  as  they  would  be  now.  Whether  or  not  such  criticism  is  just, 
we  shall  not  understand  Longfellow's  position  in  American  letters  until 
we  reconstruct  the  literary  taste  of  his  time  and  discover  how  good  is 
even  his  mediocre  work,  compared  with  the  popular  authors  of  his  day. 
An  excellent  approach  is  the  list  of  books  in  Mary  Potter's  library,  cited 
by  Higginson,  which  typically  represents  what  cultured  women  were  read 
ing  in  New  England  in  1831. 

There  were  first  Maria  Edgeworth's  "Harry  and  Lucy" ;  then  "Sabbath 
Recreations,"  by  Miss  Emily  Taylor;  then  the  "Wreath,"  a  gift-book  con 
taining  "a  selection  of  elegant  poems  from  the  best  authors,"  including 
Beattie's  "Minstrel,"  Blair's  "Grave,"  Gray's  "Elegy,"  Goldsmith's  "Trav 
eller,"  selections  from  Campbell,  Moore,  and  Burns,  and  a  few  American 
pieces,  among  them  Bryant's  "Death  of  the  Flowers."  As  the  biographer 
dryly  remarks,  "the  sombre  muse  undoubtedly  predominated."  There 
were  also  Miss  Bowdler's  "Poems  and  Essays"  (a  reprint  of  the  eighteenth 
edition!),  and  Mrs.  Barbauld's  "Legacy  for  Young  Ladies,"  "discussing 


664  AMERICAN    POETRY 

beauty,  fashion,  botany,  the  uses  of  history,  and  especially  including  a 
somewhat  elaborate  essay  on  female  studies" ;  Worcester's  "Elements  of 
History,"  and  "The  Literary  Gem,"  another  anthology.  Bryant  and  Dana 
were  the  popular  poets  (Longfellow  himself  asknowledged  Bryant  as  his 
master),  and  "parents  regarded  all  more  flowing  measures  as  having  a 
slight  flavor  of  the  French  Revolution." 

Later,  in  the  forties,  the  graveyard  school,  imported  or  native,  waned 
before  a  period  of  literary  "elegance,"  washed-out  Byronism,  of  the 
"literati,"  and  of  "female  writers"  who  invariably  "adorned  the  literature 
of  their  country."  Of  seventy  and  more  American  writers  sufficiently 
popular  to  be,  discussed  by  Poe  in  -the  "Literati,"  less  than  ten  are  now 
remembered.  Writing  in  1845,  in  reply  to  British  criticism,  George  P. 
Putnam  found  among  those  who  had  contributed  "much  to  elegant  litera 
ture"  that  would  "not  soon  be  lost  in  the  waters  of  Lethe"  such  mediocrities 
as  Miss  Gould,  Miss  Brooks,  Mrs.  Ellet,  "Lucretia,"  Margaret  Davidson, 
Mrs.  Sigourney,  and  Miss  Sedgwick.  Following  "Lallah  Rookh"  and 
Byron's  eastern  tales,  the  tinsel  brilliance  of  Willis's  paraphrases  of  the 
Scriptures  became  immensely  popular;  Orientalism  became  the  fashion, 
even  in  the  "Dial,"  Maria  Brooks  (Southey's  Maria  del  Occidente,  "the 
most  impassioned  and  imaginative  of  all  poetesses")  published  "Zophiel, 
or  the  Bride  of  Seven,"  and  as  late  as  1854  Bayard  Taylor  was  bringing 
out  the  "Poems  of  the  Orient."  Whoever  is  inclined  to  deal  harshly  with 
Longfellow  should  be  compelled  to  read  through  a  volume  of  "Godey's 
Lady's  Book,"  or  "Graham's  Magazine,"  the  latter  "embracing  every  depart 
ment  of  literature,  embellished  with  engravings,  fashion  and  music,  ar 
ranged  for  the  pianoforte,  harp  and  guitar."  "The  pages  of  the  early 
magazines,"  says  McMaster,  "abound  ...  in  sentimental  stories,  maudlin 
poetry,  puzzles,  and  advice  as  to  the  proper  way  to  cook  a  dinner  or  make 
a  dress."  The  adjective  applied  to  the  poetry  is  not  too  strong.1 

Nor  must  we  forget,  in  criticising  Longfellow's  didacticism,  that,  as 
Carpenter  says,  "At  no  time  in  the  history  of  the  country  was  there  a 
more  genuine  and  widespread  interest  in  matters  of  the  spirit,  and  nowhere 
was  this  interest  stronger  than  in  New  England.  The  old  Calvinism  was 
crumbling  away.  .  .  .  People  felt,  rather  than  knew,  that  the  old  religious 
systems  were  essentially  false,  that  man  was  not  powerless  in  the  hands 
of  a  foreordaining  fate,  that  life  was  not  merely  to  be  endured,  that 
nature  was  not  a  mere  ornament  of  man's  tomb,  and  the  world  but  the 
scene  of  his  disgrace.  They  were  thankful  to  the  theologians  and  philoso 
phers  who  could  help  them  understand  why  they  felt  thus,  but  most 
grateful  to  a  poet  who  could  cast  their  new  feelings  into  song.  .  .  ." 
Longfellow  must  be  read  not  only  with  Miss  Edgeworth's  moral  tales  but 
also  with  Channing  and  Theodore  Parker. 

Such  was  the  period  of  Longfellow's  early  popularity.  To  an  age 
steeped  in  didacticism  he  offered  "The  Psalm  of  Life" — didactic,  it  is  true, 
but  in  ringing  verses  the  like  of  which  had  not  appeared.  For  an  age 
groping  for  faith  in  place  of  doctrine,  he  wrote  "The  Reaper  and  the 

1  For  an  excellent  discussion  of  the  east  in  the  forties  read  John  Bach  McMaster, 
"History  of  the  People  of  the  United  States,"  vol.  vii,  chap.  Ixxiii,  from  which  some  of 
this  material  is  drawn. 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  665 

Flowers"  and  "Resignation."  More  than  that,  he  redirected  the  romantic 
temper  of  his  time.  Taking  up  the  work  of  Bryant  and  Ticknor  he  sup 
planted  the  crudities  of  impossible  eastern  tales  with  his  own  discoveries, 
and  while  Margaret  Fuller  was  vainly  praising  Goethe  in  the  "Dial," 
Longfellow,  more  practically,  was  translating  German  ballads  for  a  de 
lighted  public.  In  his  original  work,  in  "Hyperion"  in  prose,  in  volumes 
like  "The  Belfry  of  Bruges,"  in  short  narrative  poems  such  as  "Caspar 
Becerra,"  in  his  tales,  and  finally  in  "The  Golden  Legend,"  he  opened 
new  windows  on  Europe,  offering,  so  to  speak,  personally  conducted  tours 
through  the  cathedrals,  the  art  galleries,  the  history  and  romance  of  the 
Old  World,  and  throwing  over  them  a  glamour  and  a  beauty  peculiarly 
his  own.  Only  the  testimony  of  his  contemporaries  can  make  us  realize 
Longfellow's  importance  in  this  labor. 

More  important  for  us  is  the  fact  that  the  poet  was  the  explorer  of  a 
new  field.  By  him  poetry  that  is  essentially  American  is  given  its  largest 
impulse  and  the  best  of  our  narrative  poetry  is  written.  "Evangeline," 
"The  Song  of  Hiawatha,"  and  "The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish"  are 
native  to  the  soil ;  they  are  American  pioneers  in  theme,  in  metres,  and 
in  the  fact  that  they  are  long  narrative  pieces.  Even  adverse  critics  admit 
that,  given  a  story,  nobody  in  our  poetic  hierarchy  can  tell  it  better  than 
Longfellow.  He  is  the  only  American  who  stands  with  Chaucer  and 
Morris  in  that  difficult  field.  Nor  must  we  forget  that  he  is  our  first  poet 
of  the  sea,  and  the  first,  not  'even  excepting  Poe,  to  exhibit  a  mastery 
over  many  difficult  and  varied  metres. 

It  is  perhaps  unfortunate  for  Longfellow's  reputation  that  his  great 
popular  following  has  been  .gained  by  what  is  artistically  his  mediocre 
work.  Those  who  read  him  as  children — and  who  does  not? — seldom 
discover  that  the  author  of  "The  Village  Blacksmith"  was  also  the  author 
of  the  superb  sonnets  on  the  "Divine  Comedy,"  the  sonorous  strength  of 
"The  Saga  of  King  Olaf,"  and  the  haunting  ballad  of  "Count  Arnaldos," 
which  Henley  so  enthusiastically  praised. 

Yet  we  must  admit  that  to  our  taste  there  is  sometimes  a  monotony 
about  his  verse,  as  of  sweetness  too  long  enjoyed.  Moderri-rea<feT5~firrd 
his  didacticism  weariful,  not  because  it  teaches  a  lesson,  but  because 
much  of  it  is  unnecessary  explanation. "jlis  continual  search  for  metaphors 
often  results  inthere  prettmess  and  now  and  then  in  positive  bad  taste. 
He  is,  moreover,  unable  to  penetrate  the  deeper  passions  that  make  the 
puzzles  of  life — only  another  way  of  saying  that  Longfellow  is  not  Brown 
ing.  Yet  we  must  be  careful  not  to  be  afraid  of  a  poet  because  he  is 
popular :  there  is  a  vast  difference  between  the  ability  to  please  the  vulgar 
and  "that  exquisite  gift  possessed  by  a  few  men  of  essential  distinction — 
like  Gray,  like  Goethe,  like  Longfellow — of  giving  perfect  expression  to 
certain  feelings  which  are  'in  widest  commonalty  spread.'  "  Bliss  Perry, 
from  whom  this  is  taken,  has  said,  perhaps,  the  wisest  words  ever  spoken 
of  this  poet : 

"No  doubt  the  most  masterful  poets  have  certain  qualities  which  we 
do  not  find  in  Longfellow.  But  this  is  no  reason  for  failing  to  recognize 
the  qualities  which  he  did  command  in  well-nigh  flawless  perfection.  There 
are  candid  readers,  unquestionably,  who  feel  they  have  outgrown  him. 


666  AMERICAN   POETRY 

But,  for  one,  I  can  never  hear  such  a  confession  without  a  sort  of  pain. 
...  It  is  glory  enough  for  Longfellow  that  he  is  read  by  the  same  persons 
who  still  read  Robert  Burns,  and  the  plays  of  Shakespeare,  and  the 
English  Bible." 

J- 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES   (1809-1894) 

Holmes  was  born  in  Cambridge  in  1809,  coming  from  distinguished 
ancestry,  which  was  interwoven  with  that  of  the  Bradstreet,  Phillips. 
Hancock,  Quincy  and  Wendell  families.  His  father,  Abiel  Holmes,  was 
a  historian  and  a  Congregational  clergyman.  Holmes  was  prepared  for 
college  at  Phillips  Academy,  Andover,  andwas__a__graduate  of  Harvard 
in  the  class  of  1829.  As  literature,  to  which  he  was  inclined,  did  not  offer 
him  a  livelihood,  and  laW  proved  unattractive,  he  undertook  the  study  of 
medicine,  gaining  most  of  his  preparation  abroad  from  1833  to  ^35-  A 
year  of  teaching  at  Dartmouth,  and  practice  in  Boston,  during  which  he 
did  some  important  research  work,  were  followed  by  his  appointment  in 
1847  to  a  professorship  of  anatomy  and  physiology  at  Harvard,  a  post 
which  he  held  actively  until  1882  and  as  Professor  Emeritus  until  his 
death  in  1894. 

He  began  early  to  write  verse.  His  first  volume  of  poems  appeared 
in  1833,  and  the  second  in  1836,  the  year  in  which  he  took  his  professional 
degree.  The  rivalry  between  literature  and  medicine  was  again  recorded 
by  the  publication  of  the  third  volume  in  1846  just  before  his  appointment 
at  Harvard.  From  the(  establishment  of  'Ttie  Atlantic  Monthly  in  1857 
and  the  launching  therein  of  the  "Breakfast  Table  Series,"  his  reputation 
as  a  scientist  was  overshadowed  by  his  name  as  poet,  essayist  and  novelist. 
The  complete  edition  of  his  works  includes,  besides  the  three  volumes  of 
poetry,  the  four  above-mentioned,  "Pages  from  an  Old  Volume  of  Life" 
and  "My  Hundred  Days  in  Europe,"  his  three  novels,  "Elsie  Venner," 
"A  Mortal  Antipathy,"  and  "The  Guardian  Angel,"  and~^  his  lives  of 
Motley  and  Emerson.  Editions  of  his  poems  appeared  during  his  lifetime 
in  1833,  1836,  1846,  1861,  1865,  1874,  1875,  1880,  1888,  most  of  his  verses 
after  1857  appearing  first  in  The  Atlantic. 

I.  Texts. 

The  best  editions  of  his  poetry  are  in  the  volumes  included  in  the 
Riverside,  Autocrat,  or  Standard  Library  Editions,  or  the  one-volume 
Cambridge  Edition. 

//.  Biography. 

The  standard  biography  is  The  Life  and  Letters  of  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes,  by  John  T.  Morse,  Jr.,  2.  vols.  Other  familiar  studies  are 
included  in  The  Autocrat  and  His  Fellow  Boarders,  by  S.  M.  Crothers ; 
Authors  and  Friends,  by  Mrs.  Annie  Fields;  Old  Cambridge,  by  T.  W. 
Higginson;  My  Literary  Friends  and  Acquaintances,  by  W.  D.  Howells; 
My  Own  Story,  by  J.  T.  Trowbridge. 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS 

///.  Criticism. 

The  best  critical  discussions  include  the  appropriate  passages  or 
chapters  in  the  following:  The  Poetry  and  Poets  of  America,  by 
Churton  Collins;  Certain  Accepted  Heroes,  and  Other  Essays,  by  H.  C. 
Lodge;  The  Rhythm  of  Life,  and  Other  Essays,  by  Alice  Meynell; 
Poets  of  America,  by  E.  C.  Stedman;  Studies  of  a  Biographer,  by 
Leslie  Stephen;  Prose  Works  of  John  G.  Whittier,  Vols.  II  and  III. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  was  preeminently  loyal  to  his  friends  and  to 
his  neighborhood.  In  the  best  sense  of  the  word  he  was  extremely  provin 
cial.  He  was  the  proud  offspring  of  distinguished  New  England  ancestry. 
He  believed  in  the  value  of  the  intellectual  aristocracy  to  which  he  be 
longed.1  He  consciously  enjoyed  his  upbringing  with  Wendell  Phillips  and 
John  Lothrop  Motley,  and  his  older-brother  relationship  to  the  Dana  boys 
and  Thomas  Higginson  and  James  Lowell.  As  a  student  and  teacher  and 
alumnus  of  Harvard  College,  he  delighted  to  celebrate  her  traditions  and 
her  already  venerable  age.  When  the  reform  wave  between  1835  and  1850 
swept  many  of  his  friends  off  their  feet,  he  kept  his  quite  firmly  on  the 
wholesome  and  stable  New  England  ground.  In  1857  he  was  more  visibly 
interested  in  the  establishment  of  a  new  literary  monthly  than  in  the  over 
throw  of  slavery.  His  "Autocrat"  and  his  "Poet  at  the  Breakfast  Table," 
in  1857  and  1859,  were  pictures  of  a  serene  and  complacent  little  city — 
not  the  complete  Boston  of  those  years,  but  those  aspects  or  moods  of 
Boston  which  proved  attractive  to  the  man  of  intellect  rather  than  to  the 
man  of  feeling.  As  a  leading  member  of  the  Saturday  Club,  he  was  the 
central  figure  in  a  group  of  distinguished  gentlemen  who  represented 
breeding  and  culture.'  They  were  gentlemen  who  shared  in  the  great 
events  of  their  day  with  fine  courage  and  heroism,  but  they  came  to 
gether,  as  their  reminiscences  unconsciously  show,  not  so  much  to  enter 
into  earnest  discussion  of  the  problems  of  their  day  or  of  eternity  as  to 
indulge  in  sparkling  colloquy  to  which  Holmes  was  the  chief  contributor 
and  Lowell  an  able  second.  Emerson  did  not  altogether  enjoy  the  meet 
ings  because,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  was  so  often  reduced  to  the  loud 
laughter  which  in  his  opinion,  as  in  Goldsmith's,  was  no  true  index  of 
the  richly  furnished  mind. 

In  this  intellectual  world  it  should  be  understood  that  Holmes  was 
distinctly  a  liberal.  He  did  not  subscribe  to  the  old  theology  of  Anne 
Bradstreet  and  of  Jonathan  Edwards  and  of  his  own  father.  From  youth 
up  "Wendell"  inclined  naturally  to  the  Unitarian  liberalism  of  the  new 
Harvard  rather  than  to  the  orthodox  straitness  of  Andover  and  Yale. 
Again,  in  his  choice  of  a  profession,  he  was  quite  independent.  By  the 
natural  bent  of  his  mind  and  by  social  tradition  he  was  delegated  to  one 
of  the  learned  professions;  but  he  rejected  theology  and  law  for  medicine, 
which,  when  he  entered  it,  was  by  no  means  so  eligible  a  pursuit  for  a 
young  gentleman  of  parts  as  preaching  or  teaching  or  practising  at  the  bar. 

Furthermore,  it  should  be  understood  that  though  Holmes  was  not 
an  ardent  reformer  he  was  by  no  means  a  cold  incarnation  of  intellect. 
Nothing  could  be  farther  from  the  truth  than  this.  Although  he  did  not 

1  See   "Elsie   Venner,"   chap.    I.      "The    Brahmin    Caste." 


668  AMERICAN    POETRY 

share  the  deeper  enthusiasms  of  Emerson,  or  even  fully  understand  them, 
he  had  much  more  of  the  milk  of  human  kindness  in  him.  He  was  a  genial 
and  affectionate  comrade,  and  a  man  of  an  overflowing  loyalty  which 
ranged  all  the  way  from  college  spirit  and  local  pride  to  reverence  and 
patriotism.  Above  all,  he  possessed  the  amiable  qualities  which  belong  to 
the  genial,  as  contrasted  with  the  caustic,  humorist. 

Say,   shall   I   wound   with    satire's   rankling   spear 
The  pure,  warm  hearts  that  bid  me  welcome  here? 
Not  while  I  wander  through  the  land  of   dreams, 
To    strive    with    great    and    play    with    trifling    themes. 
Let  some  kind  meaning  fill  the  varied   line. 

Ten  years  before  he  wrote'  this  (in  the  introduction  to  Urania,  a  Rhymed 
Lesson,  1846)  Holmes,  according  to  his  own  commentary,  was  "a  young 
person  trained  after  the  schools  of  classical  English  verse  as  represented 
by  Pope,  Goldsmith,  and  Campbell,  with  whose  lines  his  memory  was 
early  stocked." 

To  a  striking  degree,  his  mind,  as^well  as  his  memory  was  filled  and 
shaped  by  these  earlier  models.  Th^__grjeat  jjrpup  of  early  romanticists 
left  Holmes,  for  the  most  part,  unaffected.  In  spirit  as  well  as  in  form 
Holmes  harked  back  to  their  predecessors.  He  wrote  jocoseria  like  "The 
Oysterman"  and  "The  Music  Grinders"  and  "The  Comet,"  just  as  Cowper 
and  Goldsmith  .and  jGayJhad  done.  He  wrote  occasional  poems,  and  very 
charming  and  touching  ones,  as  the  i8th  century  did  from  Pope  to  Sheridan. 
He  wrote  lyrics  with  a  pleasant  touch  of  sentiment  in  them  or  a  not  too 
compelling  moral  application.  He  wrote  on  the  Progress  of  Poetry  like 
Gray,  and  in  "Lord  of  all  being  throned  afar"  he  wrote  one  great  hymn 
as  fine  as  Addison's  single  outstanding  hymn,  "The  spacious  firmament 
on  high." 

J  Although  he  abjured  the  "rankling  spear,"  he  was  at  his  best  in  kindly 
satire.  He  was  a  keen  and  sane  and  genial  observer,  with  a  sober  feeling  for 
his  obligation  to  put  "the  staff  of  truth  to  the  old  lying  incubus,  no  matter 
whether  he  [did]  it  with  a  serious  face  or  a  laughing  one."  So  he  turned, 
not  as  a  rule  to  the  deepest  aspects  of  life  but  rather  to  the  upsetting  of 
popular  fallacies,  and  with  telling  effect.  "My  Aunt"  may  have  been  a 
source  of  quiet  anguish  to  certain  maiden  ladies  whom  it  too  truly  de 
scribed,  but  as  a  satire  it  was  directed  not  so  much  at  them  as  at  the 
"finishing  school"  system  of  which  they  had  been  the  innocent  victims/ 
The  chapter  in  "Elsie  Venner"  on  "The  Apollinean  Female  Institute"  is  a 
fair  sermon  on  the  text  furnished  by  "My  Aunt."  In  the  same  sense, 
"Latter  Day  Warnings"  was  directed  at  the  state  of  mind  in  which  Sev 
enth  Day  Adventism  could  flourish,  rather  than  at  "Miller's  Saints."  "We 
may  fairly  expect  the  millennium,"  said  Holmes,  "when  in  our  daily  life  we 
have  approached  somewhat  closer  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven  than  in  this 
modern  round  of  petty  dishonesties." 

But  when  you  see  that  blessed  day, 
Then   order  your  ascension   robe! 

Thus,  too,  "Contentment"  was  a  two-edged  satire,  addressed  not  only  at 
the  luxury-loving  self  who  makes  his  confession,  but  at  the  applause  of 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  669 

the  simple  life  by  those  who  had  no  real  desire  for  it.  A  little  while  before, 
Thoreau's  "Walden"  had  appeared.  He  and  the  rest  of  the  Concord  group 
were  all  for  "plain  living  and  high  thinking."  "It  is  a  very  pretty  concept 
of  life,"  said  Holmes,  ".  .  .  for  those  who  like  it.  Little  /  ask,  my  wants 
are  few."  And  then  he  went  on  to  show  with  what  beautiful  simplicity 
he  could  rub  along  on  an  income  of  not  more  than  twelve  or  fifteen 
thousand  a  year. 

The  best  ancLinost  4amous  example  of  all  the  satires  is  "The  Deacon's 
Masterpiece  or,  The  Wonderful  'One-Hoss  Shay,'  a  Logical  Story."  Holmes 
had  been  brought  up  under  the  austerities  of  Calvinistic  theology.  It  was 
a  creed  derived  not  from  the  consciousness  of  God  as  he  was  daily  revealed 
in  nature  and  mankind^  but  from  the  interpretations  put  upon  the  Scriptures 
by  a  grim  sect  of  theologians.  They  assumed  that  through  the  sin  of 
Adam — one  recalls  no  mention  of  Eve — all  mankind  had  incurred  the 
eternal  wrath  of  God;  that  the  intervention  of  the  Mediator  had  earned 
for  certain  of  the  Elect  an  immunity  from  future  punishment;  but  that 
these  happy  few  had  been  elected,  not  on  account  of  any  desert  of  their 
own,  for  they  deserved  nothing,  but  by  the  arbitrary  exercise  of  God's  will. 
Starting  from  these  assumptions,  the  Calvinistic  preachers  of  New  England 
composed  sermons  in  such  a  logical  way  that  there  was  no  escape  from 
their  awful  conclusions.  So  it  happened  that  with  the  revolt  of  the  I9th 
century  the  creed  broke  down,  though  it  couldn't  wear  out.  This  gives  the 
whole  point  to  the  emphasis  upon  logic,  the  truth,  the  parson,  the  sermon, 
and  the  collapse  in  front  of  the  "meet'n'-house." 

Given  Holmes's  humor  and  the  humorist's  inclination  to  deal  effectively 
with  some  typical  aspect  of  human  life,  the  predominant  quality  of  Holmes's 
verse  is  the  ready  play  of  his  fancy  in  the  application  of  some  sentiment 
or  the  exposition  of  some  truth.  He  frequently  had  the  happy  inspiration 
of  seeing  at  a  flash  how  he  could  convey  a  certain  idea,  but  he  almost  never 
conveyed  it  by  brief  suggestion.  His  mind  was  like  the  riot  of  an  old- 
fashioned  garden:  to  illustrate  a  fact  about  a  pistil  or  a  stamen  he  would 
fetch  in  a  lavish  armful.  This  was  the  method  of  his  conversation,  of 
which  his  Breakfast  Table  Series  were  the  nearest  reproduction,  and  his 
poems  only  somewhat  compressed  and  polished  versions.  The  three  last 
mentioned  satires  are  complete  illustrations  of  this  method.  Each  contains 
a  catalogue  of  whimsically  assembled  items  with  appropriate  comment. 
Thus,  in  his  "Farewell  to  Agassiz,"  before  the  naturalist  left  for  South 
America,  he  mentioned  that  the  mountains  were  awaiting  his  approval,  as 
were  also  five  other  natural  objects.  Holmes  wished  him  safety  from  the 
tropical  sun  and  twenty-two  other  dangers,  and  that  he  might  succeed  in 
finding  fossils  and  seven  other  things  of  interest.  "Bill  and  Joe"  contains 
sixty  lines  built  up  by  the  enumerative  method  on  the  truth  that  worldly 
distinctions  disappear  for  a  moment  in  the  light  of  old  friendships.  Of 
another  sort  is  the  fertile  elaboration  of  a  quaint  fancy.  "What  would  I 
be  if  one  of  my  eight  great,  great  grandmothers  had  married  another 
man?"  (32  lines);  or  "It  is  the  Salem  witches  who  furnish  the  power 
for  the  trolley  cars"  (146  lines). 

Such  displays  of  inventive  fancy  are  fair  representatives  of  the  man 
Holmes ;  but  the  poems  which  stand  out  as  works  of  art  are  the  briefer 


670  AMERICAN    POETRY 

/    lyrics.     The  satires  belong,  like  all  their  kind,  in  a  prose  setting;  several 
of  the  best  actually  appeared  in  "The  Autocrat."    But  "Old  Ironsides"  and 
"The  Last  Leaf,"  "The  Chambered  Nautilus"  and  "The  Sun-Day  Hymn"- 
these  upwellings  of  the  heart  are  the  element  in  Holmes's  poetry  that  will 
live  the  longest. 

SIDNEY  LANIER    (1842-1881) 

Sidney  Lanier,  of  Huguenot  and  Scotch-Irish  descent,  was  born  in  1842 
at  Macon,  Georgia.  As  a  boy  he  grew  up  in  the  traditions  of  the  "Old 
South,"  especially  exhibiting  a  passion  for  music  and  becoming  an  accom 
plished  flautist.  He  entered  Oglethorpe  University  as  a  sophomore  at 
fourteen,  graduating  in  1860  at  the  head  of  his  class.  In  1861  he  enlisted 
in  the  first  Georgia  organization  to  leave  for  the  war  front.  By  the  time 
of  his  release  from  the  five  months  of  prison  life  which  ended  his  war 
experience  in  1865,  his  health  was  permanently  impaired. 

From  1868  to  1872  he  "clerked,"  taught  a  country  academy,  and  eventu 
ally  practised  law  with  his  father.  In  late  1872,  after  an  alarming  decline, 
he  gave  up  the  law  and  went  to  Texas  for  his  health.  In  the  next  year  he 
became  first  flautist  for  the  Peabody  Orchestra  in  Baltimore,  and  it  was 
between  this  time  and  his  death  in  1881  that  he  wrote  all  of  his  best  poetry. 
For  the  support  of  himself  and  his  family,  he  supplemented  his  earnings 
from  music  by  literary  hack-work  and  by  lecturing  for  schools  and  colleges. 
In  1879,  after  two  years'  effort  by  President  Gilman  to  secure  him  the 
appointment,  he  was  made  Lecturer  on  English  in  Johns  Hopkins  Univer 
sity,  a  position  he  held  to  his  death. 

In  the  winter  of  1880-1881  he  was  able  to  give  only  twelve  lectures  at 
the  university;  in  forlorn  hope  the  Laniers  removed  to  Asheville,  N.  C., 
where  the  stricken  man  labored  heroically  at  miscellaneous  writing.  Later 
he  went  to  Lynn  in  the  Carolinas,  where,  in  dire  illness,  he  wrote  "Sunrise" 
just  before  his  death,  September  7,  1881. 

J.  Texts. 

Poems,  edited  by  his  wife,  with  memorial  by  W.  H.  Ward;  Select 
Poems,  with  introduction  and  notes,  by  Morgan  Callaway,  Jr. 

//.  Biography. 

Life,  Edwin  Mims  (American  Men  of  Letters)  ;  Letters  of  Sidney 
Lanier,  selections  from  his  correspondence,  1866-1881,  i  vol.;  Sidney 
Lanier,  Reminiscences  and  Letters,  D.  C.  Gilman,  South  Atlantic 
Quarterly,  April,  1905 ;  Sidney  Lanier,  Recollections  and  Letters, 
M.  H.  Northrup,  Lippincott's,  March,  1905. 

///.  Criticism. 

Questions  at  Issue,  Edmund  Gosse ;  Contemporaries,  T.  W.  Higgin- 
son;  A  Study  of  Lanier's  Poems,  C.  W.  Kent,  Pub.  Mod.  Lang.  Assoc., 
Vol.  VII,  pp.  33-63 ;  The  Literature  of  the  South,  M.  J.  Moses ;  Views 
about  Hamlet  and  Other  Essays,  A.  H.  Tolman;  Southern  Writers, 
W.  P.  Trent. 


CRITICAL    COMMENTS  671 

The  profound  influence  of  Lanier's  early  training  upon  his  work  has 
already  been  suggested.  Lanier  was  bred,  not  in  the  shallower  school  of 
manners  in  which  Poe  got  his  gentlemanly  bearing,  but  in  the  more  search 
ing  traditions  of  the  cultivated  South.  Here  he  got  his  high-mindedness, 
his  Presbyterianism,  and  a  certain  apartness  and  chastity  of  mind.  One 
thinks  instinctively  of  Sir  Galahad  as  Tennyson  pictured  him.  His  was 
a  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will,  and  if,  unlike  that  hero,  Lanier  had  the 
good  sense  not  to  announce: 

My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten 
Because  my  heart  is  pure, 

his  spirit  was  perpetually  in  the  state  pictured  by  the  poet: 

I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here, 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease, 

Pure   spaces   clothed   in    living  beams, 
Pure   lilie.s   of   eternal   peace 

Whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams. 

To  this  Presbyterian  training  he  owed  the  courage  with  which  he  fought 
his  fight — a  courage  that  cannot  be  too  often  and  too  heartily  admired. 
This  he  expressed  in  "The  Stirrup  Cup,"  a  flawless  piece  which  Herrick 
would  have  yearned  to  write,  as  "The  Ballad  of  Trees  and  The  Master" 
expresses  his  sense  of  the  immanence  of  Christ.  To  his  early  training,  as 
much  as  to  his  later  reading,  we  owe,  besides,  the  four  boys'  books.  This 
spiritual  chivalry  is  the  source  of  his  individuality  and  strength,  but  there 
is  a  tendency  to  forget  that  it  is  also  a  source  of  his  weakness. 

For  it  is  equally  true  that  there  comes  with  such  purity  as  Lanier's  a 
certain  softness,  a  fastidiousness,  a  kind  of  unconscious  and  perfectly 
irreproachable  intolerance.  Lanier  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  repeat 
the  Pharisee's  prayer,  or  to  die  of  a  rose  in  aromatic  pain,  but  he  could 
withdraw  from  the  sweat  of  life  completely.  Chastity  of  spirit  is  some 
times  narrow.  Hence,  the  white  flame  of  Lanier's  spirit  burnt  always  in 
a  prism;  the  hammer  of  his  exaltation  rose  and  fell  monotonously  on  the 
same  themes — music  and  art,  soul  and  love,  art  and  music,  love  and  spirit. 
One  longs  at  times  for  a  human  flaw  in  the  crystal  of  such  perfection.  The 
reader  tires  of  Lanier's  continual  excitement  of  spirit,  misses  in  "The 
Symphony"  the  hearty  humanness  of  "Abt  Vogler,"  or  of  so  humble  a  piece 
as  "Caspar  Becerra,"  and  in  the  hush  and  incense  of  his  love  poetry  pines 
for  an  honest  country  smack. 

There  are  two  remarkable  instances  of  this  narrowness  in  Lanier's 
work.  "The  Crystal"  is  the  best  single  example;  its  criticisms  of  Homer, 
Socrates,  Buddha,  Dante  and  others,  some  of  them  just,  have  the  fastidious 
air  of  a  spiritual  amateur,  and  the  manner  with  which  he  forgives  each 
in  turn  (Socrates  for  a  "year  worn  cloak,"  Milton  for  the  wars  of  "Para 
dise  Lost"  and  ^schylus  that  he  never  "learned  to  look  where  Love  stands 
shining")  is  full  of  syrupy  patronage;  one  is  reminded  of  a  very  young 
clergyman. 

Lanier  served  throughout  the  war.  He  was  young  and  certainly  impres 
sionable,  and  his  military  experience  embraced  the  Seven  Days,  lonely 
work  in  the  signal  corps,  and  the  foulness  of  a  federal  prison.  Longfellow, 


672  AMERICAN    POETRY 

who  was  not  in  the  conflict,  gave  us  "Killed  at  the  Ford";  Lowell,  with 
greater  reason,  wrung  a  cry  out  of  the  depths  in  "The  Washers  of  the 
Shroud,"  and  even  Whittier,  a  Quaker,  wrote  the  war's  most  quoted  ballad, 
"Barbara  Frietchie."  Whitman,  unlike  these,  toiled  among  the  wounded; 
out  of  the  sweat  and  agony  came  "The  Wound  Dresser,"  and  such  unfor 
gettable  pictures  as  "Cavalry  Crossing  a  Ford,"  and  a  phrase  that  sums 
up  the  horror  of  the  hospitals,  blood  "dripping  horribly  in  the  pail."  When 
we  turn  to  Lanier  we  get  in  "Tiger  Lilies"  a  literary  conceit  which  fan 
tastically  pictures  North  and  South  as  two  planters  cultivating  a  flower, 
and  in  "The  Psalm  of  the  West"  the  prettified  figure  of  a  tournament 
between  "Heart"  and  "Brain."  "Heart"  is  "a  youth  in  crimson  and  gold," 
"Brain"  is  "steel-armored,  glittering,  cold";  naturally,  he  runs  Heart  down, 
whereupon  Heart  somewhat  fatuously  remarks,  "My  love  to  my  beloved" 
and  expires. 

We  must  allow  much  for  Lanier's  bad  health.  This,  like  his  tempera 
ment,  cut  him  off  from  human  nature's  daily  food  to  brood  on  questions 
of  art  and  music.  Thus  he  wrote,  quite  wrongly,  in  "To  Bayard 
Taylor,"  of 

The  artist's  pain — to  walk  his  blood-stained  ways, 

A  special  soul,  yet  judged  as  general — 
The  endless  grief  of  art,  the   sneer   that  slays, 

The  war,  the  wound,  the  groan,  the  funeral  pall. 

Emerson,  or  Poe,  or  Longfellow,  does  not  talk  that  way  about  art.  The 
famous  and  eminently  false  line  with  which  he  ended  "The  Symphony" 

Music  is  love  in  search  of  a  word 

is  not  the  utterance  of  a  large  and  healthy  spirit;  it  is  the  reflection  of  an 
abnormally  spiritual  man. 

Finally,  Lanier's  verse  has  at  times  an  unpleasant  lusciousness,  as  in 
«uch  lines  as 

.Looping  low  with  languid  arms  the  Vine. 

One  should  note  the  recurrence  of  certain  words,  like  "sweet,"  which 
he  applies  to  everything  from  poets  and  philosophers,  who  are  "sweet 
righteous  lovers  large,"  to  "sweet  trees,"  the  "firm  sweet  limbs  of  a  girl," 
and — a  final  burst  of  sentimentality — "sweet  sometime."  We  find,  too,  so 
unpleasantly  physical  an  image  as 

For  every  long-armed   woman-vine 
That  round  a  piteous  tree  doth  twine, 

in  his  best  work. 

Out  of  this  brooding,  then,  on  art  and  the  workmanship  of  art  spring 
Lanier's  two  great  faults — his  elaborate  conceits  (with  these  go  his  exces 
sive  personifications)  and  his  lack  of  spontaneity.  Instances  of  the  first 
mar  even  his  best  work.  The  most  curious  example  is  an  early  poem, 
"Clover,"  inscribed  to  the  memory  of  Keats,  which  is  full  of  strained 
fancies.  The  poet  lies  down  in  a  clover  field  and  utters  these  far-fetched 
lines : 

Now,  Cousin  Clover,  te]l  me  in  mine  ear: 
Go'st  thou  to  market  with  thy  pink  and  green? 

Three  Leaves,  instruct  me!     I  am  sick  of  price. 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  673 

Then  he  holds  up  two  clover-stems  to  frame  his  face,  the  clover-field 
becomes  the  "Up-and-Down  of  Time,"  the  clover-blossoms  are  the  heads 
of  his  favorites  in  art — "Raphael,  Lucretius,  Omar,  Angelo"  (the  list  is 
reminiscent  of  the  World's  Best  Books) — when  presently 

Comes  the  Course-of-things  shaped  like  an  ox, 
Slow   browsing,    o'er   my    hillside,   ponderously — 
That  hath   his  grass,   if  earth   be  round  or  flat. 

This  cool,  unasking  ox 

Comes  browsing  o'er  my  hills  and  vales  of  Time, 
And   thrusts   me   out    his   tongue,  and   curls  it,   sharp, 
And   twists  them   in    all — Dante,    Keats,    Chopin, 
Raphael,   Lucretius,   Omar,  Angelo     .... 

.     .     .     and  champs   and   chews, 
With  slantly-churning  jaws  and  swallows  down. 

This  is  the  very  parody  of  poetry;  it  recalls  Carew,  and  Fletcher's  "The 
Purple  Island."  And  in  his  better  work  we  have 

the  star-fed   Bee,  the  build-fire  Bee    : 
the  great  Sun-Bee 
That  shall  flash  from  the  hive-hole  over  the  sea 

for  sunrise; 

Thus,  if  this  Age  but  as  a  comma  show 
Twixt  weighter  clauses  of  large-worded  year 

and 

Why  snakes  that  crawl  the  earth  should  ply 

Rattles,   that   whoso   hears   may   shun, 
While   serpent  lightenings   in  the   sky, 

But  rattle  when  the  deed  is  done, 

all  in  the  best  style  of  Dr.  Donne.  Sometimes  these  conceits  are  pretty 
and  ingenious,  but  they  are  not  great  poetry,  or  even  good  poetry,  and 
Lanier's  admirers  who  try  to  place  him  among  the  great  American  poets 
are  merely  doing  him  a  grave  injustice. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  much  of  his  work  lacks  spontaneity.  He 
had  a  new,  and,  as  he  thought,  epoch-making  idea  of  verse-technique, 
which  led  him  to  prefer  great  irregularities  in  line  and  stanza  structure. 
But,  unfortunately,  Lanier's  verse  does  not  follow  the  only  plan  which  such 
verse  can  properly  follow ;  it  does  not  conform  to  the  contour  of  the 
thought,  it  is  shaped  according  to  a  complex  pattern  of  phrases,  bars,  and 
time-values  which  have  their  place  in  another  art.  A  comparison  with 
Lowell's  odes  points  the  difference : 

Who  now  shall  sneer? 
Who  dares  again  to  say  we  trace 
Our  lines  to  a  plebeian   race? 
Roundhead   and   Cavalier ! 

Dumb  are  those  names  erstwhile  in  battle  loud; 
Dream-footed   as   the   shadow   of   a  cloud 
They  flit  across  the  ear, 

owes  its  shape  to  the  laws  of  language  as  they  express  thought,  but 

Gleams  of  the  live-oaks,  beautiful,  braided  and  woven- 
With  intricate  shades  of  the  vines  that  myriad-cloven 
Clamber  the  fork  of  the  multiform  boughs — 

Emerald    twilights 

Virginal    skylights 
Wrought  of  the  leaves  to  allure  to  the  whisper  of  vows, 


674  AMERICAN    POETRY 

owes  its  shape  to  nothing  but  caprice  and  a  mistaken  attempt  to  do  with 
language  what  belongs  to  music.  With  Lowell,  form  and  thought  were 
fused  together;  with  Lanier,  the  entire  process  was  conscious  and  sophis 
ticated;  he  tries  to  load  every  rift  with  ore  until  the  lines  swing  across  the 
brain  without  making  any  impression.  Indeed,  it  is  probable  that  many  of 
those  who  read  Lanier  do  so  because  they  have  a  sense,  as  .Lowell  said  of 
Emerson,  that  something  beautiful  passed  by ;  they  do  not  have  to  consider 
what  it  was,  and  could  not  tell  if  they  were  asked.  Great  poets  keep  the 
faculties  awake,  they  wrestle  with  the  mind,  as  Lanier  seldom  does. 

Much  of  this  discussion  has  been  made  pertinent  by  the  fervor  of  the 
Lanier  cult  in  recent  years.  Many  of  his  faults  he  could  not  escape, 
even  if  he  had  been  a  more  virile  writer  than  he  was ;  they  were  inherent 
in  the  age.  He  had,  first  of  all,  to  undergo  the  blunders  and  bad  taste  of 
the  reconstruction  period;  the  blunders  he  was  big  enough  to  forgive, 
but  the  bad  taste,  like  his  illness,  drove  him  back  for  refuge  to  his  art.  It 
must  not  be  forgotten  that  Lanier  was  a  Southern  gentleman,  sensitive 
and  proud,  forced  to  live  in  "a  carnival  of  misrule  hitherto  unapproached 
in  American  annals,  though  equalled  in  the  same  period  in  the  metropolis 
of  the  country  under  Tweed" ;  that  in  this  era,  murders,  outrages  and  riots 
— in  which  Louisiana  won  an  unenviable  reputation — were  common  at 
Southern  elections,  and  that  Georgia,  like  every  other  State,  suffered  the 
ignominy  of  the  carpet-bag  rule.1  In  short,  the  South  was  undergoing  all 
the  shame  and  suffering  pictured  in  Thomas  Nelson  Page's  "Red  Rock." 
An  invalid  of  Lanier's  sensitive  nature  naturally  recoiled  and  took  refuge 
in  art. 

When  at  last  he  turned  North,  Lanier  was  met  by  conditions  which 
an  eminent  historian  has  called  "the  nadir  of  national  disgrace."  Between 
1867  and  1881,  when  Lanier  was  engaged  in  creative  work,  there  were  in 
succession  the  Credit  Mobilier  fraud  (1867-1868),  which  disgraced  most 
prominent  men,  not  sparing  two  successive  vice-presidents  of  the  United 
States;  Black  Friday  (1869),  reminiscent  of  Jay  Gould  and  the  malodorous 
"Jim"  Fisk ;  the  trials  of  Grant's  -  own  secretary  and  of  the  Secretary  of 
War  (Belknap)  for  malfeasance  in  office;  the  removal  of  the  Governor 
of  Nebraska  (1871)  for  embezzlement;  sensational  revelations  of  corrup 
tion  in  the  Senatorial  elections  in  Kansas  (1872)  ;  the  discovery  that  the 
Ambassador  to  Great  Britain  was  associated  with  a  dubious  mining  scheme ; 
the  Salary  Grab;  the  panic  of  1873;  the  "Whiskey  Ring"  revelations  of 
1874;  widespread  intimidation  and  bribery  in  the  national  elections  of 
1877;  a  year  of  violence  and  bloodshed  caused  by  the  great  railroad  strike, 
and  scandals  many  more.  If  Lanier  turned  in  disgust  from 

the  vigorous  tale 
Of  bill  for  coin  and  box  for  bale, 

he  did  no  more  than  Taylor,  Aldrich,  E.  R.  Sill,  Simms,  and  Stoddard.  One 
searches  in  vain  in  the  poetry  of  Lanier's  period  for  the  earnestness  and 
fire  of  Whittier  or  Lowell ;  the  nation  was  apparently  flatulent,  stertorous, 
corrupt,  and  contented ;  and,  as  in  all  such  periods,  there  was  a  tremendous 

1  As  late  as   1873  three-fourths  of  the  legislature  of   South   Carolina  was  black. 
*  Grant   typified   the   age   when    he   said,   "There   are   two   humbugs — one   is   Civil    Service 
Reform;   the  other,  the  reformers." 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  675 

preoccupation  with  art  and  technique  and  very  little  interest  in  ideas  and 
issues.  We  were  living  (as  in  Emerson's  prime)  in  the  trough  between 
two  great  moral  issues.1 

If  we  turn  from  this  consideration  of  Lanier's  shortcomings  to  the 
noble  pleasure  of  praising,  we  find  that  he  has  given  us  two  forceful  bal 
lads,  "The  Revenge  of  Hamish"  and  "The  Song  of  the  Chattahoochee," 
and  lyrics  like  "Life  and  Song,"  "The  Stirrup  Cup,"  "Evening  Song," 
"Marsh  Song,"  and  "The  Ballad  of  Trees  and  The  Master,"  which,  though 
some  of  them  are  obviously  bookish,  are  quaint,  direct  and  melodious. 
"How  Love  Looked  for  Hell"  is  a  piquant  poem;  it  will  have  the  same 
admiration  that  Donne  has  in  English  literature.  Of  the  longer  pieces, 
"The  Symphony"  has  immortal  stuff  in  it,  though  some  parts  of  it,  notably 
the  "horn  solo,"  are  tainted  with  sentimentality.  The  "Psalm  of  the  West" 
fails  as  a  whole,  but  it  contains  the  sonnets  on  Columbus  which  are  mascu 
line,  like  "Hamish"  and  better  art.  There  remain  the  "Hymns  of  the 
Marshes"  as  Lanier's  typical  work.  These  are  masterpieces ;  the  music 
of  parts  of  them  is  unparalleled  in  American  song,  and  such  a  passage 
as  the  one  beginning 

As  the  marsh-hen  secretly  builds  on-  the  watery  sod. 
Behold,  I  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  greatness  of  God 

is  better  than  Whittier ;  it  has  the  toughness  and  spiritual  resiliency  of 
William  Vaughn  Moody.  In  these  hymns  all  is  melody,  there  is  little 
painting  or  sculpture,  and  if  the  sense  is  often  drowned  in  a  flood  of 
vowels,  at  its  best  the  movement  is  bold,  free  and  original. 

If  we  try  to  put  all  this  together,  we  shall  find  that  Lanier  is  not  what 
has  been  claimed  for  him,  one  of  the  great  American  poets,  but  rather  one 
of  the  most  interesting  of  our  minor  writers.  His  genius,  admirable  as  it 
was,  was  somewhat  handicapped  by  his  temperament  and  his  time.  He  was 
further  handicapped  by  a  theory  of  technique  which  crippled  his  spon 
taneity,  and  by  manners  which  are  idiosyncrasies  and  not  style.  Lanier 
was,  in  short,  rather  a  lover  of  things  beautiful  than  a  creator;  a  brave 
soldier  riding  on  the  quests  of  a  spiritual  knighthood,  but  of  a  knighthood, 
like  its  earthly  prototype,  which  left  an  inextensive  structure  behind  it, 
quaint  and  courtly,  but  not  great,  and  filled  with  the  memory  of  the  world 
as  it  never  was. 

J- 

1  For  studies  in  this  period  see  Paul  L.  Haworth,  "Reconstruction  and  the  Union." 
1912;  John  W.  Burgess,  "Reconstruction  and  the  Constitution,"  1866-76,  1902;  W.  A. 
Dunning,  "Reconstruction,  Political  and  Economic,"  in  The  American  Nation  Series;  Elaine, 
"Twenty  Years  in  Congress,"  1886,  vol.  ii;  and  Rhodes,  "History  of  the  United  States," 
vols.  vi  and  vii  (1906),  especially  chapd.  xxxix  to  xliii. 


676  AMERICAN    POETRY 

WALT  WHITMAN    (1819-1892) 

Whitman  was  born  in  Huntington,  Long  Island,  in  1819,  the  second 
of  nine  children.  He  went  to  public  school  in  Brooklyn  and  received  much 
of  his  educational  discipline  in  print  shops  (1833-1837)  and  in  a  year  or 
two  of  school  teaching.  From  1839,  when  he  started  and  carried  on  a 
weekly  paper  in  Huntington,  until  1855,  he  worked  as  compositor  at  times 
and  at  times  as  newspaper  writer.  This  was  mainly  in  and  around 
New  York  City,  though  from  1848  to  1850  he  took  a  leisurely  trip  through 
the  Middle  States,  down  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi  Rivers  to  New  Orleans, 
and  back  by  way  of  the  Great  Lakes  and  Canada.  In  1855  appeared 
"Leaves  of  Grass,"  issued  and  in  part  actually  put  into  type  by  Whitman. 
Subsequent  editions  under  the  same  title,  but  each  time  with  an  added 
group  of  poems,  appeared  during  his  lifetime  in  1856,  1860,  1865,  1867, 
1872,  1876,  1881  (Boston),  1881  (Philadelphia),  1888,  and  1891. 

Whitman  went  to  the  front  in  1862,  when  his  younger  brother,  George, 
was  wounded,  and  continued  in  service  as  a  hospital  nurse  until  the  end 
of  the  war.  The  strain  of  the  work  and  the  result  of  septic  poisoning  in 
1864  permanently  depleted  his  health.  His  brief  time  of  office  as  clerk 
in  the  Department  of  the  Interior  was  ended  T)y  his  discharge  on  the 
ground  of  being  "the  author  of  an  indecent  book."  After  suffering  a 
paralytic  stroke  in  1873  he  became  an  invalid  for  the  rest  of  his  life, 
living  almost  in  poverty  in  Camden,  New  Jersey,  until  1881,  when  the 
income  from  his  writings  became  a  material  help.  He  died  in  1892. 

L  Texts. 

The  chief  accessible  editions  of  Whitman  are:  Leaves  of  Grass — 
Complete  Poetical  Works,  i  vol.,  and  Complete  Prose  Works,  I  vol., 
Small,  Maynard  &  Co.  Selections  from  the  Prose  and  Poetry  of 
Whitman,  edited  by  O.  L.  Triggs,  10  vols.  Leaves  of  Grass,  David 
McKay. 

No  other  American  poet  has  been  the  subject  of  so  much  spirited 
biographical  and  critical  discussion.  The  more  important  studies 
include  the  following: 

II.  Biography. 

Walt  Whitman,  R.  M.  Bucke ;  In  Re  Walt  Whitman,  edited  by 
literary  executors;  Walt  Whitman,  G.  R.  Carpenter  (English  Men  of 
Letters)  ;  Walt  Whitman,  Bliss  Perry  (American  Men  of  Letters)  ; 
Notes  on  Walt  Whitman  as  Poet  and  Person,  John  Burroughs ;  The 
Good  Gray  Poet,  a  Vindication,  W.  D.  O'Connor ;  With  Walt  Whitman 
in  Camden,  Horace  Traubel. 

///.  Criticism. 

Whitman,  a  Study,  John  Burroughs;  the  appropriate  chapters  in 
Emerson  and  Other  Essays,  J.  J.  Chapman;  Studies  in  Literature, 
Edward  Dowden ;  prefatory  note  to  Poems  of  Walt  Whitman,  edited 
by  W.  M.  Rossetti ;  Interpretations  of  Poetry  and  Religion,  George 
Santayana;  Poets  of  America,  E.  C.  Stedman;  Familiar  Studies  of 


a-  v 

* 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  677 

Men  and  Books,  R.  L.  Stevenson;  Studies  in  Prose  and  Poetry,  A.  C. 
Swinburne. 

A  criticism  of  Walt  Whitman's  poetry  may  as  well  start  with  con 
sideration  of  his  verse  form,  largely  because  the  discussion,  like  woman 
suffrage,  is  bound  to  come,  and  may  better  be  disposed  of  soon  in  order 
to  make  way  for  more  important  problems.  Some  people,  like  Professor 
Barrett  Wendell,  with  his  comment  about  "hexameters  trying  to  bubble 
through  sewage,"  have  tried  unsuccessfully  to  dispose  of  his  verse  methods 
by  the  use  of  crushing  epigram;  but  the  verse,  not  content  with  surviving, 
is  exerting  an  immense  influence  on  contemporary  writers.  Some  critics, 
like  Whitman  himself,  with  his  "I  sound  my  barbaric  yawp  over  the  roofs 
of  the  world,"  have  tried  with  equal  unsuccess  to  substitute  a  word  of 
defiance  for  an  honest  discussion,  but  the  discussion  will  not  be  waived. 

In  so  brief  a  statement  as  this,  all  that  can  be  done  is  to  mention,  as 
easily  subject  to  proof,  a  few  of  the  leading  facts.  The  first  is  that  Whit- 
man  deliberately  adopted  his  own  mode  of  writing  after  he  had  experi 
mented  successfully  with  the  conventional  forms,  and  that  even  in  turning 
to  his  more  individual  method,  he  was  not  without  predecessors  or  sympa 
thetic  contemporaries.  Moreover,  all  along  through  his  career  he  inter 
spersed  passages  or  whole  poems  which  were  as  decorously  symmetrical 
as  any  poem  of  Longfellow's.  His  intention  and  his  point  of  view  were 
comparable  to  those  expounded  by  Wordsworth  in  his  essay  on  "Poetic 
Diction"  prefaced  to  the  Lyrical  Ballads. 

What  Whitman  desired  was  to  free  his  verses  from  the  traditions  of 
verse-making  which  were  likely  to  stand  between  him  and  his  readers. 
He  did  not  want  his  poetry  to  take  its  place  in  the  ranks,  as  any  uniformed 
private  might  do.  He  wanted  it  to  have  the  admirable  qualities  of  the 
athlete  or  the  woodman  or  the  primitive  Indian.  He  therefore  gave  over 
the  fixed  rhythms  that  occur  in  ordinary  stanzaic  forms  and  the  poetic 
locutions  that  were  associated  with  drawing-room  poetry.  He  aspired  in 
diction  to  achieve  "a  perfectly  clear,  plate-glassy  style,"  and  in  the  flow 
of  his  writings  to  suggest  the  rhythms  of  nature — more  especially  of  the 
wave-beat  on  the  shore. 

In  attempting  this,  he  became,  probably  without  knowing  it,  an  excellent 
literary  example  of  reversion  to  type.  He  wanted,  as  one  of  the  people, 
to  write  as  a  people's  poet ;  and  he  actually  did  compose  in  the  manner 
of  the  old  folk  poetry  with  its  characteristic  employment  of  parallel 
structure,  sometimes  in  contrast,  sometimes  in  repetition,  sometimes  in 
elaboration.  This  passage  in  commentary  on  himself  is  quite  to  the  point: 

I  call  the  world  to  distrust  the  accounts  of  my  friends,  but  listen  to  my  enemies,  as  I  myself  do. 
I  charge  you  forever  reject  those  who  would  expound  me,  for  I  cannot  expound  myself. 
I  charge  that  there  be  no  theory  or  school  founded  out  of  me. 
I  charge  you  to  leave  all  free,  as  I  have  left  all  free. 

A  similar  basic  sentence  architecture  appears  throughout  the  poetry  of  the 
Psalms,  as,  for  example,  in  this  passage  from  the  twenty-sixth : 

4.  I  have  not  sat  with  vain  persons,         neither  will   I  go  in  with  dissemblers. 

5.  I  have  hated  the  congregation  of  evil-doers;         and  will  not  sit  with  the  wicked. 

6.  I  will  wash  mine  hands  in  innocency;         so  will  I  compass  thine  altar,  O  Lord: 

7.  That  I  may  publish  with  the  voice  of  thanksgiving;         and  tell  of  all  thy  wondrous  works. 

8.  Lord,  I  have  loved  the  habitation  of  thy  house,        and  the  place  where  thine  honor  dwelleth. 


678  AMERICAN    POETRY 

Again,  the  same  stylistic  effect  is  produced  in  the  early  English  "Seafarer" 
from  the  Exeter  Book: 

I  may  sing  of  myself  now         a  song  that  is  true, 

Can  tell  of  wide  travel,         the  toil  of  hard  days; 

How  oft  through  long  seasons         I  suffered  and  strove, 

Abiding  within  my  breast         bitterest  care, 

How  I   sailed  among  sorrows         in  many   a   sea; 

The  wild  rise  of  the  waves         the  close  watch  of  the  night 

At  the  dark  prow  in   danger         of  dashing  on  rock 

Folded  in  by  the  frost,         my  feet  bound  by  the  cold 

In  chill  bands,  in  the  breast         the  heart  burning  with  care. 

At  times,  of  course,  Whitman  has  carried  this  parallelism  to  the  point  of 
weariness  in  his  relentlessly  long  inventory  passages.  Only  the  ultra- 
enthusiast  will  defend  these.  There  is  fluent  regularity  in  the  clatter  of 
a  small  boy's  stick  as  he  runs  it  along  a  picket  fence,  but  few  call  it  music. 

This  method  of  composition  achieves  a  sort  of  automatic  rhythm.  But 
Whitman  went  far  beyond  this,  and  composed  not  infrequently  passages 
which,  taken  out  of  their  original  contexts,  would  seem  at  home  in  any 
company.  Such,  for  example,  is  the  quatrain  in  seven-stressed  lines  from 
"The  Song  of  Myself" : 

The  wild   gander   leads   the  flock  through   the   cool   night, 
Ya-honk,   he   says,   and   sounds   it   down    to    me    like   an   invitation, 
The  pert  may  suppose  it  meaningless,  but,  I,  listening  close, 
Find   its  purpose  and  place   up   there  toward   the   wintry   sky. 

Furthermore,  at  his  best  he  was  finely  sensitive  to  the  adjustment  of  sound 
and  sense,  not  only  in  word  values,  but  also  in  rhythmic  variations.  This 
is  well  illustrated  in  a  passage  from  "Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry,"  which 
is  reproduced  exactly  here,  but  for  the  purpose  of  the  moment  varies  from 
the  original  in  its  appearance  on  the  page: 

I  too  many  and  many  a  time  crossed  the  river  of  old,  8 

Watched  the  Twelfth-month  sea-gulls,  3 

saw  them  high  in  the  air  3 

floating  with  motionless  wings,  3 

oscillating  their  bodies,  3 

Saw  how  the  glistening  yellow  3 

lit  up  the  parts  of  their  bodies  3  • 

and  left  the  rest  in  strong  shadow,  3 

Saw  the  slow-wheeling  circles  3 

and  the  gradual  edging  toward  the  south,  4 
Saw  the  reflection  of  the  summer  sky  in  the  water, 

Had  my  eyes  dazzled  by  the  shimmering  track  of  beams,  5 

Looked  at  the  fine  centrifugal  spokes  4 

of  light  round  the  shape  of  my  head  in  the  sunlit  water  5 

Look'd  on  the  haze  on  the   hills  southward  and  southwestward  6 

Look'd  on  the  vapor  as  it  flew  in  fleeces  tii.ged  with  violet,  6 

Look'd  toward  the  lower  bay  to  notice  the  vessels  arriving,  etc.,  etc.     6 

The  reader  with  an  ear  for  music  will  perceive  throughout  Whitman 
much  more  than  meets  the  eye,  a  melodic  beauty  which  appears  most 
richly  in  the  passages  of  nature  description,  and  rather  less  so  in  the  pas 
sages  of  abstract  content,  but  which  is  never  absent  long.  The  open-minded 
reader  of  taste  will  also  find  many  poems  or  passages  which  are  rough 
or  harsh  or  monotonous.  But  only  obtuseness  or  blind  prejudice  will 
deny  the  fine  art  of  Whitman's  best  verse. 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  679 

Whitman  wrote  as  a  conscious  and  representative  democrat.  In  all 
people  he  saw  himself  and  in  himself  he  saw  all  people.  Quite  consciously, 
he  limited  the  world  in  which  he  felt  any  vivid  interest  to  the  United 
States  and  the  American  nation.  The  democracy  that  he  extolled  was 
quite  incidentally  connected  with  any  form  of  government.  Even  on  » 
public  opinion,  although  his  respect  was  great,  he  did  not  set  much  value 
as  a  positive  daily  agency  for  political  ends.  Naturally  he  felt  little 
consequent  responsibility  as  a  voting  citizen.  He  pinned  his  faith  to  the 
general  promise  of  social  evolution,  and  believed,  quite  in  accord  with 
Emerson,  that  if  every  one  were  good,  everyone  would  be  happy.  The 
future  of  America  was  assured  because  the  future  of  the  race  was  safe, 
and  the  future  of  the  race  was  safe  because  God  willed  it  so.  On  this 
theme  Whitman  sang  with  epic  fervor  about  the  determinant  which  is  at 
the  back  of  all  faith, 

the   unseen   Moral   Essence   of   all   the  vast    Materials   of   America    (age   upon   age, 

working  in   Death  the  same  as  in  Life) 
[The  powers]  that,  sometimes  known,  oftener  unknown,  really  shape  and  mould  the 

New  World. 

There  was  little  of  what  is  usually  regarded  as  national  aspiration 
in  Whitman's  feeling  for  race  and  national  evolution.  There  is  as  much 
difference  between  his  belief  in  the  future  of  America  and  the  imperial 
dreams  of  European  nations  as  there  was  between  the  complementary 
ambitions  of  himself  and  Jay  Gould.  Whitman  strove  for  the  spiritual, 
development  of  the  community,  while  Jay  Gould  built  the  railroads ;  but 
while  Gould's  vast  projects  reached  only  to  the  Pacific,  Whitman's  dreams 
extended  to  "beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths  Of  all  the  western  stars." 
Yet  these  two  were  really  antithetical  American  types:  the  complete 
captain  of  industry  who,  in  the  name  of  progress,  crushes  competitors  to 
the  glory  of  God,  and  the  abstract  philanthropist  who,  in  the  name  of 
brotherhood,  condemns  competition  by  the  same  formula.  If  Jay  Gould 
was  a  harbinger  of  the  2oth  century  multi-millionaires  without  their 
expiatory  benevolence,  Walt  Whitman  was,  in  a  measure,  a  forerunner 
of  several  nrllion  less  prosperous  Americans  who  talk  about  manifest 
destiny  without  either  his  deep  faith  or  Gould's  practical  sagacity. 

In  his  attitude  toward  the  world  of  men,  Whitman  was  by  nature  and 
experience  even  more  devoid  of  any  international  sense  than  the  average 
man  of  his  day.  His  mind  seemed  to  entertain  no  concepts  between  his 
tangibly  concrete  surroundings  and  the  most  distantly  vague  abstractions. 
There  was  no  one  in  his  social  vista  between  Peter  Doyle  on  a  street-car 
and  the  "presence  .  .  .  whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns."  What 
he  knew  of  America  he  knew  down  to  the  ground;  of  other  strata  he  was 
grossly  ignorant,  and  of  Europe  he  had  no  clear  imagination.  It  was  a 
philosophical  encyclopedia,  a  thesaurus  of  abstractions,  but  not  a  place 
where  people  lived.  Much  less  was  it  a  community  of  nations  which  was 
for  human  and  tangible  and  credible  reasons  fighting  its  way  through 
the  io,th  century  to  the  grim  climax  of  the  2Oth.  His  view  of  the  world 
was  like  a  landscape  without  any  middle  distance.  Here  was  America, 
in  which  the  problems  of  the  future  were  to  be  solved,  while  Europe 
stood  yonder  in  admiring  expectancy.  In  the  fullness,  of  time  all  the 


680  AMERICAN    POETRY 

other  nations  would  follow  after  this  people,  who  had  shown  nothing 
but  contempt  for  the  Old  World  and  a  desire  to  be  kept  immaculate  from  it. 
So  his  ideas  of  the  Old  World  and  the  New  are  baffling  at  some  points 
and  irritating  at  others.  They  are  fragmentary  and  inarticulate,  and  in 
these  respects  typically  American.  But,  after  all  is  said  and  done,  they 
are  hope-inspiring,  and  in  their  individualistic  philosophy  essentially  sound. 
Program-makers  are  cropping  up  on  every  side  now;  their  work  was  not 
his,  and  if  he  were  living  to-day  he  would  still  be  singing  indomitably  of 
the  future 

Have   the   elder   races   halted? 

Do  they  droop  and  end  their  lesson,  wearied,  over  there  beyond  the  seas? 
We  take  up  the  task  eternal,  and  the  burden  and  the  lesson, 

Pioneers!     O  pioneers! 

Whitman's  dominant  interest  lay  in  the  performance  of  his  share  of 
"the  task  eternal."  The  only  dramatic  unities  to  which  he  would  submit 
included  all  time  and  all  space.  He  is  the  poet  whom  he  described  as  he 
sat  by  Blue  Ontario's  shore.  "He  bestows  on  every  object  or  quality  its 
fit  proportion,  neither  more  nor  less.  .  .  .  He  sees  eternity  in  men  and 
women."  In  his  unfailing  sense  for  universal  law,  he  was  at  one  point 
comparable  to  the  Puritans  for,  although  he  was  almost  totally  at  variance 
with  them,  his  mind,  like  theirs,  "had  derived  a  peculiar  character  from 
the  daily  contemplation  of  superior  beings  and  eternal  interests." 

Among-  contemporary  poets  on  either  side  of  the  Atlantic,  Whitman's 
influence  in  both  form  and  spirit  is  quite  without  parallel.  Witter  Bynner 
wrote  for  many  of  his  fellow  poets  in  "The  New  World," 

Somebody   called  Walt   Whitman 
Dead! 

He  is  alive  instead, 

Alive  as   I  am.      When   I  lift  my  head, 
His  head  is   lifted.     When  his  brave  mouth   speaks, 
My  lips  contain  his  word.     And  when  his  rocker  creaks 
Ghostly  in  Camden,  there  I  sit  in  it  and  watch  my  hand  grow  old 
And  take  upon  my  constant  lips  the  kiss  of  younger  truth     .     .     . 
It  is  my  joy  to  tell  and  to  be  told 
That  he  in  all  the  world  and  me, 
Cannot  be  dead, 

That   I,  in  all  the  world   and  him,  youth  after   youth 
Shall  lift  my   head. 


RICHARD   HENRY    STODDARD    (1825-1903) 

Stoddard  was  born  in  1825  in  Hingham,  Massachusetts,  a  seaside  town 
a  few  miles  southeast  of  Boston,  When  he  was  ten  years  old,  after  the 
death  of  his  father  at  sea,  his  mother  removed  to  New  York  and  there 
remarried.  He  went  to  public  schools  till  he  was  fifteen,  and  for  the  next 
nine  years  he  tried  his  hand  at  various  jobs  in  the  field  of  skilled  labor. 
All  the  while  he  was  reading  literature  and  making  the  acquaintance  of 
literary  people.  From  1849  to  1853  he  tried  to  support  himself  by  writing, 
but  from  the  latter  date  to  1870  he  held  a  post  in  the  New  York  Custom 
House.  From  1860  to  1870  he  was  literary  editor  of  the  New  York  World; 
from  1872  to  about  1880,  managing  editor  of  The  Aldine,  a  literary  journal, 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  681 

and  from  1880  to  his  death  in  1903,  literary  editor  of  the  New  York  Mail 
and  Express.  From  1860  to  1875  ^e  was  actively  and  somewhat  miscel 
laneously  concerned  in  editing  and  re-editing  various  compendious  works 
on  poets  and  poetry.  Volumes  of  his  own  poetry  appeared  during  his 
lifetime  in  the  following  years:  1849  (suppressed),  1852,  1857,  1863,  1865, 
1867,  1880,  1890. 

I.  Texts. 

Complete  Poems,  Scribners,  1880. 
//.  Biography. 

Recollections,  Personal  and  Literary,  edited  by  R.  Hitchcock,  1903. 
///.  Criticism. 

Aside  from  the  regular  sources  of  survey  criticism,  the  following 
articles  in  the  periodicals  are  significant:  Atlantic,  Vol.  XCIII,  p.  82; 
Critic,  Vol.  XLIV,  p.  52;  Dial,  Vol.  XXXV,  p.  299;  Harper's,  Vol. 
CVIII,  p.  479;  Nation,  Vol.  LXXVII,  p.  469;  Outlook,  Vol.  LXXVIII, 
P-  381- 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard  is  a  representative  in  American  literature  of 
the  metropolitan  group  of  whom  other  conspicuous  members  were  Bayard 
Taylor,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  and  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich.  None 
of  these  men  was  born  and  brought  up  in  New  York,  and  none  of  them 
partook  of  the  nature  of  the  town  as  Irving,  and  even  Bryant  and  Halleck, 
had  been  able  to  do  in  the  preceding  generation,  when  it  was  compact  and 
more  unified.  Aldrich  left  after  a  few  years  and  went  back  to  "the  Hub," 
where  he  was  much  more  content,  though,  as  he  said,  he  never  became 
more  than  "Boston  plated."  Taylor  clung  to  the  idea  of  establishing  a 
manorial  estate  at  Kennet  Square,  Pennsylvania,  but  lived  more  or  less  in 
New  York  and  buzzed  restlessly  about  it,  because  the  literary  market  was 
there.  Stedman  indulged  in  a  half-hearted  adoration  of  the  Muse,  but 
was  careworn  and  preoccupied  in  his  unsuccessful  attempt  to  become 
independently  rich.  Stoddard  was  more  stable  and  unexcited  than  the  other 
two  survivors,  but,  like  them,  was  occupied  in  a  succession  of  uninspired 
literary  ventures  in  book-making  and  journalism.  These  men  were,  in  a 
way,  the  first  American  literary  victims  to  the  turmoil  of  a  city  big 
enough  to  engulf  them  in  its  currents.  Not  only  were  they  unable  to 
impress  their  stamp  on  the  town  of  their  adoption,  but  in  their  inability 
they  had  to  accept  a  kind  of  defeat.  They  could  not  enjoy  the  serenity 
or  repose  which  belonged  to  the  Boston  or  the  Charleston  of  those  same 
days.  The  world  was  too  much  with  them. 

The  very  conditions  of  their  culture  were  totally  different.  Bryant, 
Irving,  Halleck  and  Greeley  were  self-educated  men,  and  so  were  almost 
all  of  their  New  York  successors.  The  New  England  group  had  the  im 
press  of  Harvard  and  Bowdoin  and  the  universities  of  the  Old  World, 
and  the  cultured  Southerners  of  the  day  were  more  and  more  of  them 
going  abroad  for  study  and  travel.  As  between  two  individuals,  it  is,  of 
course,  quite  apparent  that  one  may  contrive  to  profit  not  at  all  from 
formal  educational  opportunities,  and  the  other  may  achieve  sweetness  and 


682  AMERICAN    POETRY 

light  by  unassisted  might  and  main.  But  as  between  two  communities  no 
such  miracle  is  possible.  The  town  in  which  there  is  no  commanding 
group  who  have  lent  themselves  to  the  leisurely  contemplation  of  the 
things  that  are  more  excellent  has  missed  a  vital  something.  It  is  doomed 
to  be  relatively  feverish  in  pulse  and  materialistic  in  point  of  view. 

There  is  an  almost  pathetic  irony  in  the  way  in  which  the  men  of 
New  York  made  unconscious  acknowledgment  of  just  this  state  of  affairs. 
They  turned  to  literature  as  to  a  haven  of  refuge.  They  escaped  into  it 
from  life.  The  big  city  offered  them  no  legends ;  they  shrank  from  realistic 
portrayal ;  they  did  not  even  care,  except  in  rare  instances,  to  satirize  it. 
So  they  resorted  to  the  limbo  of  sentimentalism  and  to  distant  times  and 
climes.  "The  Ballad  of  Babie  Bell,"  "Ximen;  or  the  Battle  of  the  Sierra 
Morena,  and  Other  Poems,"  "Poems  of  the  Orient,"  "The  Blameless 
Prince,"  "Poems  Lyric  and  Idyllic,"  "Konigsmark  and  Other  Poems,"  "The 
King's  Bell,"  and  "The  Book  of  the  East,"  were  the  natural  output  of  such 
a  group.  And  the  plays  with  which  they  regaled  themselves  were  of  the 
same  vintage,  though  New  York  could  boast  few  of  the  playwrights. 
"Tortesa  the  Usurer,"  "The  Broker  of  Bogota,"  "Francesca  da  Rimini," 
"Leonora,  or  the  World's  Own"  represented  the  vogue.  The  only  two 
which  interest  the  modern  playgoer,  "Fashion"  and  "Rip  Van  Winkle," 
were  quite  the  exceptions. 

All  this,  it  may  be  said,  was  only  accumulated  evidence  of  the  romantic 
impulse  at  work  in  the  city  of  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  the  impulse  which 
at  its  best  produced  a  whole  anthology  of  "Tales":  "Tales  of  the  Alham- 
bra,"  "Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and  Arabesque,"  "Twice-Told  Tales."  But, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  all  but  two  of  the  significant  works  of  Irving,  Poe, 
and  Hawthorne  were  Written  before  Stoddard  was  twenty-seven  years  old, 
the  year  when  he  published  the  first  book  of  poems  on  which  he  was 
willing  to  allow  his  reputation  to  stand.  Then  when  the  reaction — belated 
in  America — took  place  in  favor  of  a  closer  connection  with  actual  experi 
ence,  he  was  left  in  increasing  isolation  as  a  votary  of  an  abandoned  Muse. 
It  needed  Lowell's  trenchant  comments  on  ."Alectryon"  to  wean  Stedman 
away  from  the  pursuit  of  classical  themes.  Holmes  did  an  equal  service 
in  his  criticism  of  the  youthful  Aldrich's  artificialities  of  style.  But 
Stoddard  remained  unaffected  by  the  tide  of  change,  untouched  as  a 
man  of  letters  by  the  Civil  War,  uninfluenced  by  the  progress  of  science 
and  the  religious  unrest  of  the  Victorian  period.  To  call  attention  to  this 
difference  between  himself  and  his  contemporaries  is  not  necessarily  to 
discredit  him.  On  the  contrary,  his  colleagues  made  a  virtue  of  his  dis 
tinction.  He  is  simply  an  illustration  of  the  fact  that  no  movement  is  ever 
all-inclusive.  In  an  age  of  change,  he  was  still  the  complete  product  of 
the  influences  surrounding  his  youth. 

Stoddard's  work,  then,  is  detached  and  decorative.  It  is  not  offered 
as  a  solace.  For  the  most  part,  it  simply  ignores  or  avoids  the  facts  of 
daily  existence.  If  it  alludes  to  the  delight  of  song,  it  does  not  address 
itself  to  Jenny  Lind  by  name,  but  modestly  applauds  "a  celebrated  singer." 
Intended  for  Bayard  Taylor,  it  adopts  as  a  title  the  name  of  his  most 
recent  book  of  poems,  or  for  William  Cullen  Bryant,  it  appears  under 
a  Latin  title  and  his  birthday  date.  Only  in  the  case  of  Lincoln  does  it 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  683 

violate  the  shy  reticence  of  its  established  habit  and  salute  him  before  all 
the  world.  It  flows  into  natural  expression  in  little  lyrics  of  pleasure  two 
or  three  quatrains  in  length.  Though  now  and  again  they  show  signs  of 
becoming  mildly  erotic,  they  have  no  passion  in  them.  Rather,  they  exhibit 
the  chaste  delights  of  the  virtuoso,  who  takes  up  one  object  after  another 
from  the  glass-covered  cabinets  in  the  museum  which  his  fancy  has 
furnished,  looks  it  over  fondly,  admires  its  form  and  color,  and  sets  it  back 
with  even  pulse  until  such  time  as  he  shall  choose  to  gaze  on  it  again. 

Some  of  these  lyrics  are  bits  of  nature  description  like  "The  sky  is 
thick  upon  the  sea,"  but  they  are  more  likely  to  be  nature  fantasies  than 
pure  descriptions.  Oftener  they  are  about  love — the  sort  of  love  that  chooses 
a  woman  as  its  object,  and  then  dotes  on  itself  quite  as  much  as  on  her; 
the  sort  of  love  that  goes  on  quite  placidly  about  heartbreak  and  despair, 
or  that  even  more  frequently  dilates  on  the  fascinations  of  the  loved  one 
with  an  Elizabethan  detachment.  Sometimes  they  are  about  the  subject 
of  wine,  but  they  are  rarely  convivial  in  quality;  sometimes  the  lyrics  are 
philosophical  in  tone,  and  these  are  most  nearly  representative  of  what 
Stoddard  must  have  felt,  for  they  reflect  the  very  denial  of  life  that  is 
suggested  in  the  body  of  his  work: 

Man  loses  but  the  life  he  lives 

And  only  lives  the  life  he  loses, 

or  again: 

There  is  no  life  on  land  or  sea 

Save  in  the  quiet  Moon  and  me; 
Nor   ours  is   true,   but   only   seems 

Within   some   dead   old   World   of   Dreams. 

Stoddard's  romanticism  did  not  lead  him  to  aspire  to  a  better  world 
of  the  future;  he  only  dreamed  of  a  happier  world  that  never  was. 

If  we  pass  by  the  prosaic  stretches  in  .his  volumes,  no  more  frequent 
or  longer  than  in  many  another,  we  may  say  that  at  its  best  his  verse  is 
characterized  by  a  high  excellence  of  form.  As  the  content  does  not 
spring  from  the  vivid  experiencing  of  immediate  life,  the  form  is  con 
sequently  not  dictated  by  the  fine  flow  of  any  enthusiasm.  It  is  excellent, 
but  with  the  excellence  of  the  library.  It  reminds  us  now  of  Tennyson, 
now  of  Wordsworth,  of  Herrick  and  Spenser,  and  of  Emerson.  Only  at 
rare  intervals,  and  these  strangely  enough  in  poems  which  purport  to  be 
imitative  of  the  East,  does  Stoddard  achieve  effects  which  seem  fresh  and 
new.  In  "Keaa"  he  uses  blank  verse  in  a  series  of  little  imagistic  pas 
sages  that  are  striking,  unconventional,  and  rich  in  poetic  suggestiveness. 

His  best  gift  was  like  that  of  Aldrich,  the  compression  into  a  dozen 
lines  or  less  of  lovely  poetic  fancies,  conceits  or  pictures  which  are  the 
daintier  ornaments  of  literature.  Aldrich,  in  his  "Lyrics  and  Epics," 
wrote  for  both  himself  and  Stoddard: 

I  would  be  the  Lyric 
Ever   on    the   lip, 
Rather   than   the   Epic 
Memory  lets  slip. 
I  would  be  the  diamond 
At  my   lady's   ear, 
Rather  than  a  June  rose 
Worn  but   once   a   year. 


684  AMERICAN    POETRY 


"JOAQUIN"  MILLER   (1841-1913) 

Cincinnatus  Heine  Miller  was  born  in  Indiana  in  1841.  In  1854  he 
was  taken  by  his  pioneer  father  across  the  plains  to  Oregon.  He  left  home 
while  still  a  boy,  and  for  some  years  lived  a  most  primitive  frontier  life 
among  the  gold-miners  and  the  Indians.  He  was  graduated  from  Columbia 
College,  Oregon,  in  1858.  Up  to  1870  he  was  variously  occupied,  although 
more  in  the  law  than  at  any  other  one  occupation,  and  for  four  years, 
from  1866,  was  on  the  bench.  With  failure  to  secure  recognition  at  home 
for  his  "Songs  of  the  Sierras,"  he  went  to  London,  where  as  soon  as  they 
were  issued  he  achieved  an  exotic  popularity.  From  1873  to  1887  his 
career  is  difficult  to  follow.  Some  of  his  most  vivid  experiences  were  in 
Europe,  though  it  is  not  clear  how  much  of  his  time  was  spent  in  actual 
residence.  In  1887  he  returned  to  California,  on  "The  Heights,"  near 
Oakland.  Here  he  lived  a  consciously  picturesque  life  until  he  died  in  1913. 

Few  poets  have  been-  more  casual  in  keeping  record  of  their  work  in 
full.  Miller  was  quite  careless  of  the  fate  of  a  great  deal  of  his  magazine 
verse,  believing  that  "anything  that  is  worth  preserving  in  literature  will 
preserve  itself."  Poems  appeared  in  book  form  during  his  lifetime  in  the 
following  years :  1869,  1870,  1871,  1873,  1875,  1877,  1878,  1882,  1884,  1887, 
1890,  1894,  1896,  1897,  1900,  1907. 

/.  Texts. 

The  complete  text  is  in  the  Bear  Edition,  6  vols.,  1909-1910.  A 
single  volume  "complete"  edition  was  published  in  1892,  1897,  and  1904. 

//.  Biography. 

There  is  no  adequate  biography  or  even  biographical  study.  Of 
the  historians  of  American  literature,  only  Churton  Collins,  C.  F. 
Richardson,  G.  E.  Woodberry  and  F.  L.  Pattee  ("American  Litera 
ture  Since  1870")  accord  him  serious  attention.  The  autobiographical 
preface  to  the  Bear  Edition,  and  the  same  material  scattered  through 
the  one-volume  editions,  are  the  raw  stuff  for  interpretation  of  Miller's 
character  and  aim.  These  can  be  supplemented  by  his  own  article  in 
The  Independent  on  "What  is  Poetry?"  See  also  Current  Literature, 
Vol.  XLVIII,  p.  574. 

///.  Criticism. 

See  the  historians  above  mentioned  and  the  following  review 
articles:  Academy,  Vol.  II,  p.  301;  Vol.  LIU,  p.  181 ;  Arena,  Vol. 
XII,  p.  86;  Vol.  IX,  p.  553;  Vol.  XXXVII,  p.  271;  Current  Opinion, 
Vol.  LIV,  p.  318;  Dial,  Vol.  LIV,  p.  165;  Fraser's,  Vol.  LXXXIV, 
p.  346;  Godey's,  Vol.  XCIV,  p.  52;  Lippincott's,  Vol.  XXXVIII,  p.  106; 
Munsey's,  Vol.  IX,  p.  308;  Nation,  Vol.  XXVII,  p.  336;  Vol.  XIII, 
p.  196;  Vol.  XVIII,  p.  77;  Vol.  XCVI,  pp.  169,  187,  230,  544. 

,      The  life  and  work  of  "Joaquin"  Miller,  poet  of  the  Sierras,  fall  quite 
naturally  into  three  divisions.     The  first  is  the -thirty  years  of  his  most 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  685 

primitive  experience,  in  which  his  character  and  point  of  view  were  deter 
mined.  In  this  time  he  lacked  everything  that  is  repressive  and  sophis 
ticating  in  education.  "Somehow  I  could  not  understand  or  get  on  with 
my  fellowman.  He  seemed  to  always  want  to  cheat  me — to  get  my  labor 
for  nothing.  I  could  appreciate  and  enter  into  the  heart  of  an  Indian. 
...  I  think  what  I  most  needed  in  order  to  understand,  get  on  and  not 
be  misunderstood,  was  a  long  time  at  school,  where  my  rough  points  could 
be  ground  down.  .  .  .  You  must  not  have  points  or  anything  about  you 
singular  or  noticeable  if  you  would  get  on.  ...  But  I  was  as  rough  as 
the  lava  rocks  I  roamed  over,  as  broken  as  the  mountains  I  inhabited."  ] 
The  next  period  was  one  of  increasing  worldliness  culminating  with  the 
fourteen  years  from  1873  to  1887,  when  he  seemed  to  have  turned  his 
back  on  his  native  environment  and  was  enjoying  a  somewhat  adventitious 
popularity  in  the  East  and  abroad  as  an  amusingly  individual  "wild  West 
erner."  For  a  while,  on  account  of  his  celebrity  as  an  author,  he  actually 
was  enabled  to  "get  on"  by  making  social  capital  out  of  his  rough  pointed- 
ness.  In  the  third  period  he  came  back  to  the  mountains  with  a  confirmed 
distaste  for  the  fruits  of  civilization  and  a  renewed  and  honest  delight  in 
the  handiwork  of  God. 

He  was  one  of  a  very  small  group  of  iQth  century  American  writers 
who  were  pre-eminently  characterized  by  their  knowledge  and  enjoyment 
of  American  life  and  nature  at  first  hand;  but  his  experiences  quite  sur 
passed  tnose  of  Thoreau  or  Burroughs  or  Whitman  or  Mark  Twain  in 
the  elemental  vigor  that  pervaded  them.  He  was  in  six  Indian  campaigns 
and  three  times  dangerously  wounded;  he  suffered  snow-blindness  in 
Alaska  and  desert  thirst  in  Arizona.  He  knew  the  terrors  of  .stampede 
and  flood,  and  of  prairie  and  mountain  fire.  He  knew  blood-enmities,  and 
friendships  unto  death  in  which  the  phrase  was  proved  to  the  uttermost. 
All  these  find  their  way  into  his  poetry  and  are  recorded  there  so  really 
and  vividly  as  to  make  pallid  the  attempts  of  Byron  and  Shelley  to  give' 
to  their  imaginings  of  elemental  life  a  local  habitation  and  a  name. 

One  consequence  of  his  life  was  his  ability  to  tell  romantic  stories  so 
that  they  were  truly  exciting,  a  feat  in  which  the  library  poet  rarely  suc 
ceeds.  He  presents  women  of  wild  and  gorgeous  beauty,  not  leaving  their 
beauty  in  the  abstract,  and  sets  them  fittingly  on  mountain  slopes,  or  in  the 
forests,  or  beside  the  turbulent  waters,  and  makes  them  so  worth  loving 
that  their  loss — for  they  are  more  often  lost  than  secured — is  real  tragedy. 
Those  early  heroines  of  Miller's  are  worth  putting  into  stories,  just  as 
the  early  poetic  loves  of  Tennyson  were  each  worth  at  the  utmost  one 
graceful  little  lyric.  His  heroes  are  worth  while,  too.  Their  principles 
are  not  expounded,  nor  the  things  they  were  fighting  for  always  made 
quite  clear.  In  the  poems  there  is  not  time ;  but  once  in  a  while  in  the 
prose  the  primitive  law  of  noblesse  oblige  is  recorded. 

"To  the  Prince  [a  gambler]  he  was  nothing  much.  .  .  .  Why  should 
the  Prince  take  life,  or  even  imperil  ours,  for  his  sake?  .  .  .  The  man 
needed  help.  The  man  was  almost  helpless.  This,  perhaps,  was  the  first 
and  strongest  reason  for  his  course.  But  at  the  bottom  of  all  other  reasons 

1  "My  Own  Story,"  pages  45,  46. 


686  AMERICAN    POETRY 

for  taking  care  of  this  man  .  .  .  was  a  little  poetical  fact  not  forgotten. 
This  man  furnished  bread  when  we  were  hungry."  1 

Such  nature  and  such  life  is,  of  course,  not  the  poetical  material  for 
a  contemplative  poet.  His  people  are  always  on  the  verge  of,  or  in  the 
midst  of,  or  recovering  from  exciting  objective  adventure.  And  more 
than  that,  his  Nature  is  not  so  much  a  spectacle  as  a  force.  Earth,  air, 
fire  and  water  are  potentially  volcanic,  cyclonic,  all  consuming  and  inun 
dating.  You  know  God  is  behind  them  because  of  -the  power  he  displays. 
The  keynote  of  the  earliest  poems  pervades  them  all,  gives  the  cue  to  his 
admirations  and  his  antipathies,  makes  primitive  and  in  a  way  unreal  the 
love  story  he  attempts  to  set  in  Venice  and  redeems  the  remarkable  eugenic 
epithalamium  of  his  old  age  "Light." 

Just  how  Miller  understood  his  own  capacities  can  be  demonstrated 
by  a  comparison  of  "The  Baroness  of  New  York" — often  erroneously 
referred  to  as  a  novel — a  long  poem  which  appeared  as  a  volume  in  1877, 
with  "The  Sea  of  Fire,"  which  occupies  some  eleven  pages  in  his  Complete 
Poetical  Works  of  1897.  The  first  poem  is  in  two  long  parts,  the  first  a 
sea-island  story  of  love  and  desertion  between  Doughal  and  Adora,  done 
spiritedly  after  the  manner  of  Scott,  and  the  second  in  the  tone  of  Byron, 
in  which  she  is  pretending  as  the  Baroness  du  Bois  in  New  York,  where 
"her  true  strength  lay  in  splendid  scorn  of  little  things,"  and  where 
Dougal  (who  has  lost  an  h  in  his  wanderings)  turns  up  in  the  last  few 
pages  to  claim  her  as  Lord  Adair.  Twenty  years  later  Miller  presented 
what  he  thought  was  worth  saving  of  this  by  dropping  all  the  Byronic 
part,  and  reducing  the  rest  from  over  1,800  lines  to  about  800  by  squeezing 
out  the  Marmionesque  passages.  What  is  left  is  really  Miller. 

This  was  well  done.  In  the  sense  -of  wishing  to  embalm  his  earlier 
works  in  their  original  versions,  Miller  may  be  said  to  have  had  almost 
no  pride  of  authorship.  But  his  taste  sometimes  failed  him  even  when  his 
willingness  to  use  the  knife  was  awake.  He  ought  never  to  have  resorted 
to  humor ;  what  he  intended  for  humor  seldom  amounted  to  anything  finer 
than  a  rough  jocosity.  Possibly  the  nicer  discriminations  on  which  humor 
depends  are  bred  better  in  town  than  in  the  country.  It  thrives  in  an 
atmosphere  of  easy  familiarity,  but  one  does  not  buttonhole  the  Sierras 
or  pat  them  on  the  back.  Perhaps,  again,  the  very  largeness  of  the  land 
scapes  by  which  he  was  surrounded  while  he  was  growing  up  led  to  a 
magniloquence  which  made  him  guilty  sometimes  of  pomposity  and  some 
times  of  posing.  Both  of  these  artistic  peccadilloes  are  the  expressions  of 
naivete.  One  has  to  learn  to  be  simple  and  unaffected.  It  is  human 
nature  to  be  unnatural  when  others  are  looking  on. 

This  naturalness,  on  the  whole,  Miller  more  and  more  acquired.  Al 
though  he  knew  and  admired  the  great  English  romanticists,  and  although 
he  preserved  passages  imitative  of  them  in  his  later  editings — a  good  deal 
in  "A  Song  of  the  South"  is  pure  Coleridge — the  quality  that  pervades  him 
is  a  simple  and  abounding  eagerness  to  present  life  in  action.  The  only 
author  writing  to-day  who  gives  one  the  same  sense  of  man  at  work  in  the 
presence  of  forces  which  are  all  but  overwhelming  is  Joseph  Conrad. 
As  Miller  aged,  he  desired  more  and  more  to  give  soul  as  well  as  body  to 

a  "My  Own  Story,"  pages  160,  161. 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  687 

his  work.  Now  and  again  he  succeeded  in  writing  something  which  was 
more  than  sheerly  objective,  as  in  the  various  bits  in  which  he  celebrated 
the  heroism  of  the  pioneer — whether  Columbus  or  the  Forty-Niner.  And 
toward  the  very  end  of  his  career  he  to  an  extraordinary  degree  combines 
the  two  ambitions  of  his  old  age.  The  one  was  to  present  "the  vision  of 
worlds  beyond"  and  the  other  to  "leave  sound  and  words  to  the  winds." 
"American  science  has  swept  time  and  space  aside.  American  science 
dashes  along  at  fifty,  sixty  miles  an  hour;  but  American  literature  still 
lumbers  along  in  the  old-fashioned  English  stage-coach  at  ten  miles  an 
hour,  and  sometimes  with  a  red-coated  outrider  blowing  a  horn.  We  must 
leave  all  this  behind  us.  .  .  .  When  the  Messiah  of  American  literature 
comes  he  will  come  singing,  so  far  as  may  be,  in  words  of  a  single  syllable."  1 
The  last  stanza  in  "Sappho  and  Phaon,"  the  last  selection  in  The  Com 
plete  Poems,  shows  how  far  he  was  consciously  attempting  to  measure 
up  to  his  own  standard. 

God  is  not   far;   man  is  not  far 

From  Heaven's  porch,  where  paeans  roll. 

Man  shall  yet  speak  from  star  to  star 

In  silent  language  of  the  soul. 

Yon   star-strewn   skies  be  but   a  town, 

With  angels  passing  up  and   down. 

"I   leave  my  peace  with  you."     Lo!   these 

His   seven   wounds,   the   Pleiades 

Pierce  Heaven's  porch.      But,   resting  there, 

The  new  moon  rocks  the   Christ  Child  in 

Her   silver   rocking-chair. 

This  is  indubitably  American.  The  porch  and  the  rocking-chair  may 
tempt  the  scoffer  to  ask  why  Miller  did  not  complete  the  native  picture  by 
bringing  in  a  palm-leaf  fan  and  a  pitcher  of  ice-water.  If  Miller  had  been 
asked,  he  would  doubtless  have  replied  that  he  omitted  the  latter  American 
accessories  only  because  they  did  not  belong  to  this  particular  picture ;  that 
Pullman  cars  and  Niagara  Falls  and  steam  radiators  and  Mt.  Shasta  were 
all  legitimate  material  for  poetry,  if  only  they  were  apropos.  What  one 
should  remember — what  the  reader  of  "Joaquin"  Miller  cannot  forget — is 
that  his  poetry  is  an  eloquent  and  often  beautiful  evidence  of  an  abound- 
ingly  vigorous  youth  and  manhood  and  of  a  serenely  optimistic  old  age. 


RICHARD  HOVEY   (1864-1900) 

Hovey  was  born  in  1864  in  Normal,  111.,  where  his  father  was  president 
of  a  local  college.  He  spent  much  of  his  boyhood  in  Washington,  D.  C., 
and  was  graduated  from  Dartmouth  College  in  1885.  He  then  studied  at 
the  General  Theological  Seminary  in  New  York,  and  for  a  while  was  lay 
assistant  in  a  New  York  ritualistic  church.  After  deciding  not  to  enter 
the  ministry,  he  became  journalist  and  actor  and  then,  after  some  years 
as  poet  and  dramatist,  he  became  professor  of  English  literature  in  Barnard 
College  and  lecturer  in  Columbia  University.  Throughout  his  life,  as  his 
poetry  showed,  he  travelled  widely.  Volumes  of  his  poetry  appeared  during 

1  Preface  to   Complete  Toetical  Works. 


688  AMERICAN    POETRY 

his  lifetime  in  1880  (some  extremely  immature  verse  published  in  Wash 
ington,  D.  C.),  1889,  1891,  1893,  1898.  He  was  joint  author  also  of 
two  volumes,  with  Bliss  Carman,  in  1894  and  1896,  and  his  last  work, 
"Taliesin — a  Masque,"  which  appeared  in  Poet-Lore  in  1899,  was  issued 
in  book  form  in  1900  shortly  after  his  death.  "The  Holy  Graal"  was 
posthumously  published  in  1907.  He  died  from  a  sudden  relapse  during 
a  convalescence  in  1900. 

I.  Texts. 

A  uniform  edition  was  published  by  Duffield,  1907-1908.  The  most 
important  single  volume  is  Along  the  Trail,  included  in  this  edition, 
or  in  the  original  form  by  Small,  Maynard  &  Co., 


II.  Biography. 

There  is  no  adequate  biography  or  biographical  study. 

///.  Criticism. 

The  best  single  criticism  is  by  Bliss  Carman  in  the  preface  to 
The  Holy  Graal  and  Other  Fragments,  1907.  See  also  The  Younger 
American  Poets,  Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse,  pp.  1-27.  Among  important 
periodical  reviews  are  the  following:  Bookman,  Vol.  XI,  p.  125; 
Chautauquan,  Vol.  XXXI,  p.  452;  Critic,  Vol.  XXXVI,  p.  292;  Out 
look,  Vol.  LXI V,  p.  566 ;  Review  of  Reviews,  Vol.  XXII,  p.  735. 

What  thrusts  itself  most  aggressively  on  the  reader  who  makes  a  sur 
vey  of  Hovey's  entire  work  is  the  kaleidoscopic  look  of  it  at  first  glance, 
and  the  real  harmony  which  it  reveals  to  closer  study.  It  is  not  the  harmony 
of  an  evolving  career,  for  in  a  decade  there  is  not  much  room  for  evolu 
tion.  It  is  rather  a  pervasive  unity  among  poems  which  are  only  apparently 
in  contrast.  At  the  outset  it  seems  bewildering.  A  young  poet  at  twenty- 
five  Accepts  the  laurel  of  Sidney  Lanier  who  brought  light 

Out  of  the  darkness  of  fair  Love's   eclipse, 
Out  of  the  jar  of  ways  that  Trade  has  turned, 

and  sets  about  weaving  a  great  mediaeval  poem  in  Dramas.  "The  Quest  of 
Merlin,"  "The  Marriage  of  Guenevere,"  "The  Birth  of  Galahad,"  "The 
Masque  of  Taliesin."  It  is  a  dim  and  expansive  tapestry-background  of 
romance,  quite  the  natural  one  for  a  translator  of  Maeterlinck  and  of 
Mallarme.  But  straight  against  it,  with  all  lights  on  full,  he  leads  a 
procession  of  college  boys,  fraternity  brothers,  artistic  vagabonds,  and  fin  de 
siecle  suitors  and  soldiers.  It's  like  opera  bouffe  in  the  Tower  of  London ; 
one  rubs  his  eyes  aghast  as  at  the  Connecticut  Yankee  in  King  Arthur's 
Court.  Yet  the  poet's  close  friend.  Bliss  Carman,  dispels  the  mystery. 
"Perhaps  the  chief  thing  to  be  kept  in  mind  in  regard  to  Richard  Hovey's 
treatment  of  the  Arthurian  legends  is  this,  that  he  was  not  primarily  inter 
ested  in  them  for  their  historic  and  picturesque  value  as  poetic  material, 
great  as  that  value  undoubtedly  is  ...  the  problem  he  felt  called  upon  to 
deal  with  is  a  perennial  one,  old  as  the  world,  yet  intensely  modern,  and  it 
appealed  to  him  as  a  modern  man.  .  .  .  The  Arthurian  cycle  provided 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  689 

Tennyson  with  the  groundwork  of  a  national  epic;  ...  to  Richard  Hovey 
it  afforded  a  modern  instance  stripped  of  modern  dress."1 

The  point,  in  part,  is  that  Hovey's  work  is  all  modern,  but  of  two  dis 
tinct  sorts.  As  a  dramatist,  he  chose  the  mediaeval  setting  and  costume  in 
order  to  avoid  the  distraction  of  contemporary  realism.  Pullman  cars, 
modern  hotels,  country  clubs  and  Fifth  Avenue  palaces  were  too  likely  to 
compete  in  interest  with  the  life  stuff  on  which  he  wanted  to  concentrate 
attention.  But  as  a  lyric  poet,  background  was  quite  incidental  and  needed 
no  evasive  treatment.  The  mood  of  the  moment  could,  in  fact,  be  inter 
preted  simply  against  any  simple  modern  setting.  So  the  plays  look 
ancient  and  the  songs  sound  modern,  but  they  are  all  concerned  with  the 
human  experience  that  belongs  to  no  particular  time.  He  was  not  con 
sciously  busied  with  interpreting  the  spirit  of  the  past  or  the  spirit  of 
the  present  either. 

Nevertheless,  the  spirit  of  "the  nineties"  was  very  evident  in  his  work. 
It  appeared  most  obviously  in  his  four  poems  stimulated  by  the  Spanish 
War — poems  which  contained  a  good  deal  of  truculent  idealism.  If  it  were 
not  for  the  wisdom  in  "Unmanifest  Destiny,"  Hovey  would  seem  to  have 
been  as  ignorantly  benevolent  a  "jingo"  as  the  times  ever  bred,  and  in  the 
light  of  this  poem,  in  which  he  acknowledges  that  "God  moves  in  a 
mysterious  way  His  wonders  to  perform,"  it  seems  extraordinary  that  he 
could  not  conceive  of  God's  ever  fostering  an  "upward  climbing  cause 
without  the  sword." 

The  spirit  of  the  times  came  out  also  in  his  verses  of  Vagabondia  and 
Bohemia,  for  Hovey  was  one  of  the  rather  assertive  group  of  young 
artists  who  at  the  end  of  the  century  were  in  conscious  revolt.  Some  of 
them  did  pastels  in  prose,  and  some  ran  to  rondeaus  and  triolets  and 
villanelles,  most  of  them  edited  little  periodicals  of  the  Chap  Book,  Lark, 
and  Truth  in  Boston  type,  and  all  of  them  rebelled  in  word  and  deed  at 
the  domination  of  Victorian  respectability.  Moreover,  and  this  is  the  vital 
fact  about  them,  none  of  them  have  really  "settled  down"  since  then. 
They  may  be  middle-aged,  and  stout,  and  regular  in  diet,  but  on  the  whole 
they  are  still  invigorated  by  the  intellectual  stimulant  they  quaffed  in  those 
Pierian  days.  Their  Bohemianism  was  very  much  more  real  than  the 
diluted  thing  about  which  Stedman  and  Aldrich  rhymed  thirty  years 
before.  It  was  more  like  the  thing  from  which  these  men  and  Stoddard 
and  Taylor  actually  withheld  themselves.  It  was  the  sort  of  life  which 
led  to  "Wanderlovers"  on  the  one  hand  and  the  oft-sung  "Stein  Song" 
on  the  other. 

But  Hovey  was  not  satisfied  with  any  conviviality  that  stopped  short 
of  genuine  comradeship.  He  wrote  for  Dartmouth  a  body  of  tributary 
verse  which  is  as  distinguished  as  are  Holmes's  Harvard  poems.  And  he 
wrote  for  his  college  fraternity  songs  and  odes  which  are  so  distinguished 
as  wholly  to  transcend  the  occasions  for  which  they  were  prepared.  In 
"Spring,"  read  at  a  fraternity  convention  in  1896,  he  took  up  the  torch 
where  Whitman  had  laid  it  down  as  he  chanted  a  great  choral  of  youth 
and  comradeship  and  out-of-doors,  and  of  the  "greater  to-morrow"  which 
those  college  boys  were  destined  to  see.  This  in  the  vein  of  Whitman 

1  Preface  to  "The  Holy   Graal   and   Other   Fragments,"    1907. 


690  AMERICAN    POETRY 

and  in  some  approach  to  Whitman's  manner  is  no  finer,  however,  and  no 
more  vigorous  than  the  sonnets  of  1898  (quoted  in  the  text),  in  which, 
with  an  abounding  vigor,  he  writes  of  the  love  of  man  and  woman  con 
fronted  by  sea  and  storm  and  fate  itself. 

This  poet  of  Vagabondia  and  King  Arthur's  Court  seems  to  have  ex 
pounded  himself  in  the  lines  from  "Spring"  which  follow  "Give  a  rouse, 
then,  in  the  Maytime": 

A  road  runs  east  and  a  road  runs  west 
From  the  table  where  we  sing; 
And  the  lure  of  the  one   is   a   roving   quest, 
And  the  lure  of  the  other    a   lotus    dream. 
And  the  eastward  road  leads  into  the  West 
Of  the  lifelong  chase   of  the  vanishing  gleam 
And  the  westward   road   leads   into   the   East 
Where  the  spirit  from  striving  is  released 
Where  the  soul  like  a  child  in  God's  arms  lies 
And  forgets  the  lure  of  the  butterflies. 

When  Stedman  published  his  "Poets  of  America"  in  1885,  Richard 
Hovey  was  just  coming  out  of  college,  unknown;  and  when  Stedman  pub 
lished  his  "American  Anthology,"  in  1900,  Hovey  was  dead.  Though  most 
of  the  biographical  notes  were  the  brief  and  informative  work  of  assistant 
editors,  Mr.  Stedman  wrote  a  signed  criticism  of  Hovey,  which  was  con 
cluded  with  these  sentences :  "Hovey,  in  fact,  was  slow  to  mature,  and, 
when  taken  off,  showed  more  promise  than  at  any  time  before.  He 
thought  very  well  of  himself,  not  without  reason,  and  felt  that  he  had 
enjoyed  his  Wanderjahr  to  the  full,  and  that  the  serious  work  of  his  life 
was  straight  before  him.  He  was  ridding  himself,  in  a  measure,  of  certain 
affectations  that  told  against  him,  and  at  last  had  a  chance,  with  a 
university  position,  to  utilize  the  fruits  of  a  good  deal  of  hard  study  and 
reflection,  while  nearing  some  best  field  for  the  exercise  of  his  specific 
gift.  That  his  aim  was  high  is  shown  even  by  his  failures,  and  in  his 
death  there  is  no  doubt  that  America  has  lost  one  of  her  best-equipped 
lyrical  and  dramatic  writers.  This  somewhat  extended  note  may  well  be  ac 
corded  to  the  dead  singer,  who,  on  the  threshold  of  the  new  century  that 
beckoned  to  him,  was  bidden  to  halt  and  abide  with  the  'inheritors  of 
unfulfilled  renown.' " 


WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY   (1869-1910) 

Moody  was  born  at  Spencer,  Indiana,  July,  1869.  His  father  was  a 
steamboat  captain  on  the  Ohio  River.  In  1871  the  family  moved  to  New 
Albany,  Indiana,  living  here  until  the  death  of  his  mother  in  his  fifteenth 
and  of  his  father  in  his  seventeenth  year.  Moody  prepared  himself  for 
Harvard  by  alternate  study  and  teaching,  and  became  a  member  of  the 
class  of  1893.  He  completed  his  work  in  three  years,  and  spent  the  senior 
year  in  Europe  as  tutor  for  a  boy.  Like  John  Hay,  to  whose  early  career 
his  own  suggests  certain  points  of  comparison,  he  went  from  the  Mis 
sissippi  Valley  to  an  Eastern  college,  and  there  proved  not  only  to  be  a 
natural  student,  but  to  have  the  natural  aptitude  for  culture,  which  is 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  691 

sometimes  assumed  to  be  the  exclusive  heritage  of  old  families.  The 
remaining  seventeen  years  of  his  life  after  graduation  were  marked  by  pro 
longed  and  varied  travels,  extensive  study  over  a  wide  range  of  languages 
and  literatures,  a  period  of  eight  years'  membership  in  the  English  depart 
ment  of  the  University  of  Chicago,  from  which  his  resignation  was  reluc 
tantly  accepted,  and,  to  crown  all,  versatile  creative  powers  as  artist,  poet 
and  dramatist.  In  the  summer  of  1909,  when  he  seemed  at  the  height  of 
his  strength,  he  was  stricken  with  the  fatal  illness  from  which  he  died 
in  October,  1910. 

He  published  frequently  in  the  periodicals  from  1890  to  1900.  His 
works  were  published  in  book  form,  during  his  lifetime,  in  1900,  1901,  1904, 
1907,  1909. 

/.  Texts. 

The  Masque  of  Judgment,  1900 ;  Poems,  1901 ;  The  Fire  Bringer, 
1904;  The  Great  Divide  (a  prose  play),  1907;  The  Faith  Healer  (a 
prose  play),  1909;  The  Poems  and  Poetic  Dramas  of  William  Vaughn 
Moody,  with  an  introduction  by  J.  M.  Manly,  1912. 

//.  Biography  and  Criticism. 

Introduction  by  J.  M.  Manly  to  Poems  and  Plays,  2  vols. ;  Some 
Letters  of  William  Vaughn  Moody,  with  an  introduction,  by  D.  G. 
Mason.  The  more  significant  criticisms  in  the  periodicals  include  the 
following:  Atlantic,  Vol.  CXI,  p.  79;  Dial,  Vol.  XLIX,  p.  317;  Vol. 
LIU,  p.  484;  Harper's  Weekly,  Vol.  LIV,  p.  6;  Independent,  Vol. 
LXXIV,  p.  314;  Nation,  Vol.  XCI,  p.  352;  Vol.  XCVI,  p.  130;  Out 
look,  Vol.  XCVI,  p.  487;  Review  of  Reviews,  Vol.  XLVII,  p.  372. 

The  total  impression  received  from  reading  Moody's  works  is  one  of 
more  than  epic  breadth.  The  view  from  "Gloucester  Moors"  suggested 
the  whole  earth  as  a  "vast,  outbound  ship  of  souls."  "Old  Pourquoi"  sang 
his  challenge  to  the  Norman  sky.  The  poetic  dramas  are  no  narrower 
than  the  entire  scheme  of  salvation.  Yet  he  did  not  maintain  his  widest 
sympathies  at  the  cost  of  turning  his  back  on  his  own  time  or  country. 
In  a  perfectly  clear,  objective  way  he  came  to  love  his  mother's  country,  the 
Indiana  prairies,  both  for  their  rich  expanse  of  natural  beauty  and  for 
the  golden  corn  with  which  it  could  "feed  a  universe  at  need."  Before 
the  vogue  of  civic  celebrations  had  come  on,  he  marshalled,  in  the  mem 
orable  third  stanza  of  the  "Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation,"  the  most  splendid 
pageant  of -America  which  has  yet  been  written.  In  that  poem  of  Spring 
he  brings  into  a  few  lines  a  suggestion  of  all  the  confident  hope  he  feels 
for  his  country's  future.  The  Cape  Ann  children  seeking  the  arbutus, 
and  the  hill  lads  of  Tennessee  harking  to  the  wild  geese  on  their  northern 
flight,  are  one  with  the  youth  of  Chicago;  the  renewing  green  of  the 
wheat  fields,  the  unrolling  of  the  rivers  from  the  white  Sierras,  the  down 
ward  creep  of  Alaskan  glaciers,  and  the  perennial  palm  crown  of  Hawaii. 
It  is  in  very  truth 

the  eagle  nation   Milton  saw 
Mewing  its  mighty  youth. 


692  AMERICAN    POETRY 

His  love  for  America,  however,  did  not  dull  his  sense  of  the  dangers 
that  threatened  its  youth.  Within  its  boundaries  he  was  well  aware  of 
the  economic  evils  which  menaced  it.  They  were  not  peculiar  to  America, 
to  be  sure,  but  they  were  dangers  none  the  less.  In  "Gloucester  Moors" 
he  was  disturbed,  if  not  made  fearful,  by  the  "Sounds  from  the  noisome 
hold."  There  was  no  hope  in  this  poem,  only  speculation  and  distress ;  but 
in  "The  Brute,"  whether  it  expressed  a  new-gained  confidence,  or  only  a 
different  lyric  mood,  there  was  a  sweeping  optimism.  Vicious  as  the 
machine-brute  was  at  the  moment,  he  was,  after  all,  only  an  untamed 
power  for  good.  Man  had  not  learned  how  to  control  him.  He  was  an 
elephant  let  loose  in  the  menagerie,  trampling  and  trumpeting,  but  sure 
to  be  recaught  and  put  in  harness. 

He  must  give  each  man  his  portion,  each  his  pride  and  worthy  place; 
He  must  batter  down  the  arrogant  and  lift  the  weary  face, 
On  each  vile  mouth  set  purity,  on  each  low  forehead  grace. 

And  without  its  boundaries,  America,  as  a  nation  among  nations,  was  a 
land  to  rejoice  in  only  as  long  as  it  was  right.  In  the  year  when  the 
country  was  swept  into  excited  jingoism  in  the  first  intoxication  of  im 
perial  outreach,  Moody  was  full  of  solicitude.  He  was  never  so  proud 
as  when,  in  "The  Quarry,"  he  recorded  John  Hay's  frustration  of  the 
partition  of  China,  yet  never  more  indignant  than  when  he  suspected  that 
the  proud  republic  might  stoop 

to  cheat 
And  scramble  in  the  market-place  of  war. 

His  upbringing  and  education  had  made  him  too  cosmopolitan  to  allow 
of  his  easily  falling  into  Americanism  of  the  Decatur  type — "my  country, 
right  or  wrong." 

Aside  from  these  explicit  poems  of  time  and  place,  there  is  little  of 
Moody's  verse  which  may  not  be  regarded  as  related  and  preliminary  to 
the  poetic  dramas.  The  shorter  poems  contain  the  elemental  ideas  in 
the  plays ;  they  are  harbingers  which  are  confirmed  and  fulfilled  by  the 
event.  This  sequence  of  three  plays  gives  Moody's  theology  in  terms  of 
the  entire  plan  of  salvation.  As  a  whole,  and  in  its  details,  it  is  con 
fusing  at  the  first  onset,  though  it  yields  richly  to  study,  and  reveals  an 
ordered  philosophy  in  the  end.  As  often  has  been  the  case  with  literary 
sequences,  this  one  was  not  written  in  the  order  of  its  logical  progression. 
Moreover,  no  scheme  of  chronology  can  be  imposed  upon  it,  for  the  suc 
cessive  parts  defy  any  attempts  at  reconcilement  with  myth  or  Scripture. 
The  third  part,  too,  is  uncompleted.  Yet  the  reason  of  the  series  is  ap 
parent,  and  the  plan  of  the  first  two  parts,  together  with  the  light  thrown 
on  the  third  by  certain  preliminary  studies,  shows  beyond  peradventure 
where  the  poetic  drama,  "The  Death  of  Eve,"  would  have  concluded.  It; 
is  characteristic  of  Moody  that  he  wrought  this  epic  group  from  his  own 
combination  of  Christian  and  pagan  material,  and  characteristic  of  his 
method  that  he  did  not  expound  or  explain,  but  left  it  to  the  reader  to  get 
the  meaning  clear. 

The  whole  is  on  the  theme  of  the  union  between  God  and  man,  and 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  693 

the  consequent  incompleteness  of  either  without  the  other.  This  unity 
is  threatened  by  the  fact  that  God  could  not  rest  content  with  peaceful 
inactivity,  and  that  man,  the  crowning  member  of  Creation,  was  himself 
endowed  with  what  is  in  fact  a  divine  restlessness.  So,  in  the  course  of 
events,  heaven  became  disquieted  by  the  pride  and  lust  and  wrangling 
when  the  spirits  of  man  were  high,  and  because  his  pulses 

when   they   fell 

Sang  grief,  division,  terror,  shame  and  loss, 
Troubling  that   harmony  which  is  the  breath 
Of  the  gods'  nostrils,  yea  the  delicate  tune 
To  which  they  pace  their  souls,  and  act  with  joy 
Their  several  ministries. 

So  the  tragic  undernote  of  "The  Fire-Bringer"  is  that  when  Pandora 
sings  her  wonderful  lyric  of  union  between  God  and  his  creatures,  even 
at  that  moment  man  has  achieved  his  apparent  victory  at  the  awful  cost 
of  disunion  with  his  Creator  through  Prometheus's  theft  of  fire  from 
the  heavens. 

In  "The  Masque  of  Judgment"  comes  the  second  stage  of  the  epic. 
Man,  "wanton,  unteachable,  intolerable,"  had  become  the  first  to  vex  God, 
although  his  dearest  pride.  God's 'hope  to  woo  him  back  to  obedience  was 
waning.  Drooping  "white  and  pitiful"  on  his  throne  he  saw  no  recourse 
except  to  doom  to  destruction  this  very  part  of  himself,  for 

not  a  creature  sinneth,  but  He  weeps 
His  own  sin  with  His  creature's. 

In  the  end,  then,  came  with  the  day  of  doom,  a  divine  error,  since 

Man's  violence  was  earnest  of  his  strength, 
Hiy  sin,  a  heady  overflow,   dynamic 
Unto  all  lovely  uses,  to  be  curbed 
And  sweetened,  never  broken  with  the  rod! 

The  carrying  out  of  God's  judgment  was  therefore  done  "with  suicidal 
hand." 

The  final  stage  was  projected,  but  left  uncompleted  with  "The  Death 
of  Eve."  It  contains  the  reconciliation  of  God  and  man  through  the 
voluntary  return  to  Him  of  Eve — who,  in  Hebrew  literature,  is  counter 
part  of  Prometheus  in  Greek — the  seeker  for  knowledge  and  power  which 
should  lift  mankind  above  the  brutes,  and  the  consequent  breeder  of  dis 
cord  between  man  and  God.  Her  appeal  to  return  to  the  gates  of  Eden, 
which  Seth  and.  Abel,  living  and  dead,  feared  to  attempt,  was  heard  by 
Cain.  Together  they  agreed  to  make  the  journey.  At  this  point  the 
drama  is  left  unfinished;  but  what  was  to  come  is  revealed  in  two  other 
poems,  both  of  which  serve  as  prophetic  studies.  The  trilogy  was  to 
culminate  with  the  last  song  of  Eve,  which  was  to  stand  in  its  peaceful 
xiarmony  in  double  contrast  with  the  conflict  between  Pandora's  song  and 
the  young  men's  chorus  in  the  first  play,  and  with  the  chaotic  destruction 
described  in  the  dialogue  between  Uriel  and  .Raphael  which  concludes 
the  second. 

Toward  this  he  had  already  made  two  studies,  both  of  which  failed 
to  fulfil  what  he  desired  of  this  final  chord,  both  of  which  are  yet  included 


694  AMERICAN    POETRY 

among  his  published  poems,  and  neither  of  which  is  fully  intelligible  apart 
from  the  whole  design  of  the  trilogy.  The  earlier  was  the  wild  and 
defiant  "I  am  the  Woman."  Though  this  begins 

I  am  the  Woman,  ark  of  the  law  and  its  breaker, 

it  progresses  to  the  point  of  urging  obedience  on  man,  revises  the  self- 
description  to 

ark  of  the  law  and  sacred  arm  to  upbear  it, 

and  concludes, 

Open  to  me,  O  sleeping  mother.     The  gate  is  heavy  and  strong. 
Open  to  me,  I  am  come  at  last:  be  wroth  with  thy  child  no  more. 

Yet  this  lyric  did  not  supply  the  exact  word  with  which  to  end,  for  there 
was  a  militant  defiance  in  it  of  a  spirit  still  tameless  and  only  reduced 
to  the  acquiescence  of  spiritual  exhaustion. 

The  second  study,  the  dramatic  poem,  "The  Death  of  Eve,"  covers,  in 
the  rapid  narrative  of  its  first  ninety  lines,  the  action  of  the  dramatic 
fragment,  and  then  goes  on  in  its  latter  part  to  a  new  song,  perhaps  the 
song  with  which  the  whole  trilogy  might  have  ended.  For  in  this,  although 
there  is  still  a  note  of  Promethean  defiance,  it  is  the  glad  challenge  of 
the  lover  who  will  not  be  gainsaid: 

Far  off,  rebelliously,  yet  for  thy  sake, 

She  gathered  them,  O  Thou  who  lovest  to  break 

A  thousand  souls,  and  shake 

Their  dust  along  the  wind,  but  sleeplessly 

Searchest  the  Bride,  fulfilled  in  limb  and  feature, 

Ready  and  boon  to  be  fulfilled  of  Thee 

Thine  ample,   tameless  creature, — 

Against  Thy  will  and  word,  behold  Lord,  this  is  She. 

The  dramatic  trilogy,  moreover,  is  not  only  the  result  of  conscious 
preliminary  studies  such  as  these ;  it  is  the  summation  of  the  most  funda 
mental  convictions  about  life  which  he  elsewhere  recorded  without 
reference  to  this  monumental  work.  The  most  striking  of  these  is  his 
theory  of  and  his  attitude  toward  woman.  It  is  his  clear  belief  that  the 
influence  of  woman  is  -the  dominant  fact  in  the  history  of  mankind.  In 
his  attitude  there  are  acknowledgments  of  awe,  of  reverence,  of  spiritual 
love,  and  of  passion.  In  his  theory  there  is  the  same  evolutionary  breadth 
that  characterizes  the  equation  of  human  life  in  which  she  is  the  greatest 
factor.  In  this  scheme  there  are  glimpses  of  the  earliest  theology  of  the 
matriarchate.  There  is  more  than  a  hint  of  M^rijp  eeuv,  the  mother  of  the 
Gods,  when  Eve  cries  out  at  the  last 

Yea,  she  whose  arm  was  round  the  neck  of  the  morning  star  at  song, 
Is  she  who  kneeleth  now  in  the  dust  and  cries  at  the  secret  door, 
"Open  to  me,  O  sleeping  mother." 

From  this  beginning  both  the  songs  of  Eve  progress  through  the  ages 
when  woman  is  subtly  moulded  by  man's  conception  of  her,  so  that  her 
happiness  and  her  very  being  consist  in  conforming  herself  to  him. 

Still,  still  with  prayer  and  ecstacy  she  strove 
To  be  the  woman  they  did  well  approve, 
That,  narrowed  to  their  love, 
She  might  have  done  with  bitterness  and  blame. 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  695 

and  in  both  she  appears  as  the  indomitable  Promethean  spirit  who  in  the 
end  was  to  fulfil  that  plan  which  in  the  beginning  she  had  endangered. 
There  is  no  reference  to  any  woman  in  any  of  his  poems  which  is  out 
of  harmony  with  this  dominating  and  progressive  idea. 

Again,  the  theory  of  evolution  lies  behind  all  he  wrote,  whether  it  has 
externally  to  do  with  ancient  or  modern  times.  It  is  developed  most 
explicitly  in  the  sardonic  "Menagerie,"  but  this  statement  is  simply  the 
basic  thesis  of  the  trilogy.  It  begins  with  a  rejection  of  the  findings 
associated  with  Darwin,  that  external  causes  are  final  determinants  in 
evolution : 

Survival  of  the  fittest,  adaptation, 
And  all  their   other   evolution   terms, 
Seem  to  omit  one  small  consideration, 

which  is  no  less  than  the  existence  of  souls,  "restless,  plagued,  impatient 
things,  All  dream  and  unaccountable  desire."  And  these  souls  are  all 
merged  in  the  common  soul  of  the  universe,  "great  nature  working  out 
her  plan"  and  working  it  out  according  not  merely  to  relentless  material 
laws,  but  "groping,  testing,  passing  on"  in  a  progress  of  creative  evolu 
tion.  Moody  did  not  feel  any  pettifogging  embarrassment  in  connection 
with  the  citation  of  anachronisms  against  the  writer  of  such  historical  plays. 
Yet  if  one  were  looking  for  justification  for  the  presence  of  this  apparently 
ultra-modern  doctrine  in  a  poem  of  ancient  times,  he  could  assert  its 
implicit  presence  in  much  of  the  Greek  philosophy,  and  point  to  its 
enunciation  in  "The  Masque"  by  the  angel  Raphael  rather  than  by  any 
mortal : 

I  think  for  me   Heaven   seemed  not  Heaven  till  then 
When  from  our  seats  of  peace  we  could  behold 
The  strife  of  ripening  suns  and  withering  moons, 
Marching  of  ice-floes,  and  the  nameless  wars 
Of  monster  races  laboring  to  be  man. 

Moody's  poetry  is,  on  the  whole,  emphatically  not  easy  to  read.  He 
was  not  interested  to  write  simple  lyrics  or  narratives.  Very  few  of  his 
poems  have  even  an  implied  narrative  thread.  Only  in  the  dramas,  both 
prose  and  poetry,  did  he  tell  clear  stories.  "Until  the  Troubling  of  the 
Waters,"  which  is  an  apparent  story,  is,  in  fact,  a  dramatic  exposition  of 
a  state  of  mind,  and  narrates  the  events  of  an  early  morning,  themselves 
of  little  direct  moment,  in  order  to  lead  up  to  a  climax  which  is  left 
untold.  The  occasional  poems  are  not  self-explanatory  nor  accompanied 
by  footnote  helps.  One  must  know  the  tragic  history  of  Robert  Shaw, 
if  he  is  fully  to  understand  the  "Ode  Written  in  Time  of  Hesitation," 
and  if  he  does  not  know  quite  clearly  the  chronicle  of  international 
diplomacy  in  1900,  he  will  be  utterly  bewildered  by  "The  Quarry." 

Again,  Moody's  work  is  far  from  easy  to  read  because  of  the  almost 
complete  subordination  of  the  external  content  to  the  internal,  or  subjective 
implications.  In  the  briefer  and  apparently  simpler  lyrics.  Moody  fre 
quently  makes  the  emotion  an  end  in  itself.  In  poems  like  "On  the  River" 
and  "The  Bracelet  of  Grass"  and  "A  Gray  Day,"  the  mood  of  grief  is 
presented  without  explanation.  The  reader  who  must  know  why  the  sole 
spectator  in  the  last  of  these,  or  the  lovers  in  the  former  two,  feel  as 
they  do,  turns  the  page  baffled;  baffled  not  so  much  by  the  actual  content 


696  AMERICAN    POETRY 

as  by  the  unsatisfied  desire  for  a  story.  Moody  lays  on  him  the  obligation 
to  supply  his  own  story  or  to  do  without  one.  He  must  be  on  the  alert, 
as  in  the  reading  of  a  play  that  has  no  stage  directions. 

This  same  alertness  is  indispensable  if  one  is  to  catch  the  figurative 
and  deeper  meaning  of  poems  which  have  also  a  seductively  literal  and 
superficial  one.  Few  readers  who  would  ever  open  to  them  would  fail 
to  grasp  the  significance  of  "The  Fountain"  or  "Until  the  Troubling  of 
the  Waters";  but  many  have  fallen  into  the  error  of  thinking  the  "Road 
Hymn  for  the  Start"  was  nothing  more  than  an  elevated  song  of  vaga- 
bondia,  and  that  "The  Daguerreotype"  was  pure  autobiography,  and  not 
also  a  record  of  the  self-distrust  felt  by  any  poet  whose  reach  has  ex 
ceeded  his  grasp.  Moreover,  the  use  of  metaphor,  which  demands  either 
close  attention  or  keen  poetic  receptivity,  is  not  limited  to  whole  poems 
or  extended  passages.  Moody's  poetry,  throughout  its  length  and  breadth, 
is  far  more  than  usually  implicit  and  suggestive.  Finally,  with  reference 
to  the  elusiveness  of  his  work,  his  extremely  resourceful  diction  includes 
many  words  (almost  all  of  them  nouns)  that  will  lay  low  all  but  the  most 
erudite  who  are  unfortified  by  a  dictionary.  Those  who  will  survive 
eidolon,  hydromel,  amphora  and  muezzin,  will  take  thought  of  their  mental 
stature  in  the  face  of  shawm,  shard,  minim  and  chrysm,  and  will  succumb 
to  oegipan,  stasimon,  windelstrce,  crud,  draff,  and  blooth.  Yet  these  words 
and  their  like  never  produce  the  effect  of  the  wilful  display  for  which 
there  would  be  no  excuse.  They  possess  the  twin  virtues  of  nicety  in 
meaning  and  fine  adjustment  to  the  melody  of  their  contexts. 

The  poetic  beauties  of  Moody's  work  are  usually  distinguished  and 
often  exquisite.  His  wide  and  intimate  knowledge  of  world  literature 
results  in  an  opulence  of  style  which  was  markedly  free  irom  imitative- 
ness.  Although  his  completed  poems  seem  unrestrained  and  spontaneous, 
they  reveal,  upon  close  study,  the  utmost  firmness  of  structure  and  scru 
pulousness  of  detail.  This  structural  security  is  most  evident  in  the 
shorter  lyrics,  in  which  it  would  be  difficult  to  make  even  the  slightest 
change  without  appreciably  disturbing  the  balance.  It  is  hardly  less  per 
ceptible  to  the  close  student  of  the  poetic  dramas.  Careful  observation, 
for  example,  of  the  relationship  between  the  two  poems  bearing  the  title, 
"The  Death  of  Eve,"  will  show  how  far  from  casual  were  his  processes 
of  composition.  In  versification  he  is  equally  successful  in  the  use  of 
close-knit  shorter  stanzaic  forms,  and  in  the  freer  measures  of  the  odes. 
He  is  so  far  a  master  of  his  medium  that  he  does  with  apparent  ease  what 
are  really  difficult  feats  of  technique.  The  degree  to  which  he  makes  the 
sound  and  swing  of  the  lines  conform  to  their  content  has  already  been 
suggested  in  a  comment  on  his  diction.  Though  he  was  possessed  of  so 
extraordinarily  wide  a  vocabulary  that  at  times  the  exact,  and  perhaps 
obvious,  word  for  him  is  unusual  if  not  unfamiliar  to  the  average  reader, 
yet  in  their  context  these  challenge  the  challenger  to  carry  an  indictment 
against  them.  Far  more  frequent,  however,  are  the  passages  in  which 
Moody  makes  exquisite  use  of  words  within  the  ken  of  everyone,  as  in 
the  fine  shadings  of  the  youthful  flower  of  love, 

whose  petals  dim  were  fears, 
Awes,  adorations,  songs  of  ruth,  hesitancies  and  tears. 


CRITICAL   COMMENTS  697 

Finally,  there  lies  in  the  connotative  quality  of  Moody's  workmanship, 
to  which  reference  has  already  been  made,  perhaps  the  richest  source  of 
his  poetic  power.  He  is  figurative  not  only  in  language,  but  in  his  habits 
of  mind.  His  physical  eye  sees  the  appearance  of  things  as  a  child  would, 
though  he  interprets  them  as  a  man  may.  Thus 

The  haggard  shapes  of  twilight  trees 

A  dance  of  dust  motes  in  the  sliding  sun 

the  ivory  circle  of  the  moon 

are  at  once  naive  and  sophisticated,  and  each  one  contains  the  aptest  of 
epithets.  Although  he  is  not  at  all  what  is  usually  meant  by  a  nature-poet, 
he  derives  from  natural  objects  in  hundreds  of  passages  the  analogies 
which  give  body  to  his  thought.  Such  as  the  following  need  no  exposition : 

as  a  man 

Who  has  a  thing  to  do,  and   makes  his   fear 
An  icy  wind  to  freeze  his  purpose  firm. 

I  swiftly  clomb, 
And   from  the  utter  dome 
Of  most   high   morning   laughed,   and   sang   my   loved    one  home. 

envious  leadership 
Ditched  into  rivulets  of  little  head 
The  stream  and  onset  of  our  expedition. 

Moody's  broad  fame  is  yet  to  be  achieved.  Even  since  his  death  the 
world  has  been  coming  anew  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  poetry  as  a  living 
tongue.  His  own  public  was  small,  and  it  is  now  being  slowly  augmented 
by  the  growing  zest  for  poetry  inspired  by  both  the  older  and  the  newer 
poets.  Because  of  the  deep  significance  of  his  philosophy,  and  the  con 
summate  beauty  of  his  art,  we  may  look  forward  with  confidence  to  a 
final  estimate  that  will  put  him  among  the  greatest  of  American  poets, 
and  among  the  leading  singers  in  the  world  choir  of  his  day. 


INDEX   OF   SUBJECTS 


ACROSTIC 

William  Paddy 15 

AGASSIZ— See  Personal 446 

ALMANACS 

NATHANIEL  AMES,  From  the  Almanacks  of. 30-34 
AMERICA— See  Also  Patriotic 

FRENEAU 

American  Liberty 91 

America  Independent 94 

To  the  Americans  of  the  United  States. .    115 

BRYANT 
Oh,  Mother  of  a  Mighty  Race 187 

WHITTIER 
The  Crisis 248 

LOWELL 

Harvard  Commemoration  Ode,  x-xii 318 

LONGFELLOW 

From  The  Building  of  the  Ship 382 

WHITMAN 

From  As  I  Sat  Alone  by  Blue  Ontario's 

Shore 497 

From  Out  of  the  Cradle  Endlessly  Rocking   510 

I  Hear  America  Singing 513 

Song  of  the  Banner  at  Daybreak 524 

Pioneers 528 

HOVEY 
The  Call  of  the  Bugles 571 

MOODY 

From  An  Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation 578 

AMERICAN   CULTURE 

FRENEAU 

Literary  Importation 109 

An  Epistle  to  a  Student  of  Dead  Lan 
guages 114 

BARLOW 

From  Vision  of  Columbus  VII 127,  128 

DRAKE 

The  National  Painting .    148 

To  XXXX  Esquire. 150 

HALLECK 

From  Fanny 154 

APHORISMS 
WARD 
From    The    Simple    Cobbler    of   Agga- 

wam 11-13 

EMERSON 

Art 205 

Compensation 205 

Friendship 205 

Forbearance .    206 


Character 207 

Politics 207 

Days 216 

Worship 218 

Fragments 222 

WHITMAN 

The  Base  of  All  Metaphysics 540 

STODDARD 

What  Harmonious  Is  with  Thee 553 

Though  Thou  Should'st  Live  a  Thousand 

Years 553 

To  Bear  What  Is;  to  Be  Resigned 554 

ANTI-SLAVERY 

FRENEAU 
To  Sir  Toby 107 

EMERSON 

Voluntaries 220 

WHITTIER 

Expostulation 239 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia 243 

The  Crisis 248 

Arisen  at  Last! 256 

WHITMAN 

Ethiopia  Saluting  the  Colors 539 

AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 
BRYANT 

A  Lifetime 193 

EMERSON 

Good-bye 195 

Terminus 222 

WHITTIER 

Memories 242 

LONGFELLOW  , 

My  Lost  Youth 399 

HOLMES 

At  a  Meeting  of  Friends 437 

WHITMAN 

There  Was  a  Child  Went  Forth 473 

Good-bye  My  Fancy 541 

MILLER 

Adios 566 

MOODY 

The  Daguerreotype 583 

BACON— See  Personal 16 

BALLADS 

HOPKINSON 

Political  Ballad 39 

Battle  of  the  Kegs 40 

ANONYMOUS 

The  Boston  Tea  Party 64 

The  Ballad  of  Nathan  Hale. . .  67 


699 


700 


INDEX   OF   SUBJECTS 


WHITTIER 

Skipper  Ireson 257 

LONGFELLOW 

The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus 369 

The  Skeleton  in  Armor 370 

Excelsior 371 

Sandalphon 400 

The  Cumberland 416 

HOLMES 

The  Ballad  of  the  Oyster  Man 421 

STODDARD 

The  Flower  of  Love  Lies  Bleeding 553 

See  also  Poems  of  the  Revolution  and  Civil 
War  passim. 

BARLOW— See  Personal 49 

BRADSTREET— See  Personal 13, 15 

BROWN— See  Personal 265,  331,  332,  333,  320 

BRYANT— See  Personal 295,  313,  445,  451 

BURNS— See  Personal 279 

CAROLINA— See  Places 351 

CHANNING— See  Personal 211 

CHARLESTON— See  Places 336,  352 

CIVIL   WAR 

EMERSON 

Voluntaries 220 

WHITTIER 

Brown  of  Ossawatomie 266 

Barbara  Frietchie 266 

Laus  Deo 267 

LOWELL 

The  Washers  of  the  Shroud 301 

The  Biglow  Papers,  II  Series,  2 305 

Ode  Recited  at  the  Harvard  Commemo 
ration  314 

POEMS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR 320-344 

LONGFELLOW 

Killed  at  the  Ford 419 

HOLMES 

Brother   Jonathan's   Lament    for    Sister 

Caroline 440 

To  Canaan 441 

LANIER 

Dying  Words  of  Stonewall  Jackson 449 

WHITMAN 

Drum-Taps 516 

Beat!     Beat!     Drums! 517 

Vigil  Strange  I  Kept  on  the  Field  One 

Night 521 

The  Dresser 521 

COLISEUM— See  Places 230 

COLUMBUS— See  Personal 282,  458,  564 

CONCORD— See  Places 207 

CONFEDERACY— See  Places.  .  .326,  327,  333,  359 

CONNECTICUT— See  Places 160 

COTTON— See  Persons. . .  15 


DANTE— See  Personal 375,  418 

DEMOCRACY 

WHITMAN 

Song  of  the  Broad  Axe 486 

Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry 493 

Starting  from  Paumanok 505 

A  Song 512 

I  Hear  America  Singing 513 

One  Self  I  Sing 537 

MILLER 

Westward  Ho ! 561 

DRAKE— See  Personal 158 

DUDLEY— See  Personal I 

DWIGHT— See  Personal 49 

ELIZABETH  (QUEEN)— See  Personal ~    1 

EMERSON,  CHARLES— See  Personal 207 

EMERSON,    RALPH    WALDO— See    Per 
sonal 260,  293 

EMERSON,  WALDO— See  Personal 208 

ESSEX  COUNTY,  MASS.—  See  Places 259 

FABLES 

HOPKINSON 

ToCelia 38 

The  Wasp 39 

The  Birds,  the  Beasts,  and  the  Bat 41 

MATTHEWS  (?) 

•    A  Fable 74 

EMERSON 

Fable 208 

FANCY,  POEMS  OF 

FRENEAU 
The  Power  of  Fancy 89 

DRAKE 

The  Culprit  Fay 139 

POE 

Tamerlane 224 

The  City  in  the  Sea 228~ 

The  Valley  of  Unrest 230 

The  Haunted  Palace 232 

The  Conqueror  Worm 232 

Dreamland 233 

STODDARD 
The  Witch's  Whelp 542 

FRANCE 

FRENEAU 

On  the  Prospect  of  a  Revolution  in  France  1 12 
WHITMAN 

O  Star  of  France 540 

HOVEY 

From  The  Call  of  the  Bugles 574 

FRANKLIN— See  Personal 112 

FREEDOM 

FRENEAu 

American  Liberty 91 

America  Independent 94 


INDEX   OF   SUBJECTS 


701 


BRYANT 

The  Antiquity  of  Freedom 186 

WHITMAN 

Years  of  the  Modern 531 

STODDARD 

Tyrants  Sit  upon  Their  Thrones 544 

GARRISON— See  Personal 239 

HAMATREYA— See  Places  (Concord) 214 

HAMPTON  BEACH— See  Places 242 

HAVERHILL— See  Places 241 

HAWTHORNE— See  Personal 417 

HISTORICAL 

HOPKINSON 

Verses 36 

Louisbourg - 37 

POETRY  OF  THE  REVOLUTION 58-88 

FRENEAU 

On  the  British  Commercial  Depredations  116 

DWIGHT 

Destruction  of  the  Pequods 118 

HALLECK 

Marco  Bozzaris 158 

The  Iron  Grays 159 

Field  of  the  Grounded  Arms 167 

BRYANT 

The  Twenty-Second  of  December 182 

Song  of  Marion's  Men 184 

Seventy-Six ; 185 

The  Battle  Field 185 

EMERSON 

Concord  Hymn 198 

WHITTIER 

Pentucket 241 

Skipper  Ireson 257 

Garrison  of  Cape  Ann. . 262 

The  Double  Headed  Snake  of  Newbury . .  264 

Barbara  Frietchie 266 

Abraham  Davenport 274 

LOWELL 

Columbus 282 

POEMS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR 320-344 

LONGFELLOW 

The  Skeleton  in  Armor 370 

Paul  Revere's  Ride 401 

The  Birds  of  Killingworth 412 

Killed  at  the  Ford 419 

HOLMES 

On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl 429 

Lexington 431 

LANIER 

The  Dying  Words  of  Stonewall  Jackson  449 

Sonnets  of  Columbus 458 

WHITMAN 

The  Centenarian's  Story 518 

O  Star  of  France 540 

MILLER 

Westward  Ho  ! 561 

Columbus 564 

HOLMES— See  Personal .  .  ,297 


HUDSON  RIVER— See  Places 139 

HUMOROUS 
LOWELL 

Without  and  Within 298 

HOLMES 

The  Music  Grinders 422 

The  Comet i . .  424 

Daily  Trials 425 

The  Stethoscope  Song 430 

HYMNS 
HOPKINSON 

Morning  Hymn . '. 36 

DWIGHT 

Love  to  the  Church 124 

BRYANT 

Hymn  to  the  North  Star 173 

EMERSON 

Concord  Hymn 198 

POE 

Hymn 231 

WHITTIER 

The  Eternal  Goodness 268 

Our  Master 272 

HOLMES 

Hymn  of  Trust 438 

A  Sun-Day  Hymn 438 

INDIAN,  THE 

FRENEAU 

The  Indian  Burying  Ground 110 

DWIGHT 

The  Destruction  of  the  Pequods 118 

HALLECK 

Red  Jacket 163 

BRYANT 

Monument  Mountain 171 

LONGFELLOW 

Burial  of  the  Minnisink 366 

MILLER 

The  Last  Taschastas 556 

Kit  Carson's  Ride 558 

The  Sioux  Chief's  Daughter 562 

INDUSTRIALISM 

DWIGHT 
Farmers'  Advice  to  Villagers 121 

HALLECK 

From    Fanny:      Success    in    New    York 
City 157 

BRYANT 

A  Meditation  on  Rhode  Island  Coal ....      180 
Song  of  the  Sower 189 

WHITTIER 

Shoemakers 245 

Huskers 246 

TIMROD 

The  Cotton  Boll 354 

LANIER 

Corn 451 

The  Symphony 453 


702 


INDEX  OF   SUBJECTS 


MOODY 
Gloucester  Moors 560 

JACKSON— See  Personal 381 

JOURNALISM 
FRENEAU 

The  Epigram 102 

A  Newsman's  Address  (1784) 106 

A  Newsman's  Address  (1786) 106 

To  the  Public 113 

To  My  Book 114 

LOWELL 

Biglow  Papers,  I  Series,  6 290 

KEATS— See  Personal 

KOSSUTH— See  Personal.  . 


457 

250 

LAKE  WINNEPESAUKEE— See  Places. .  .  251 

LINCOLN — See  Personal 192,  316,  532,  537,  549 

LIND,  JENNIE— See  Personal 543 

LONGFELLOW— See  Personal 297,  361,  364 

LOUISIANA— See  Places '. 324 

LYRICS 
BRADSTREET 

Letters  to  Her  Husband 8-10 

MORTON 

Song 11 

HOPKINSON 

Ode  on  Music 35 

Song 35 

Advice  to  Amanda 35 

My  Generous  Heart  Disdains 42 

FRENEAU 

The  Power  of  Fancy 89 

Retirement 90 

On  a  Honey-Bee 116 

BRYANT 

To  a  Waterfowl 170 

O  Fairest  of  the  Rural  Maids. . . 170 

EMERSON 

Thine  Eyes  Still  Shined 196 

Holidays 205 

Dirge,  Concord,  1838 207 

The  Romany  Girl 216 

POE 

To 226 

A  Dream  Within  a  Dream 226 

Romance . 227 

Sonnet — to  Science .' 227 

To 227 

To  Helen 227 

Israfel 228 

The  City  in  the  Sea 228 

The  Sleeper 229 

Lenore 229 

The  Valley  of  Unrest 230 

To  One  in  Paradise 230 

The  Coliseum 230 

ToF 231 

Sonnet  to  Zante 231 

The  Haunted  Palace 232 

The  Conqueror  Worm 232 


Dream-Land 233 

The  Bells 236 

To  My  Mother 237 

Annabel  Lee 238 

.     Eldorado 238 

WHITTIER 

Maud  Muller 253 

LOWELL 

I  would  not  have  this  perfect  love 278 

My   Love,    I    have    no   fear    that    thou 

should'st  die 278 

Our  Love  Is  Not  a  Fading  Earthly  Flower  278 

Song 280 

The  Changeling 285 

She  Came  and  Went 286 

The  First  Snow  Fall 298 

Auf  Wiedersehen,  and  Palinode 299 

TIMROD 

Sonnet ; 345 

Sonnets  and  Katie 348 

Spring 350 

HAYNE 

The  Will  and  the  Wing 359 

My  Study 359 

A  Little  While  I  Fain  Would  Linger  Yet  364 

In  Harbor 365 

LONGFELLOW 

Serenade  from  The  Spanish  Student ....  372 

The  Bridge 373 

The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs 374 

The  Arrow  and  the  Song 375 

Twilight 382 

Resignation : 383 

My  Lost  Youth 399 

The  Children's  Hour 415 

Weariness 416 

HOLMES 

A  Portrait 425 

"Qui  Vive!" 427 

LANIER 

Night  and  Day 449 

Heartstrong  South  and  Headstrong  North  460 

The  Stirrup  Cup 461 

Song  of  the  Future 463 

WHITMAN 

Out  of  the  Cradle  Endlessly  Rocking 500 

STODDARD 

Fragments 544,  546 

The  Divan . 545 

Imogen 545 

A  Catch 552 

MILLER 

England 559 

Songs  from  Sappho  and  Phaon 564 

HOVEY 

Comrades 568 

The  Wander  Lovers 568 

'     At  the  End  of  Day 572 

Love  in  the  Winds 572 

Unmanifest  Destiny 575 

After  Business  Hours 576 

From  Taliesin:  A  Masque 576 

Faith  and  Fate 576 


INDEX   OF   SUBJECTS 


703 


MARYLAND— See  Places 325 

MATHER,  COTTON— See  Personal 162,  265 

MELVILLE— See  Personal 423 

MUSKETAQUID— See  Places 214 

NAPLES— See  Places 196 

NARRATIVE 

WlGGLESWORTH 

The  Day  of  Doom 18 

DRAKE 

The  Culprit  Fay 139 

HALLECK 

Marco  Bozzaris 158 

BRYANT 

Monument  Mountain 171 

POE 

Tamerlane '. . .  224 

The  Raven 233 

Ulalume 235 

WHITTIER 

Skipper  Ireson 257 

Garrison  of  Cape  Ann 262 

Barbara  Frietchie 262 

Abraham  Davenport 274 

LOWELL 

From  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal 291 

LONGFELLOW 

Erorn_£yangeline 376 

From  Hiawatha 383 

From  Tin-  Courtship  <>i'  Milo  StainlNh.  .  ;-i!i."> 

Paul  Rfvtre's  Kidi- 401 

King  Robert  of  Sicily 402 

The  Saga  of  King  Olaf 405 

The  Birds  of  Killingworth 412 

HOLMES 

The  Deacon's  Masterpiece 434 

LANIER 

The  Revenge  of  Hamish 463 

WHITMAN 

Walt    Whitman,    Section   34,    A    Texas 

Massacre 481 

Sections  35  and   36,  An  Old-Fashioned 

Sea-Fight 482 

The  Singer  in  the  Prison 538 

STODDARD 

The  King  Is  Dead 552 

MILLER 

With  Walker  in  Nicaragua 555 

The  Last  Taschastas 556 

Kit  Carson's  Ride 558 

The  Sioux  Chief's  Daughter 562 

NATURE 

THE  BEE 

FRENEAU 

On  a  Honey -Bee 110 

EMERSON 

The  Humble-Bee 198 

WHITTIER 

Telling  the  Bees 263 


LANIER 

The  Bee 462 

BRADSTREET 

Contemplations 4 

FRENEAU 

The  Wild  Honey  Suckle 110 

May  to  April no 

To  a  Caty-Did 117 

BRYANT 

Thanatopsis 169 

To  a  Waterfowl 170 

Summer  Wind 171 

A  Forest  Hymn 174 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers 178 

June 179 

The  Evening  Wind 183 

To  the  Fringed  Gentian 184 

Robert  of  Lincoln 187 

The  Planting  of  the  Apple-Tree 188 

Song  of  the  Sower 189 

EMERSON 

The  Rhodora 197 

The  Humble-Bee 198 

Each  and  All 198 

Woodnotes 200 

The  Snow-Storm 204 

Blight 206 

Two  Rivers 217 

Seashore 217 

Waldeinsamkeit 218 

The  Titmouse 219 

My  Garden ...  221 


WHITTIER 

Pictures 250 

The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn 259 

Telling  the  Bees 263 

LOWELL 

To  the  Dandelion 281 

TIMROD 

Spring 350 

The  Cotton  Boll 354 

HAYNE 

The  Mocking  Bird 361 

LONGFELLOW 

Woods  in  Winter 366 

LANIER 

Corn 449 

Song  of  the  Chattahoochee 461 

The  Mocking  Bird 461 

"The  Bee 462 

The  Marshes  of  Glynn 465 

The  Marsh  Song — Sunset 467 

Sunrise 470 

WHITMAN 

Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry 493 

Out  of  the  Cradle  Endlessly  Rocking. ...  500 

MILLER 

Dawn — From  a  Song  of  the  South 560 

Crossing  the  Plains 561 

NEW  YORK  CITY— See  Places . .  154 


7°4 


INDEX  OF   SUBJECTS 


OCCASIONS,  POEMS  OF 

HOPKINSON 

Verses  ...  for  the  Expedition  against 
Louisbourg 36 

On  the  Late  Expedition  against  Louis 
bourg  37 

FRENEAU 

The  Midnight  Consultation 92 

On  the  Memorable  Victory  of  Paul  Jones  99 

Arnold's  Departure. 101 

Ode  on  the  Frigate  Constitution 115 

BRYANT 
The  Twenty-Second  of  December 182 

WHITTIER 

Expostulation 239 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia 243 

The  Crisis 248 

Ichabod 249 

Laus  Deo 267 

LOWELL 

The  Biglow  Papers,  I  Series,  6 286-291 

The  Washers  of  the  Shroud 301 

The  Biglow  Papers,  II  Series,  2 .303-313 

Harvard  Commemoration  Ode 314 

POEMS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR 320-344 

READ 

Sheridan's  Ride 339 

TIMROD 

Ethnogenesis 349 

Carolina 351 

Charleston 352 

HAYNE 

Beyond  the  Potomac 359 

HOLMES 

Old  Ironsides 422 

The  Boys 436 

At  a  Meeting  of  Friends. 437 

Meeting  of  the  Alumni  of  Harvard  College  438 

All  Here 447 

ODES 
HOPKINSON 

Ode  on  Music 35 

ODELL 

Ode  for  the  New  Year 83 

FRENEAU 

Ode  on  the  Frigate  Constitution 115 

BRYANT 

Hymn  to  the  North  Star 173 

EMERSON 

Threnody 208 

Ode  to  W.  H.  Channing 211 

LOWELL 

The  Washers  of  the  Shroud 301 

Ode  Recited  at  the  Harvard  Commemora 
tion • 314 

SIMMS 

Ode:  Our  City  by  the  Sea 336 

TIMROD 

Ethnogenesis 349 

The  Cotton  Boll 354 


HOVEY 

Spring 569 

The  Call  of  the  Bugles 572 

MOODY 
An  Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation 577 

OLD  AGE,   POEMS  OF 
BRYANT 

A  Lifetime 193 

EMERSON 

Terminus ,     222 

HAYNE 

A  Little  While  I  Fain  Would  Linger  Yet     364 

In  Harbor 365 

HOLMES 

All  Here 447 

WHITMAN 

Good-bye  My  Fancy 54 1 

STODDARD 

Though  Thou  Should'st  Live  a  Thousand 

Years 553 

MILLER 

Adios 556 

PASTORALS 

LEWIS 

A  Journey  from  Patapsco  to  Annapolis. .       24 

FRENEAU  ^ 

Retirement 7r. 90 

BARLOW 
1  The  Hasty  Pudding •. . .     130 

WHITTIER 

The  Huskers 246 

Maud  Muller 253 

The  Barefoot  Boy 256 

The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn 259 

Telling  the  Bees 263 

xSftOwbound .269 

Among  the  Hills,  Prelude 275 

LOWELL 

The  Biglow  Papers— The  Courtin' 303 

LONGFELLOW 

The  Village  Blacksmith 368 

STODDARD 

The  Country  Life 552 

PATRIOTISM 
BARLOW 

Columbiad 123 

DWIGHT 

Columbia 123 

DRAKE 

The  American  Flag 136 

BRYANT 

Oh,  Mother  of  a  Mighty  Race 187 

Our  Country's  Call 189 

TlLTON 

God  Save  the  Nation 334 

HOWE 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic 335 

TIMROD 

Ethnogenesis 349 


INDEX  OF   SUBJECTS 


705 


LONGFELLOW 

From  The  Building  of  the  Ship 382 

WHITMAN 

Starting  from  Paumanok 505 

Song  of  the  Banner  at  Daybreak 524 

Pioneers !    O  Pioneers! 528 

HOVEY 

The  Call  of  the  Bugles. 572 

MOODY 

An  Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation 577 

PEACE 
BARLOW 

From  Vision  of  Columbus  IX 129 

BRYANT 

Christmas  in  1875 192 

LOWELL 

The  Biglow  Papers,  I  Series,  i 286 

The  Biglow  Papers,  II  Series,  10 311 

TlMROD 

Christmas 353 

Address  to  the  Old  Year 358 

LONGFELLOW 

The  Arsenal  at  Springfield 372 

Christmas  Bells 418 

HOLMES 

Non-Resistance 441 

The  Moral  Bully 442 

PERSONAL 

Agassiz,  A  Farewell  to Holmes  446 

Bacon.     Bacon's   Epitaph    Made    by    His 

Man 16 

Barlow  (and  Dwight),  Lines  to. .  .  Trumbidl  49 
Bradstreet,  Anne.     On  "The  Tenth  Muse" 

Ward  13 

Bradstreet,  Anne Rogers  13 

Bradstreet,  Anne B.  W.  15 

Brown,     John.     Brown     of     Ossawatomie 

Whittier  265 
How  Old  Brown  Took  Harper's  Ferry 

Sledman  320 

John  Brown's  Body brownell     331,  332,  333 

Bryant.  From  "A  Fable  for  Critics".  .Lowell  295 

On  Board  the  '76 Lowell  313 

Bryant's  Seventieth  Birthday. ..  .Holmes  445 

Vates  Patriae Stoddard  551 

Burns.     An   Incident   in   a   Railroad    Car 

Lowell  279 

Channing,  VV.  H.,  Ode  to Emerson  211 

Columbus Lowell  382 

Sonnets  on Lanier  458 

Columbus Miller  564 

Cotton,  John.     A  Funeral  Elegy  . .  .Norton  15 

Dante Longfellow  375 

Divina  Commedia Longfellow  418 

Drake,  Death  of Halleck  158 

Dudley,  Thomas Bradstreet  1 

Dwight  (and  Barlow),  Lines  to. .  .  Trumbutt  49 

Elizabeth  (Queen) Bradstreet  1 

Emerson.     The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn  XIV 

Whittier,  260 

From  "A  Fable  for  Critics" Lowell  293 

Emerson,  Charles:   Dirge Emerson  207 

Emerson,  Waldo:  Threnody Emerson  208 


Franklin,  Benjamin Freneau  112 

Garrison,  William  Lloyd.  .  . Whittier  239 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel Longfellow  417 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell Lowell  297 

Jackson,    Stonewall.     Stonewall   Jackson's 

Way Palmer  331 

Keats.     Clover Lanier  457 

Kossuth Whittier  250 

Lincoln,  Abraham Bryant  192 

From  Harvard  Commemoration  Ode 

Lowell  316 

When    Lilacs    Last    in    the    Dooryard 

Bloom'd Whitman  532 

O  Captain,  My  Captain Whitman  537 

A  Horatian  Ode Stoddard  549 

Lind,  Jennie  (?).     To  a  Celebrated  Singer 

Stoddard  543 

Longfellow.  Henry  Wadsworth Lowell  297 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth Hayne  361 

The  Snow-Messengers Hayne  364 

Mather,  Cotton 

Connecticut  XIII Halleck  162 

The  Double-Headed  Snake,  II,  76-85 

Whittier  265 
Melville,  Major  Thomas.    The  Last  Leaf 

Holmes  423 

Phillips,  Wendell Lowell  281 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan 

From  A  Fable  for  Critics Lowell  297 

Shakespeare Holmes  444 

Stone,  Samuel,  Threnodia  on Bulkley  17 

Sumner,  Charles 

The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn  XVI     Whittier  260 
Taylor,  Bayard 

The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn  XV . .  Whittier  260 

Under  the  Cedarcroft  Chestnut. .  .  Lanier  462 

Poems  of  the  Orient Stoddard  545 

Thoreau  (?).     Woodnotes,  I,  2 .  . .  Emerson  200 
Timrod,  Henry 

Under  the  Pine Hayne  361 

Tucker,  Ellen 

Thine  Eyes  Still  Shined Emerson  196 

Washington,  War  and Sewatt  76 

Webster,  Daniel Emerson  197 

Ichabod Whittier  249 

The  Statesman's  Secret Holmes  443 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf 

The  Snow-Messengers Hayne  363 

Wolfe,  General,  The  Death  of ?  59 

PHILLIPS— See  Personal 281 

PHILOSOPHICAL 

EMERSON 

Each  and  All 197 

Blight 206 

World-Soul 212 

Brahma 216 

LONGFELLOW 

Psalm  of  Life 367 

The  Wind  Over  the  Chimney 417 

HOLMES 

The  Chambered  Nautilus 432 

LANIER 

Acknowledgment 452 

Remonstrance 467 

How  Love  Looked  for  Hell 468 


706 


INDEX   OF   SUBJECTS 


WHITMAN 

From  Walt  Whitman 474 

From  The  Song  of  the  Open  Road 489 

With  Antecedents 514 

When  I  Heard  the  Learn'd  Astronomer.  531 

The  Base  of  All  Metaphysics 540 

STODDARD 

What  Harmonious  Is  with  Thee 553 

Though  Thou  Should'st  Live  a  Thousand 

Years 554 

To  Bear  What  Is;  to  Be  Resigned 554 

MILLER 

Question? 560 

MOODY 

The  Menagerie 581 

PLACES,  POEMS  OF 

CAROLINA Timrod  351 

CHARLESTON 

Our  City  by  the  Sea Simms  336 

Charleston Timrod  352 

COLISEUM,  THE Poe  230 

CONCORD 

Dirge,  1838 Emerson  207 

Hamatreya Emerson  214 

CONFEDERACY,  THE 

Dixie Pike  326 

The  Song  of  the  Exile Pike  327 

The  Sweet  South Simms  333 

.  Beyond  the  Potomac Hayne  359 

CONNECTICUT Halleck  160 

ESSEX  COUNTY,  MASS. 

The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn Whittier  259 

HAMPTON  BEACH Whittier  242 

HAVERHILL 

Pentucket Whittier  241 

HUDSON  RIVER,  THE 

The  Culprit  Fay Drake  139 

LAKE  WINNEPESAUKEE 

Summer  by  the  Lakeside Whittier  251 

LOUISIANA,  THE  HEART  OF Slanton  324 

MARYLAND Randall  325 

MUSKETAQUID Emerson  214 

NAPLES,  WRITTEN  IN Emerson  196 

NEW  YORK  CITY 

Fanny Halleck  154 

PORTLAND,  ME. 

My  Lost  Youth Longfellow  399 

ROME,  WRITTEN  AT Emerson  196 

SAN  FRANCISCO 

At  Our  Golden  Gate Miller  563 

SARATOGA 

The  Field  of  the  Grounded  Arms. Halleck  167 
SOUTH,  THE 

Storm  and  Calm Timrod  357 

POE— See  Personal 297 

POETRY,   THE   ART   OF 
DRAKE 

To  a  Friend .  .  136 


EMERSON 

From  the  Poets  ......................  195 

The  Problem  ........................  199 

Art  .................................  205 

Merlin  ..............................  213 

The  Test  ............................  218 

Fragments  ..........................  222 

LOWELL 

The  Shepherd  of  King  Admetus  ........  279 

From  A  Fable  for  Critics  ..............  293 

Invita  Minerva  ......................  299 

The  Origin  of  Didactic  Poetry  .........  300 

TIMROD 

From  A  Vision  of  Poesy  ...............  345 

LONGFELLOW 

The  Day  Is  Done  ....................  373 

Seaweed  ............................  375 

Birds  of  Passage  .  .    ..................  376 

HOLMES 

From  Poetry  .........................  426 

STODDARD 

How  Are  Songs  Begot  and  Bred  ?  ......  544 


POETRY,   SELF-ANALYSIS 

BRADSTREET 
Prologue 
The  Author  to  Her  Book  .  . 


£  t 

8 

FRENEAU 

To  My  Book 114 

To  the  Americans  of  the  United  States. .  115 

BRYANT 

I  Broke  the  Spell  That  Held  Me  Long. . .  179 
I  Cannot  Forget  with  What  Fervid  Devo 
tion 179 

The  Battle  Field 185 

The  Poet 191 

A  Lifetime 193 

EMERSON 

Good-bye 195 

Written  in  Naples 196 

Written  at  Rome 196 

The  Apology 198 

Blight 206 

Etienne  de  la  Boece 216 

Terminus 222 

WHITTIER 

Panorama  (Conclusion) 257 

The  Waiting 266 

LOWELL 

From  A  Fable  for  Critics 298 

HAYNE 

The  Will  and  the  Wing 359 

My  Study 359 

LONGFELLOW 

Prelude 367 

HOLMES 

From  A  Rhymed  Lesson 428 

To  My  Readers 440 

LANIER 

The  Bee 462 

WHITMAN 

From  As  I  Sat  Alone  by  Blue  Ontario's 

Shore  . .                             497 


INDEX  OF   SUBJECTS 


707 


I  Hear  It  Was  Charged  against  Me 513 

Me  Imperturbe 513 

Myself  and  Mine 514 

Give  Me  the  Splendid  Silent  Sun 523 

A  Carol  Closing  Sixty-Nine 541 

STODDARD 

The  Yellow  Moon  Looks  Slantly  Down. .  544 

MOODY 

The  Daguerreotype 583 

POLITICAL 

HOPKINSON 

Ballad,  Written  in  1777 39 

Battle  of  the  Kegs 40 

The  Birds,  the  Beasts,  and  the  Bat 41 

TRUMBULL 

M'Fingal,  Canto  III,  The  Liberty  Pole. .  50 

FRENEAU 

A  Political  Litany 90 

American  Liberty 91 

America  Independent 94 

A  Prophecy 102 

The  Political  Balance 103 

On  the  Prospect  of  a  Revolution  in  France  111 

Congress  Hall,  New  York 112 

The  American  Soldier 112 

The  Political  Weathercock 115 

On  the  British  Commercial  Depredations  118 

DRAKE 

To  Captain  Seaman  Weeks 149 

BRYANT 

The  Antiquity  of  Freedom 186 

WHITTIER 

Letter  (from  missionary  of  M.  E.  Church)  254 

LOWELL 

Biglow  Papers,  I  Series,  3 288 

PORTLAND— See  Places 399 

RELIGIOUS 
BRADSTREET 

Contemplations 4 

WlGGLESWORTH 

The  Day  of  Doom 18 

The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes 21 

BRYANT 

To  a  Waterfowl 170 

Hymn  to  Death 176 

Hymn  to  the  City 183 

Christmas  in  1875 192 

EMERSON 

Brahma 216 

WHITTIER 

First  Day  Thoughts 251 

HOLMES 

The  Deacon's  Masterpiece 434 

MOODY 

Good  Friday  Night 577 

ROME— See  Places ' 196 

SAN  FRANCISCO— See  Places 563 

SARATOGA— See  Places . .  1 67 


SATIRICAL 

HOPKINSON 

The  Wasp 39 

Ballad,  Written  in  1777 39 

Battle  of  the  Kegs 40 

The  Birds,  the  Beasts,  and  the  Bat 41 

TRUMBULL 

The  Progress  of  Dullness,  Part  III,  Har 
riet  Simper 43 

M'Fingal,  Canto  III,  The  Liberty  Pole. .  50 

ANONYMOUS 

The  Present  Age 77 

ODELL 

The  Congratulation 78 

The  American  Times 81 

FRENEAU 

A  Political  Litany 90 

The  Midnight  Consultation 92 

The  British  Prison  Ship,  Canto  II 96 

A  Prophecy 101 

The  Political  Balance 103 

Literary  Importation 109 

The  American  Soldier 112 

Congress  Hall,  New  York 112 

The  Political  Weather- Cock 115 

HALLECK  and  DRAKE 
The  Croaker  Papers 147-153 

HALLECK 

Cotton  Mather 162 

WHITTIER 

Letter  (from  missionary  of  M.  E.  Church)  254 

The  Double-Headed  Snake  of  Newbury..  264 

Among  the  Hills,  Prelude 275 

HOLMES 

To  the  Portrait  of  a  Lady 421 

My  Aunt 423 

Latter  Day  Warnings 432 

Contentment 433 

The  Deacon's  Masterpiece 434 

SHAKESPEARE— See  Persons 444 

SONGS 

ANONYMOUS 

To  Arms,    to  Arms!    My  Jolly  Grena 
diers  58 

GENERAL  WOLFE  (?) 
How  Stands  the  Glass  Around 59 

DICKINSON 

Come  Join  Hand  in  Hand 61 

ANONYMOUS 

A  Tory  Parody  of  the  Above 61 

The  Parody  Parodized 62 

The  Liberty  Pole  Satirized 63 

STANSBURY 

A  Song 64 

When  Good  Queen  Elizabeth  Governed 
the  Realm 65 

THOMAS  PAFNE 
Liberty  Tree 66 

ANONYMOUS 

A  Song 66 

A  Ballad 68 


708 


INDEX  OF   SUBJECTS 


ODELL 

Song -, , 69 

A  Birthday  Song 71 

STANSBURY 

A  Pastoral  Song 72 

ANONYMOUS 

Yankee  Doodle 73 

Yankee  Doodle's  Expedition   to   Rhode 

Island 75 

ODELL  (?) 

The  Old  Year  and  the  New 77 

STANSBURY 

Lords  of  the  Main 84 

ARCHER  (?) 

Volunteer  Boys 85 

STANSBURY 

Song  for  a  Venison  Dinner 86 

Let  Us  Be  Happy  as  Long  as  We  Can ...       87 
ANONYMOUS 

Cornwallis  Burgoyned 87 

SOUTH,  THE— See  Places 357 

TAYLOR— See  Personal 260,  462,  545 

THEATRE 

ANONYMOUS 

The  Epilogue 73 

SEWALL 
Epilogue  to  Cato— A  Cry  to  Battle 75 

FRENEAU 
Prologue  to  a  Theatrical  Entertainment.     101 

HALLECK 

To  Mr.  Simpson 147 

To  E.  Simpson,  Esquire 149 

An  Address. . .  152 


HALLECK  and  DRAKE 

To  Mrs.  Barnes 151 

TIMROD 

At  the  Opening  of  the  New  Theatre  at 
Richmond .  .  ,     356 


THOREAU— See  Personal 

TIMROD— See  Personal 

TUCKER— See  Personal 

WASHINGTON— See  Personal. 


206 

361 

196 

76 

WEBSTER— See  Personal 197,  249,  443 

WHITTIER— See  Personal 363 

WOLFE,  GENERAL— See  Personal 59 

WOMAN 

BRADSTREET 

Queen  Elizabeth 1 


The  Prologue 

HOPKINSON 

Advice  to  Amanda 35 

TRUMBULL 

The  Progress  of  Dullness,  Part  III 43 

HALLECK 

Fanny's  Education 155 

HOLMES 

The  Voiceless 435 

LANIER 

The  Symphony,  11.  211-324 455 

STODDARD 

Without  and  Within 547 

MOODY 

The  Daguerreotype 583 

The  Death  of  Eve.  .  586 


INDEX   OF   PERIODICAL   PUBLICATION 


The  following  list  of  entries  is  intended  as  a  start  toward  a  full  index  which  will  show  the 
relation  between  the  poets  of  the  country  and  the  periodicals  by  which  they  have  been  encour 
aged  to  write.  The  information  could  be  much  more  complete.  Special  bibliographical  work 
has  been  very  fully  done  with  reference  to  Freneau,  Bryant,  Emerson,  Lowell,  and  Holmes.  In 
the  case  of  many  others  it  has  been  fairly  easy  to  locate  poems.  In  case  of  one  or  two  poets 
numerous  citations  of  original  sources  have  turned  out  to  be  unverifiable,  and  in  the  cases  of 
Timrod,  Hayne,  Whitman,  Stoddard,  and  Miller  the  information  is  extremely  meagre,  so  that 
the  editor  in  many  cases  does  not  even  know  whether  many  of  their  poems  appeared  originally 
through  the  periodicals  or  in  collected  volumes  issued  by  the  poets.  Supplementary  informa 
tion  will  be  gratefully  welcomed. 


Amateur. 

Holmes:   To  the  Portrait  of  "A  Lady"  (June, 
1830),  421 ;  The  Ballad  of  the  Oyster-Man  (July, 
1830),  421;  The  Last  Leaf  (March,  1831),  423. 
American  Monthly  Magazine,  New  York  and  Bos 
ton,  1833-6. 

Holmes:  "Qui  Vive?"  (Nov.,  1836),  427. 
American  Whig  Review,  New  York,  1845-7, 1848-52. 

Poe:  Ulalume  (Dec.,  1847),  235. 
Anti-Slavery  Standard. 

Lowell:  Biglow  Papers,  No.  VI  (May,  1848),  290; 

The  First  Snow-Fall  (Dec.,  1849),  298. 
Appleton's  Journal,  New  York,  1869-81. 

Lanier:  The  Revenge  of  Hamish  (1878),  463. 
Atlantic  Monthly,  Boston,  1857 — . 

Bryant:   The  Planting  of  the  Apple-Tree  (Jan., 

1864),  188. 

Emerson:  The  Romany  Girl  (Nov.,  1857),  216; 
Seashore  (Jan.,  1858),  217;  The  Test  (Jan., 
1861),  218;  The  Titmouse  (May,  1862),  219; 
Voluntaries  (Oct.,  1863),  220;  My  Garden 
(Dec.,  1866),  221;  Terminus  (Jan.,  1867),  222. 
Whittier:  Telling  the  Bees  (April,  1858),  263; 
The  Double-Headed  Snake  of  Newbury 
(March,  1859),  264;  Barbara  Frietchie  (Oct., 
1863),  266;  Abraham  Davenport  (May,  1866), 
274;  Among  the  Hills  (Jan.,  1868),  275. 
Lowell:  The  Origin  of  Didactic  Poetry  (Nov., 
1857),  300;  The  Washers  of  the  Shroud  (Nov., 
1861),  301;  The  Biglow  Papers,  second  series 
(Feb.,  1862),  303;  Mr.  Hosea  Biglow  to  the  Edi 
tor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  (April,  1865),  311; 
On  Board  the  '76  (Jan.,  1865),  313;  Ode  Recited 
at  the  Harvard  Commemoration  (Sept.,  1865), 
314. 

Longfellow:  Sandalphon  (April,  1858),  400;  Paul 
Revere's  Ride  (Jan.,  1861),  401;  The  Birds  of 
Killingworth  (Dec.,  1863),  412;  The  Children's 
Hour  (Sept.,  1860),  415;  The  Cumberland  (Dec., 
1862),  416;  Weariness  (Nov.,  1863),  416;  Haw 
thorne  (Aug.,  1864),  417;  The  Wind  Over  the 
Chimney  (Jan.,  1865),  417;  Divina  Commedia 
(Dec.,  1864),  418;  Killed  at  the  Ford  (April, 
1866),  419. 


Holmes:  Latter-Day  Warnings  (Nov.,  1857),  432; 
The  Chambered  Nautilus  (Feb.,  1858), 432;  Con 
tentment  (Sept.,  1858),  433;  The  Deacon's  Mas 
terpiece  (Sept.,  1858),  434;  The  Voiceless  (Oct., 
1858),  435;  The  Boys  (Feb.,  1859),  436;  At  a 
Meeting  of  Friends  (Aug.,  1859),  437;  Hymn  of 
Trust  (Nov.,  1859),  438;  A  Sun-Day  Hymn 
(Dec.,  1859),  438;  Brother  Jonathan's  Lament 
for  Sister  Caroline  (May,  1861),  440;  Bryant's 
Seventieth  Birthday  (Dec.,  1864),  445. 
Hovey:  Love  in  the  Winds  (April,  1898),  572;  After 

Business  Hours  (Aug.,  1898),  576. 
Moody:  Good  Friday  Night  (May,  1898),  577;  An 

Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation  (May,  1900),  577. 
Atlantic  Souvenir,  Boston,  1826-32. 

Bryant:  "I  Broke  the  Spell  That  Held  Me  Long" 

(1826),  179;  June  (1826),  179. 
Longfellow:  Burial  of  the  Minriisink  (1827),  366. 
Baltimore  Museum. 

Poe:  The  Haunted  Palace  (April,  1839),  232. 
Baltimore  Saturday  Visitor. 

Poe:  The  Coliseum  (1833),  230. 
Boatswain's  Whistle,  Boston. 

Emerson:  Seashore  (Nov.,  1864),  217. 
Bookman,  New  York,  1895 — . 

Hovey:  Faith  and  Fate  (April,  1900),  576. 
Boston  Book. 
Longfellow:  The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus  (1841), 

369. 
Boston  Courier 

Lowell:  The  Biglow  Papers,  III  (Nov.,  1847),  288. 
Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

Holmes:  Old  Ironsides  (Sept.,  1830),  422. 
Boston  Evening  Transcript. 

Holmes:  To  Canaan  (Aug.,  1862),  441. 
Boston  Miscellany. 
Lowell:  The  Shepherd  of  King  Admetus  (1842), 

279. 
Century,  New  York,  1881 — . 

Lanier:    Remonstrance  (April,  1883),  467;    How 

Love  Looked  for  Hell  (March,  1884),  468. 
Christian  Examiner,  Boston,  1824-69. 

Bryant:   Hymn  of  the  City  (1830),  183. 
Continent,  Philadelphia  and  New  York,  1882-4. 
Lanier:  Marsh  Song— At  Sunset  (Feb.,  1882),  467. 


709 


710 


INDEX   OF   PERIODICAL   PUBLICATION 


Crayon. 

Lowell:  Invita  Minerva  (May,  1855),  299. 
Daily  Advertiser,  New  York. 

Freneau:'  On  the  Prospect  of  a  Revolution  in 

France    (March,    1790),    111;     Congress   Hall, 

New  York  (March,  1790),  112;   On  the  Death 

of  Dr.  Benjamin  Franklin  (April,  1790),  112. 

Democratic  Review,   Washington   and   New  York, 

1837-59. 

Bryant:  The  Battle-Field  (Oct.,  1837),  185. 
Lowell:    An  Incident  in  a  Railroad  Car  (Oct., 

1842),  279. 
Diadem,  Philadelphia. 

Emerson:    Fable    (1846),  208; .  The    World-Soul 

(1847),  212. 
Dial,  Boston,  1840-44. 

Emerson:  The  Problem  (July,  1840),  199;  Wood- 
notes,  I  (Oct.,  1840),  200;  Woodnotes,  II 
Oct.,  1841),  201;  The  Snow-Storm  (Jan.,  1841), 
204;  Holidays  (July,  1842),  205;  Forbearance 
(Jan.,  1842),  206;  Blight  (Jan.,  1844),  206. 
Evening  Mirror. 

Poe:  The  Raven  (Jan.,  1845),  233. 
Flag  of  Our  Union. 

Poe:  To  My  Mother  (1849),  237. 
Freeman's  Journal,  or  the  New  Hampshire  Gazette. 
Anonymous:    Independence  (Aug.,  1776),  68;  A 
Ballad  (Oct.,  1776),  68;  The  Present  Age  (Oct., 
1779),  77. 

Freneau:    On  the  Memorable  Victory  of  Paul 
Jones  (Aug.,    1781),   99;    Arnold's  Departure 
(July,  1782),  101. 
Freeman's  Journal. 

Freneau:  Prologue  to  a  Theatrical  Entertain 
ment  (Jan.,  1782),  101;  Epigram  on  Mr.  Riving- 
ton's  Gazette  (Feb.,  1782),  102;  A  Prophecy 
(March,  1782),  102;  The  Political  Balance  (April, 
1782),  103;  The  Progress  of  Balloons  (Dec., 
1784),  108;  The  Wild  Honey  Suckle  (Aug.,  1786), 
110. 
Galaxy,  New  York,  1866-78. 

Lanier:  The  Mocking  Bird  (Aug.,  1877),  461. 
Gift,  Philadelphia,  1836-7,  1839-40,  1842-5. 

Emerson:  Dirge  (1839),  207. 
Godey's  Lady's  Book,  Philadelphia  and  New  York, 

1&30-98. 

Poe:  To  One  in  Paradise  (Jan.,  1831),  230. 
Graham's  Magazine,  Philadelphia,  1841-58. 

Poe:    The   Conqueror  Worm   (Jan.,   1843),  232; 

Dream -Land  (June,  1844),  233; 
Lowell:  To  the  Dandelion  (Jan.,  1845),  281. 
Longfellow:  Serenade  (Sept.,  1842),  372;  The  Ar 
senal  at  Springfield  (April,  1844),  372. 
Bryant:  O  Mother  of  a  Mighty  Race  (July,  1847), 

187. 
Independent,  New  York,  1848 — . 

Whittier:  Laus  Deo  (Feb.,  1865),  267. 

Tilton:  The  Great  Bell  Roland  (April,  1861),  322. 

Lanier:  Night  and  Day  (Aug.,  1884),  449;  Clover 

Aug.,  1876),  457;   Sunrise  (Dec.,  1882),  470. 
Knickerbocker  Magazine,  New  York,  1833-65. 
Bryant:  The  Antiquity  of  Freedom  (Feb.,  1842), 

186. 

Longfellow:  A  Psalm  of  Life  (Oct.,  1838),  367; 
Prelude  to  Voices  of  the  Night  (May,  1839), 
367;  The  Village  Blacksmith  (Nov.,  1840),  368; 
The  Skeleton  in  Armor  (Jan.,  1841),  370. 


Liberator. 
Whittier:     Expostulation     (Sept.,     1834),     239; 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia  (Jan.,  1843),  243. 
Lippincott's  Magazine,  Philadelphia,  1868 — . 

Lanier:  Corn  (Feb.,  1875),  449;  Acknowledgment 
(Nov.,  1876),  452;  The  Symphony  (June,  1875), 
453;  Sonnets  of  Columbus  (June,  1876),  458; 
Heartstrong  South  and  Headstrong  North 
(June,  1876),  460;  The  Bee  (Oct.,  1877),  462. 
National  Era. 

Whittier:  Ichabod  (May,  1850),  249. 
Whittier:   Maud  Muller  (1854),  253. 
National  Gazette,  Philadelphia. 

Freneau:    To  Sir  Toby  (July,  1792),  107;    To  the 
Public  (Oct.,  1791),  113;   To  My  Book  (Aug., 
1792),  114. 
New  England  Galaxy. 

Holmes:  The  Music  Grinders  (1830),  422. 
New  England  Magazine   (Buckingham's),  Boston, 

1831-5. 

Holmes:  My  Aunt  (Oct.,  1831),  423;  The  Comet 
(April,  1832),  424;  Daily  Trials  (May  (?),  1833), 
425. 
New  Orleans  Delta. 

Stanton:  The  Heart  of  Louisiana  (1861),  324. 
New  York  Evening  Post. 

Drake:  To  Croaker,  Junior  (March,  1819),  148; 
The  National  Painting  (March,  1819),  148; 
The  Man  Who  Frets  at  Worldly  Strife  (March, 
1819),  148. 

Drake:  The  American  Flag  (May,  1819),  136. 
Halleck:  To  Mr.  Simpson  (March,  1819),  147. 
Halleck:  ToE.  Simpson,  Esq.  (March,  1819),  149. 
Drake:  To  Captain  Seaman  Weeks  (April,  1819), 

149. 

Halleck  and  Drake:    Abstract  of  the  Surgeon- 
General's  Report  (April,  1819),  150. 
Drake:  To  XXXX,  Esquire  (April,  1819),  150. 
Halleck  and   Drake:    To   Mrs.    Barnes   (April, 

1819),  151. 
Halleck:   An  Address  for  the  Opening  of  a  New 

Theatre  (Aug.,  1821),  152. 
Bryant:  Christmas  in  1875  (Dec.,  1875),  192. 
New  York  Ledger. 

Bryant:  Our  Country's  Call  (Nov.,  1861),  189. 
New  York  Mirror. 

Bryant:  Seventy-Six  (May,  1835),  185. 
New  York  News  (?). 

Lucas:  In  the  Land  Where  We  Were  Dreaming 

(1865),  341. 
New  York  Review,  New  York,  1837-42. 

Halleck:  Marco  Bozzaris  ( ,  1823),  158. 

Bryant:  Hymn  to  Death  (Oct.,  1825),  176;  The 
Death  of  the  Flowers  (Nov.,  1825),  178;  "I 
Cannot  Forget  with  What  Fervid  Devotion" 
(Feb.,  1826),  179;  A  Meditation  on  Rhode 
Island  Coal  (April,  1826),  180. 
New  York  Tribune. 

Poe:  Annabel  Lee  (Oct.,  1849),  238. 

Stedman:     How    Old    Brown    Took    Harper's 

Ferry  (Nov.,  1859),  320. 
North  American  Review,  Boston  and  New  York, 

1815 — . 
Bryant:   Thanatopsis  (Sept.,  1817),  169;    To  a 

Waterfowl  ( ,  1815),  170. 

Opal. 

Longfellow:  Birds  of  Passage  (1847),  376. 


INDEX   OF   PERIODICAL   PUBLICATION 


711 


Oxford  Magazine  (?). 

Miller:  Kit  Carson's  Ride  (1871  (?)),  558. 
Pennsylvania  Journal. 

By   a  Lady:    Virginia    Banishing  Tea    (Sept., 
1774),  65. 

Anonymous:  A  Song  (May,  1775),  66. 
Pennsylvania  Packet. 

Anonymous:  The  Boston  Tea  Party  (1773),  64. 
Hopkinson:  Battle  of  the  Kegs  (March,  1778),  40. 
Paine:  Liberty  Tree  (1775),  66. 
Poet  Lore,  Boston,  1889^. 

Hovey:  From"Taliesin:  A  Masque"  (1899),  576. 
Pointe  Coupee. 

Randall:  Maryland  (April,  1861),  325. 
Putnam's  Magazine,  New  York,  1853-7,  1868-70. 
Lowell:    Without  and  Within  (April,  1854),  298; 
Auf    Wiedersehen    (Dec.,     1854),    299;      and 
Palinode,  299. 

Bryant:   Robert  of  Lincoln  (June,  1855),  187. 
Quarterly  Repository. 
Halleck:     On   the   Death   of  Joseph   Rodman 

Drake  ( -,  1820),  158. 

Richmond  Enquirer. 

Ryan:  The  Sword  of  Robert  Lee  (1865  (?)),  341. 
Richmond  Whig. 

Thompson:  On  to  Richmond  (1861),  328. 
Hayne:  Beyond  the  Potomac  (1862),  359. 
Rivington's  Royal  Gazette. 

Anonymous:  The  Epilogue  (Oct.,  1778),  73. 
Matthews  (?):  A  Fable  (— ,  1778),  74. 
Anonymous:     Yankee   Doodle's   Expedition    to 

Rhode  Island  (Oct.,  1778),  75. 
Odell  (?):  The  Old  Year  and  the  New:  A  Proph 
ecy  (Jan.,  1779),  77;  The  Congratulation  (Nov., 
1779),  78. 

Stansbury:  Lords  of  the  Main  (Feb.,  1780). 
Russell's  Magazine,  Charleston,  1858-60. 
Timrod:  Sonnet  (Feb.,  1859),  345. 


Sartain's  Union  Magazine,  Philadelphia,  1847-52. 

Poe:  The  Bells  (Nov.,  1849),  236. 
Scott's  Magazine. 

Lanier:  Song  of  the  Chattahoochee  (1877),  461. 

Scribner's  Magazine,  New  York,  1887 . 

Hovey:  The  Call  of  the  Bugles  (Sept.,  1898),  571. 
Scribner's  Monthly,  New  York,  1870-81. 

Lanier:  The  Stirrup-Cup  (May,  1877),  461;  Un 
der  the  Cedarcroft  Chestnut  (Jan.,  1878),  462; 

A  Song  of  the  Future  ( ,  1878),  463. 

Southern  Literary  Messenger,  Richmond,  1834-64. 
Poe:    Sonnet  to  Zante  (Jan.,  1837),  231;    Hymn 

( ,  1835),  231;   To  F (July,  1837),  231. 

Talisman,  New  York,  1828-30. 
Halleck:   Red  Jacket  (1828),  165. 
Bryant:    The   Past   (1829),    182;    The   Evening 

Wind  (1830),  183. 
Time-Piece. 
Freneau:     Ode    on    the    Frigate    Constitution 

(Oct.,  1797),  115. 
Token  and  Atlantic  Souvenir,  Boston,  1828-42. 

Holmes:  A  Portrait  (1833),  425. 
Towne's  Evening  Post. 

Anonymous:  The  Congress  (No.  435,  1776),  69. 
United  States  Literary  Gazette,  Boston,  1824-6. 
Bryant:  Summer  Wind  (July,  1824),  171;  Monu 
ment  Mountain  (Sept.,  1824),  171;  Hymn  to  the 
North  Star  (Jan.,  1825),  173;   A  Forest  Hymn 
(April,  1825),  174. 

Longfellow:  Woods  in  Winter  (Feb.,  1825),  366. 
United  States  Magazine. 
Freneau:    George  the  Third's  Soliloquy  (May, 

1779),  95. 

Western  Messenger. 

Emerson:  Good-Bye  (April,  1839),  195;  The 
Rhodora  (July,  1839),  197;  Each  and  All 
(Feb.,  1839),  197;  The  Humble  Bee  (Feb., 
1839),  198. 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Abraham  Davenport  (Whittier) 274 

Abraham  Lincoln  (Bryant) 192 

Abraham  Lincoln  (Stoddard) 549 

Abstract    of    the    Surgeon-General's    Report 

(Drake  and  Halleck) 150 

Acknowledgment  (Lanier) 452 

Acrostic  on  William  Paddy  (Anon.) 15 

Address,  An  (Drake  and  Halleck) 152 

Address  Delivered  at  the  Opening  of  the  New 

Theatre  at  Richmond  (Timrod) 353 

Address  to  the  Old  Year  (Timrod) 355 

Adios  (Miller) 566 

Advice  to  Amanda  (Hopkinson) 35 

After  All  (Winter) 341 

All  Here  (Holmes) 447 

America  Independent  (Freneau) 94 

American  Flag,  The  (Drake) 136 

American  Liberty  (Freneau) 91 

American  Soldier,  The  (Freneau) 112 

American  Times,  The  (Odell,  "  Querno  ") 81 

Annabel  Lee  (Poe) 238 

Antiquity  of  Freedom,  The  (Bryant) 186 

Apology,  The  (Emerson) 198 

Arisen  at  Last  (Whittier) 256 

Arnold's  Departure  (Freneau) 101 

Arrow  and  the  Song,  The  (Longfellow) 375 

Arsenal  at  Springfield,  The  (Longfellow) 372 

Art  (Emerson) 205 

As  I  Sat  Alone  by  Blue  Ontario's  Shore  (Whit 
man)  497 

Aspects  of  the  Pines  (Hayne) 358 

At  a  Meeting  of  Friends  (Holmes) 437 

At  Our  Golden  Gate  (Miller) 563 

At  the  End  of  Day  (Hovey) 572 

Auf  Wiedersehen  (Lowell) 296 

Author  to  her  Book,  The  (Bradstreet) 8 

Bacon's  Epitaph,  Made  by  his  Man 17 

Ballad,  A  (Freeman's  Journal) 68 

Ballad  of  Nathan  Hale,  The  (Anon.) 67 

Ballad  of  the  Oyster-Man  (Holmes) 421 

Barbara  Frietchie  (Whittier) 266 

Barefoot  Boy,  The  (Whittier) 256 

Base  of  All  Metaphysics,  The  (Whitman) 540 

Battle-field,  The  (Bryant) 185 

Battle  Hymn,  A  (Boker) 331 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic  (Howe) 332 

Battle  Summer,  The  (Tuckerman) 323 

Beat !  Beat !  Drums  !  (Whitman) 517 

Bee,  The  (Lanier) 462 

Bells,  The  (Poe) 236 

Beyond  the  Potomac  (Hayne) 356 

Biglow  Papers,  The,  First  Series  (Lowell) 283 

Biglow  Papers,  The,  Second  Series  (Lowell) ...  300 

Birds  of  Killingworth,  The  (Longfellow) 412 

Birds  of  Passage  (Longfellow) 376 

Birthday  Song,  A  (Odell) 71 

Blight  (Emerson) 206 


Bold  Hawthorne  (Anon.) 70 

Boston  Tea  Party,  The  (Anon.) 64 

Boys,  The  (Holmes) 436 

Braddock's  Fate  and  an  Encitement  to  Re 
venge  (Tilden) 58 

Brahma  (Emerson) 216 

Bridge,  The  (Longfellow) 373 

British  Prison  Ship,  The  (Freneau) 96 

Brother  Jonathan's  Lament  for  Sister  Caroline 

(Holmes) 440 

Brown  of  Ossawatomie  (Whittier) 265 

Bryant's  Seventieth  Birthday  (Holmes) 445 

Building  of  the  Ship,  The  (Longfellow) 382 

Burial  of  the  Minnisink  (Longfellow) 366 

By  the  Pacific  Ocean  (Miller) 563 

Call  of  the  Bugles,  The  (Hovey) 572 

Carol  Closing  Sixty-Nine,  A  (Whitman) 541 

Carolina  (Timrod) 348 

Catch,  A  (Stoddard) 552 

Centenarian's  Story,  The  (Whitman) 518 

Chambered  Nautilus,  The  (Holmes) 432 

Changeling,  The  (Lowell) 282 

Character  (Emerson) 207 

Charleston  (Timrod) 349 

Children's  Hour,  The  (Longfellow) 415 

Christmas  (Timrod) 350 

Christmas  Bells  (Longfellow) 418 

Christmas  in  1875  (Bryant) 192 

City  in  the  Sea,  The  (Poe) 228 

Claribel's  Prayer  (Anon.) 335 

Closing  Scene,  The  (Read) 339 

Clover  (Lanier) 457 

Coliseum,  The  (Poe) • 230 

Columbia  (Dwight) 123 

Columbus  (Lowell) 279 

Columbus  (Miller) 564 

Come  Join  Hand  in  Hand,  Brave  Americans 

All  (Dickinson) 61 

Comet,  The  (Holmes) 424 

Compensation  (Emerson) 205 

Comrades  (Hovey) 568 

Concord  Hymn  (Emerson) 198 

Congratulation,  The  (Odell) 78 

Congress  Hall,  N.  Y.  (Freneau) 112 

Congress,  The  (Towne's  Evening  Post) 69 

Connecticut  (Halleck) 160 

Conqueror  Worm,  The  (Poe) 232 

Contemplations  (Bradstreet) 4 

Contentment  (Holmes) 433 

Corn  (Lanier) 449 

Cornwallis  Burgoyned  (Anon.) 87 

Cotton  Boll,  The '(Timrod) 351 

Country  Life,  The  (Stoddard) 552 

Courtship  of  Miles  Standish,  The  (Longfellow)  395 

Crisis,  The  (Whittier) 248 

Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry  (Whitman) 493 

Crossing  the  Plains  (Miller) 561, 


712 


INDEX    OF    TITLES 


713 


Cry  to  Battle,  A  (Sewall) 75 

Culprit  Fay,  The  (Drake) 139 

Cumberland,  The  (Longfellow) 416 

Daguerreotype,  The  (Moody) 583 

Daily  Trials  (Holmes) 425 

Dance,  The  (Anon.) 86 

Dante  (Longfellow) 375 

Day  is  Done,  The  (Longfellow) 373 

Day  of  Doom,  The  (Wiggles worth) 18 

Days  (Emerson) 216 

Deacon's  Masterpiece,  The  (Holmes) 434 

Death  Carol  (Whitman) 535 

Death  of  Eve,  The  (Moody) 586 

Death  of  Wolfe,  The  (Anon.) 59 

Destruction  of  the  Pequods,  The  (Dwight) 118 

Dirge  (Emerson) 207 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier  (Boker) 331 

Divan,  The  (Stoddard) 545 

Divina  Commedia  (Longfellow) 418 

Dixie  (Pike) 323 

Double-Headed  Snake  of  Newbury,  The  (Whit- 
tier)  264 

Dream-Land  (Poe) •. . .  233 

Dream  of  the  South  Winds,  A  (Hayne) 358 

Dream  Within  a  Dream,  A  (Poe) 226 

Dresser,  The  (Whitman) 521 

Drum-Taps  (Whitman) 516 

Dying    Words    of    Stonewall    Jackson,    The 

(Lanier) 449 

Each  and  All  (Emerson) 197 

Eldorado  (Poe) 238 

England  (Miller) 559 

Epigram  (Freneau) 102 

Epilogue,  The  (Anon.) 73 

Epistle  (Freneau) 114 

Eternal  Goodness,  The  (Whittier) 268 

Ethiopia  Saluting  the  Colors  (Whitman) 539 

Ethnogenesis  (Timrod) 346 

Etienne  de  la  Boece  (Emerson) 216 

Evangeline  (Longfellow) 376 

Evening  Wind,  The  (Bryant) 183 

Excelsior  (Longfellow) 371 

Expostulation  (Whittier) 239 

Fable  (Emerson) 208 

Fable,  A  (Matthews) 75 

Fable  for  Critics,  A  (Lowell) 290 

Faith  and  Fate  (Hovey) 576 

Fanny  (Halleck) 154 

Farewell  to  Agassiz,  A  (Holmes) 446 

Farewell  to  Brother  Jonathan  (Caroline) 320 

Farewell  to  Pope,  A  (Thompson) 327 

Farmer's  Advice  to  the  Villagers,  The  (Dwight)  121 

Fate  of  John  Burgoyne,  The  (Anon.) 72 

Field  of  the  Grounded  Arms,  The  (Halleck)  . .  167 

First-Day  Thoughts  (Whittier) 251 

First  Snow-Fall,  The  (Lowell) 295 

Flight  of  Youth,  The  (Stoddard) 544 

Flower  of  Love  Lies  Bleeding,  The  (Stoddard)  553 

Forbearance  (Emerson) 206 

Forest  Hymn,  A  (Bryant) 174 

"For  This  True  Nobleness  I  Seek  in  Vain" 

(Lowell) 275 

Fragments  (Emerson) 222 

Friendship  (Emerson) 205 

From  the  Almanack  for  1733  (Ames) 30 

From  the  Almanack  for  1738  (Ames) 31 


From  the  Almanack  for  1743  (Ames) 32 

From  the  Almanack  for  1751  (Ames) 33 

From  the  Poet  (Emerson) 195 

Funeral  Elegy  upon  the  Death  of  the  Truly 
Reverend  Mr.  John  Cotton,  Late  Teacher  of 
the  Church  of  Christ  at  Boston,  in  New  Eng 
land,  A  (Norton) 15 

Garrison  of  Cape  Ann,  The  (Whittier) 262 

George  the  Third's  Soliloquy  (Freneau) 95 

Give  Me  the  Splendid  Silent  Sun  (Whitman)  523 
Glory    Hallelujah !   or    John   Brown's   Body 

(Hall) 329 

Glory  Hallelujah,  or  New  John  Brown  Song 

(Anon.) 330 

Gloucester  Moors  (Moody) 580 

God  Save  the  Nation  !  (Tilton) '331 

Good-bye  (Emerson) 195 

Good-Bye  My  Fancy  !  (Whitman) 541 

Good  Friday  Night  (Moody) 577 

Great  Bell  Roland,  The  (Tilton) 319 

Hamatreya  (Emerson) 214 

Hampton  Beach  (Whittier) 242 

Hasty  Pudding,  The  (Barlow) 130 

Haunted  Palace,  The  (Poe) 232 

Hawthorne  (Longfellow) 417 

Heart  of  Louisiana,  The  (Stanton) 321 

Heartstrong    South    and    Headstrong    North 

(Lanier) 460 

Holidays  (Emerson) 205 

"  How  Are  Songs  Begot  and  Bred  ?  "  (Stoddard)  544 

How  Love  Looked  for  Hell  (Lanier) 468 

How  Old  Brown  Took  Harper's  Ferry  (Sted- 

man) 317 

How  Stands  the  Glass  Around  (Wolfe) 59 

Humble-Bee,  The  (Emerson) 198 

Huskers,  The  (Whittier) 246 

Hymn  (Poe) 231 

Hymn  of  the  City  (Bryant) 183 

Hymn  of  Trust  (Holmes) 438 

Hymn  to  Death  (Bryant) 176 

Hymn  to  the  North  Star  (Bryant) 173 

"I  Broke  the  Spell  That  Held   Me   Long" 

(Bryant) 179 

"  I  Cannot  Forget  with  What  Fervid  Devo 
tion  "  (Bryant) 179 

Ichabod  (Whittier) 249 

I  Hear  America  Singing  (Whitman) 513 

I  Hear  It  Was  Charged  Against  Me  (Whitman)  513 

Imogen  (Stoddard) 545 

Incident  in  a  Railroad  Car,  An  (Lowell) 276 

Independence  (Freeman's  Journal) 68 

Indian  Burying  Ground,  The  (Freneau) 110 

In  Harbor  (Hayne) 365 

In  the  Land  Where  We  Were  Dreaming  (Lucas)  338 

Invita  Minerva  (Lowell) 297 

Iron  Grays,  The  (Halleck) 159 

I  Saw  in  Louisiana  a  Live-Oak  Growing  (Whit 
man)  512 

Israfel  (Poe) 228 

"I  Would  Not  Have  This  Perfect  Love  of 

Ours "   (Lowell) 275 

Journey  from  Patapsco  in  Maryland  to  Annap 
olis,  A  (Lewis) 24 

June  (Bryant) 179 

Katie  (Timrod) 345 

Killed  at  the  Ford  (Longfellow) 419 


INDEX    OF    TITLES 


King  is  Cold,  The  (Stoddard) 552 

Kit  Carson's  Ride  (Miller) 558 

Kossuth  (Poe) 250 

Lady's  Adieu  to  Her  Tea-Table,  A  (Anon.) ...  65 

Last  Leaf,  The  (Holmes) 423 

Last  Taschastas,  The  (Miller) 556 

Last  Walk  in  Autumn,  The  (Whittier) 259 

Latter-Day  Warnings  (Holmes) 432 

Laus  Deo  !  (Whittier) 267 

Lenore  (Poe) 229 

Letter  (Whittier) 254 

Letters  to  Her  Husband  (Bradstreet) 8 

Let  Us  Be  Happy  as  Long  as  We  Can  (Stans 
bury)  : .  87 

Lexington  (Holmes) 431 

Liberty  Pole  Satirized,  The  (Anon.) 63 

Liberty  Tree  (Paine) 66 

Lifetime,  A  (Bryant) 193 

Lines  Addressed  to  Messrs.  Dwight  and  Bar 
low  (Trumbull) 49 

Literary  Importation  (Freneau) 109 

Little  Giff en  (Ticknor) 336 

Little  While  I  Fain  Would  Linger  Yet,  A 

(Hayne) 364 

Lords  of  the  Main  (Stansbury) 84 

Louisbourg  (Hopkinson) 37 

Love  to  the  Church  (Dwight) 124 

Man  Who  Frets  at  Worldly  Strife,  The  (Drake 

and  Halleck) 148 

Marching  Through  Georgia  (Work) 337 

Marco  Bozzaris  (Halleck) 158 

Marshes  of  Glynn,  The  (Lanier) 465 

Marsh  Song — At  Sunset  (Lanier) 467 

Maryland  (Randall) 322 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia  (Whittier) 243 

Maud  Muller  (Whittier) 253 

May  to  April  (Freneau) 110 

Meditation  on  Rhode  Island  Coal,  A  (Bryant)  180 
Meeting  of  the  Alumni  of  Harvard  College 

(Holmes) 438 

Me  Imperturbe  (Whitman) . , 513 

Memories  (Whittier) 242 

Menagerie,  The  (Moody) 581 

Merlin  (Emerson) 213 

M'Fingal  (Trumbull) 60 

Midnight  Consultation,  The  (Freneau) 92 

Mocking-Bird,  The  (Hayne) 361 

Mocking  Bird,  The  (Lanier) 461 

Monument  Mountain  (Bryant) 171 

Moral  Bully,  The  (Holmes) 442 

Morning  Hymn,  A  (Hopkinson) 36 

Music-Grinders,  The  (Holmes) 422 

Musician's  Tale,  The  (Longfellow) 405 

Musketaquid  (Emerson) 214 

My  Aunt  (Holmes) 423 

My  Garden  (Emerson) 221 

My  Generous  Heart  Disdains  (Hopkinson) 42 

My  Lost  Youth  (Longfellow) 399 

"  My    Love,  I    Have   No   Fear   That   Thou 

Shouldst  Die  "  (Lowell) 275 

Myself  and  Mine  (Whitman) 515 

My  Study  (Hayne) 356 

National  Painting,  The  (Drake  and  Halleck) . .  148 

News-Man's  Address,  A  (Freneau) 106 

Newsman's  Address,  A  (Freneau) 108 

Night  and  Day  (Lanier) 449 


Non-Resistance  (Holmes) 441 

O  Captain !  My  Captain !  (Whitman) 537 

Ode  (Emerson) 211 

Ode  (Freneau) 115 

Ode  for  the  New  Year  (Odell) 83 

Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation,  An  (Moody) 577 

Ode  on  Music  (Hopkinson) 35 

Ode:  Our  City  by  the  Sea  (Simms) 333 

Ode  Recited  at  the  Harvard  Commemoration 

(Lowell) 311 

O  Fairest  of  the  Rural  Maids  (Bryant) 170 

Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs,  The  (Longfellow) 374 

Old  Ironsides  (Holmes) 422 

Old  Year  and  the  New,  The  (Odell) 77 

"  O  Mother  of  a  Mighty  Race  "  (Byrant) 187 

On  a  Honey  Bee  (Freneau) 116 

On  Board  the  '76  (Lowell) 310 

One's  Self  I  Sing  (Whitman) 537 

On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl  (Holmes) 429 

On  Retirement  (Freneau) 90 

On    the    British    Commercial    Depredations 

(Freneau) , 116 

On  the  Death  of  Dr.  Benjamin  Franklin  (Fre 
neau)  112 

On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake  (Hal-  ' 

leek) 158 

On  the  Memorable  Victory  of  Paul  Jones  (Fre 
neau)  99 

On  the  Prospect  of  a  Revolution  in  France 

(Freneau) ill 

On  "  The  Tenth  Muse  "  (Ward) 13 

On  to  Richmond  (Thompson) 325 

Original   Version   of   the  John   Brown    Song 

(Brownell) 328 

Origin  of  Didactic  Poetry,  The  (Lowell) 297 

O  Star  of  France  !  (Whitman) 540 

Our  Country's  Call  (Bryant) 189 

"  Our  Love  Is  Not  a  Fading  Earthly  Flower  " 

(Lowell) 275 

Our  Master  (Whittier) 272 

Out  of  the  Cradle  Endlessly  Rocking  (Whit 
man)  500 

Palinode  (Lowell) 296 

Panorama,  The  (Whittier) 257 

Parody  Parodized,  The  (Anon.) 62 

Pasquinade,  A  (Stansbury) 85 

Past,  The  (Bryant) 182 

Pastoral  Song,  A  (Stansbury) 72 

Paul  Revere' s  Ride  (Longfellow) 401 

Pentucket  (Whittier) 211 

Picket-Guard,  The  (Beers) 320 

Pictures  (Whittier) 250 

Pioneers  !  O  Pioneers  !  (Whitman) 528 

Planting  of  the  Apple-Tree,  The  (Bryant) 188 

"  Poems  of  the  Orient "  (Stoddard) 545 

Poet,  The  (Bryant) 191 

Poetry  (Holmes) 426 

Political  Balance,  The  (Freneau) 103 

Political  Ballads  (Hopkinson) 39 

Political  Litany,  A  (Freneau) 90 

Political  Weather-Cock,  The  (Freneau) 115 

Politics  (Emerson) 207 

Portrait,  A  (Holmes) 425 

Power  of  Fancy,  The  (Freneau) 89 

Prelude  (Longfellow) 367 

Present  Age,  The  (Freeman's  Journal) 77 


INDEX    OF    TITLES 


715 


President  Lincoln's  Burial  Hymn  (Whitman) . .  532 

President's  Proclamation,  The  (Proctor) 329 

Problem,  The  (Emerson) 199 

Progress  of  Balloons,  The  (Freneau) 108 

Progress  of  Dulness,  The  (Trumbull) 43 

Prologue  (Freneau) . . .  * 101 

Prologue,  The  (Bradstreet) 3 

Prophecy,  A  (Freneau) 102 

Psalm  of  Life,  A  (Longfellow) 367 

Queen  Elizabeth  (Bradstreet) 1 

Question?  (Miller) 560 

"Qui  Vive ?"  (Holmes) 427 

Raven,  The  (Poe) 233 

Red  Jacket  (Halleck) 165 

Remonstrance  (Lanier) 467 

Resignation  (Longfellow) 383 

Revenge  of  Hamish,  The  (Lanier) 463 

Rhodora,  The  (Emerson) 197 

Rhymed  Lesson,  A  (Holmes) 428 

Robert  of  Lincoln  (Bryant) 187 

Romance  (Poe) 227 

Romany  Girl,  The  (Emerson) 216 

Saints  Ascend  to  Heaven,  The  (Wigglesworth)  21 

Sandalphon  (Longfellow) 400 

Seashore  (Emerson) 217 

Seaweed  (Longfellow) 375 

Sentence   and   Torment   of    the    Condemned 

(Wigglesworth) 19 

Serenade  (Longfellow) : . . .  372 

Seventeen  Hundred  and  Ninety-One  (Freneau)  113 

Seventy-Six  (Bryant) 185 

Shakespeare  (Holmes) 444 

She  Came  and  Went  (Lowell) 283 

Shepherd  of  King  Admetus,  The  (Lowell) 276 

Sheridan's  Ride  (Read) 336 

Shoemakers,  The  (Whittier) 245 

Sicilian's  Tale,  The  (Longfellow) 402 

"Simple  Cobler  of  Aggawam,  The"  (Ward)..  11 

Singer  in  the  Prison,  The  (Whitman) 538 

Sioux  Chief's  Daughter,  The  (Miller) 562 

Skeleton  in  Armor,  The  (Longfellow) 370 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride  (Poe) 257 

Sleeper,  The  (Poe) 229 

Snow-Bound  (Whittier) 269 

Snow-Messengers,  The  (Hayne) 362 

Snow-Storm,  The  (Emerson) 204 

Song,  A:  Come,  I  will  make  the  continent  in 
dissoluble  (Whitman) 512 

Song,  A:  Hark  !  'tis  Freedom  that  calls  (Penn 
sylvania  Journal) 66 

Song,  A:  Ye  Sons  of  St.  George  (Stansbury)  —  64 
Song:  Beauty  and  merit  now  are  join'd  (Hop- 

kinson) 35 

Song:   Drinke   and  be   merry,   merry,   merry 

boyes,  (Morton) 11 

Song:  How  sweet  is  the  season  (Odell) 69 

Song:  O  moonlight  deep  and  tender  (Lowell) .  .  277 

Song,  for  a  Venison  Dinner  (Stansbury) 86 

Song  of  Hiawatha,  The  (Longfellow) 383 

Song  of  Marion's  Men  (Bryant) 184 

Song  of  the  Banner  at  Day-Break  (Whitman)  524 

Song  of  the  Broad-Axe  (Whitman) 486 

Song  of  the  Chattahoochee  (Lanier) 461 

Song  of  the  Exile,  The  (Anon.)' 324 

Song  of  the  Future,  A  (Lanier) 463 

Song  of  the  Open  Road  (Whitman) 489 


Song  of  the  South,  A  (Miller) 560 

Song  of  the  Sower,  The  (Bryant) 189 

Songs  from  Sappho  and  Phaon  (Miller) 564 

Sonnet:  At  last,  beloved  Nature  !  (Timrod) . . .  342 
Sonnet:  I  know  not  why,  but  all  this  weary  day 

(Timrod) 345 

Sonnet:  I  scarcely  grieve,  O  Nature  !  (Timrod)  345 
Sonnet:  Life  ever  seems  as  from  its  present  site 

(Timrod) 345 

Sonnet— Poets  (Hayne) 358 

Sonnets  on  Columbus  (Lanier) 468 

Sonnet— To  Science  (Poe) 227 

Sonnet  to  Zante  (Poe) 231 

Southern  Cross,  The  (Tucker) 325 

Spring  (Hovey) 569 

Spring  (Timrod) 347 

Starting  from  Paumanok  (Whitman) 505 

Statesman's  Secret,  The  (Holmes) 443 

Stethoscope  Song,  The  (Holmes) 430 

Stirrup-Cup,  The  (Lanier) 461 

Stonewall  Jackson's  Way  (Palmer) 328 

Storm  and  Calm  (Timrod) 854 

Summer  by  the  Lakeside  (Whittier) 251 

Summer  Wind  (Bryant) 171 

Sun-Day  Hymn,  A  (Holmes) 438 

Sunrise  (Lanier) 470 

Sure  Never  \Vas  Picture  Drawn  More  to  the 

Life  (Virginia  Gazette) 60 

Sweet  South,  The  (Simms) 330 

Sword  of  Robert  Lee,  The  (Ryan) 338 

Symphony,  The  (Lanier) 453 

"Taliesin:  A  Masque"  (Hovey) 576 

Tamerlane  (Poe) 224 

Telling  the  Bees  (Whittier) 263 

Terminus  (Emerson) 222 

Test,  The  (Emerson) 218 

Thanatopsis  (Bryant) 169 

There  Was  a  Child  Went  Forth  (Whitman) ...  473 

Thine  Eyes  Still  Shined  (Emerson) 196 

"Though    Thou   Shouldst  Live  a  Thousand 

Years  "  (Stoddard) 554 

Three  Hundred  Thousand  More  (Anon.) 332 

Threnodia  on  Samuel  Stone  (Bulkley) 16 

Threnody  (Emerson) 208 

Titmouse,  The  (Emerson) 219 

To (Poe) 227 

To (Poe) 226 

To  a  Caty-Did  (Freneau) 117 

To  a  Celebrated  Singer  (Stoddard) 543 

To  a  Friend  (Drake) 136 

To   Arms,   To  Arms !   My  Jolly  Grenadiers 

(Anon.) 58 

To  a  Waterfowl  (Bryant) 170 

"  To  Bear  What  Is,  To  Be  Resigned  "  (Stod 
dard)  554 

To  Canaan  (Holmes) 441 

To  Captain  Seaman  Weeks   (Drake  and  Hal 
leck)  149 

To  Celia  (Hopkinson) 38 

To  Croaker,  Junior  (Drake  and  Halleck) 147 

To  E.  Simpson,  Esq.  (Drake  and  Halleck) ....  149 

To  F (Poe) 231 

To  Helen  (Poe) 227 

To  her  most  Honoured  Father  (Bradstreet) ...  1 

To  Mrs.  Barnes  (Drake  and  Halleck) 151 

To  Mr.  Simpson  (Drake  and  Halleck) 147 


716 


INDEX   OF    TITLES 


To  My  Book  (Freneau) 114 

To  My  Mother  (Poe) 237 

To  My  Readers  (Holmes) 440 

To  One  in  Paradise  (Poe) 230 

Tory  Parody  of  the  Above,  A  (Anon.) 61 

To  Sir  Toby  (Freneau) 107 

To  the  Americans  of  the  United  States  (Fre 
neau)  115 

To  the  Dandelion  (Lowell) 278 

To  the  Fringed  Gentian  (Bryant) 184 

To  the  Portrait  of  "  A  Lady  "  (Holmes) 421 

To  the  Public  (Freneau) 113 

To  William  Lloyd  Garrison  (Whittier) 239 

To  XXXX,  Esquire  (Drake  and  Halleck) 150 

Twenty-Second  of  December,  The  (Bryant).. .  182 

Twilight  (Longfellow) 382 

Two  Rivers  (Emerson) 217 

Ulalume  (Poe) 235 

Under  the  Cedarcroft  Chestnut  (Lanier) 462 

Under  the  Pine  (Hayne) 361 

Unmanifest  Destiny  (Hovey) 575 

Unveiled  (Hayne) 359 

Upon  Mrs.  Anna  Bradstreet,  Her  Poems,  &c. 

(Rogers) 13 

Upon  the  Author  (B.  W.) 15 

Valley  of  Unrest,  The  (Poe) 230 

Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,  The  (Wigglesworth)  21 

Vates  Patriae  (Stoddard) 551 

Verses  (Hopkinson) 3fi 

Vicksburg— A  Ballad  (Hayne) 357 

Vigil  Strange  I  Kept  on  the  Field  One  Night 

(Whitman) 521 

Village  Blacksmith,  The  (Longfellow) 368 

Virginia  Banishing  Tea  (Pennsylvania  Journal)  65 

Vision  of  Columbus,  The  (Barlow) 125 

Vision  of  Poesy,  A  (Timrod) 342 

Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,  The  (Lowell) 288 

Voiceless,  The  (Holmes) 435 

Voluntaries  (Emerson) 220 

Volunteer  Boys  (Archer) 85 


Waiting,  The  (Whittier) ...... 266 

Waldeinsamkeit  (Emerson) .'. 218 

Walt  Whitman  (Whitman) 474 

Wander  Lovers,  The  (Hovey) 568 

War  and  Washington  (Sewall) 7B 

Washers  of  the  Shroud,  The  (Lowell) 298 

Wasp,  The  (Hopkinson) 39 

Weariness  (Longfellow) 416 

Webster  (Emerson) 197 

Wendell  Phillips  (Lowell) 278 

Westward  Ho  !  (Miller) 561 

"  What  Harmonious  Is  with  Thee  "  (Stoddard)  553 
When  Good  Queen  Elizabeth   Governed  the 

Realm  (Stansbury) 65 

When  I  Heard  the  Learn'd  Astronomer  (Whit 
man)  531 

When  Johnny  Comes  Marching  Home  (Gil- 
more)  337 

Who's  Ready  (Proctor) 334 

Wild  Honey  Suckle,  The  (Freneau) 110 

Will  and  the  Wing,  The  (Hayne) 356 

Wind  Over  the  Chimney,  The  (Longfellow) ...  417 

Witch's  Whelp,  The  (Stoddard) 542 

With  Antecedents  (Whitman) 514 

Without  and  Within  (Lowell) 295 

Without  and  Within  (Stoddard) 547 

With  Walker  in  Nicaragua  (Miller) 555 

Woodnotes  (Emerson) 200 

Woods  in  Winter  (Longfellow) 368 

World-Soul,  The  (Emerson) 212 

Worship  (Emerson) 218 

Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  The  (Longfellow) ....  369 

Written  at  Rome  (Emerson) 196 

Written  in  Naples  (Emerson) 196 

Yankee  Doddle  (Anon.) 73 

Yankee  Doodle's  Expedition  to  Rhode  Island 

(Rivington's  Gazette) 74 

Years  of  the  Modern  (Whitman) 531 

"Yellow  Moon  Looks  Slantly  Down,  The" 

(Stoddard) 544 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


A  beautiful  and  happy  girl 242 

A  carol  closing  sixty-nine — a  rdsumd — a  repeti 
tion, 541 

Across  the  Stony  Mountains,  o'er  the  desert's 

drouth  and  sand, 248 

A  fairy  ring, 353 

Afoot  and  light-hearted,  I  take  to  the  open  road,  489 

A  golden  pallor  of  voluptuous  light, 361 

Ah,  broken  is  the  golden  bowl !    the  spirit 

flown  forever  ! 229 

A  hermit's  house  beside  a  stream, 90 

A  little  maid  of  Astrakan 545 

A  little  while  (my  life  is  almost  set !) 364 

AH  quiet  along  the  Potomac,  they  say 320 

Alone  in  Rome.    Why,  Rome  is  lonely  too, ...  196 

Along  a  river-side,  I  know  not  where 298 

Along  the  shore  the  slimy  brine-pits  yawn, ....  542 

Although  great  Queen  thou  now  in  silence  lye,  1 

Amanda,  since  thy  lovely  frame, 35 

Americans  !   revenge  your  country's  wrongs, . .  94 

A  mile  behind  is  Gloucester  town, 580 

And  after  Winthrop's,  Hooker's,  Shepherd's 

herse, .' 15 

And  here,  sweet  friend,  I  go  my  way, 566 

And  now,  gentlemen, 540 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 204 

An  old  man  bending,  I  come,  among  new  faces,  521 

Arise !  and  see  the  glorious  sun, 36 

Aroused  and  angry, 516 

Art  thou  not  glad  to  close, 355 

A  ruddy  drop  of  manly  blood 205 

As  a  twig  trembles,  which  a  bird, 283 

As  gallant  ships  as  ever  ocean  stemm'd, 116 

As  I  travell'd  o'er  the  plain, 39 

As  Jove  the  Olympian  (who  both  I  and  you 

know, 103 

As  near  beauteous  Boston  lying, 64 

As  Sir  Launfal  made  morn  through  the  dark 
some  gate 288 

Assist  me,  ye  muses,  (whose  harps  are  in  tune),  108 

As  sunbeams  stream  through  liberal  space, ...  201 

A  still,  sweet,  placid,  moonlight  face 425 

At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay 416 

At  dawn  they  came  to  the  stream  Hiddekel, . .  586 

At  last,  beloved  Nature  !  I  have  met, 342 

At  last  the  bird  that  sang  so  long, 577 

At  length  the  wintry  Horrors  disappear, 24 

At  length  'tis  done,  the  glorious  conflict's  done,  37 

At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent 158 

At  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June 229 

At  morn — at  noon — at  twilight  dim, 231 

At  our  gate  he  groaneth,  groaneth, 563 

Awake  !  ye  forms  of  verse  divine, 148 

A  War  broke  out  in  former  days, 41 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  ! 422 

Beat !  beat !  drums  ! — Blow  !  bugles  !  blow  !. .  517 

Beauty  and  merit  now  are  join'd, 35 


Because  I  feel  that,  in  the  Heavens  above, 237 

Because  I  was  content  with  these  poor  fields,.  214 

Before  the  solemn  bronze  Saint  Gaudens  made,  577 

Begone,  pernicious  baneful  tea, 65 

Behind  him  lay  the  great  Azores, 564 

Beloved  !  amid  the  earnest  woes 231 

Beneath  this  stone  brave  Braddock  lies, 58 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 415 

Black  shadows  fall, 376 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man 256 

Borne  on  the  wings  of  time  another  year Ill 

Bring  the  good  old  bugle,  boys,  we'll  sing  an 
other  song, 337 

Bugles ! 572 

Bulkeley,   Hunt.  Willard,  Hosmer,   Meriam, 

Flint, .' 214 

Burly,  dozing,  bumble-bee, 198 

But  Miss  Ambition  was,  as  I  was  saying, 154 

By  a  route  obscure  and  lonely, 233 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 198 

Calm  as  that  second  summer  which  precedes, .  349 
Captain  Weeks,  your  right  hand — though  I 

never  have  seen  it 149 

Champion  of  those  who  groan  beneath 239 

Close  his  eyes;  his  work  is  done ! 331 

Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise, 123 

Columbus  stands  in  the  night  alone,  and,  pass 
ing  grave, 458 

Come  all  you  brave  soldiers,  both  valiant  and 

free, 68 

"  Come  hither,  Harriet,  pretty  Miss, 43 

Come,  I  will  make  the  continent  indissoluble,  512 

Cotne,  join  hand  in  hand,  brave  Americans  all,  61 

Come,  let  us  plant  the  apple-tree, 188 

Come,  listen,  good  neighbors  of  every  degree, .  63 

Come,  lovely  and  soothing  Death, 535 

Come,  my  tan-faced  children, 528 

Come,  shake  your  dull  noddles,  ye  pumpkins 

and  bawl, 61 

Come,  shut  up  your  Blackstone,  and  sparkle 

again, 150 

Come,  stack  arms,  men  !  Pile  on  the  rails, 328 

Come,  swallow  your  bumpers,  ye  Tories,  and 

roar 62 

Comrades,  pour  the  wine  to-night 568 

Cooper,   whose  name  is  with  his   country's 

woven, 165 

Cornwallis  led  a  country  dance, 86 

Daughters  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days, 216 

Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the 

way 278 

Dear  Ma'am — we  seldom  take  the  pen, 151 

Dear  Sir  of  late  delighted  with  the  sight, 1 

Dear  Sir, — your  letter  come  to  han', 308 

Dear  uplands,  Chester's  favorable  fields 457 

Death,  thou'rt  a  cordial  old  and  rare, 461 

Death,  why  so  cruel  ?    What !  no  other  way, .  17 


717 


7i8 


INDEX    OF    FIRST   LINES 


Deep  in  a  vale,  a  stranger  now  to  arms, 112 

Down  the  world  with  Mama  ! 568 

Downward  through  the  evening  twilight, 383 

Drinke  and  be  merry,  merry,  merry  boyes, ...  11 

Enlightened  as  you  were,  you  all  must  know, .  152 

Fair  flower,  that  dost  so  comely  grow, 110 

Fair  isle,  that  from  the  fairest  of  all  flowers, ...  231 

Fair  were  our  visions !  Oh,  they  were  as  grand,  338 

Far  away  in  the  twilight  time 264 

Farewell  the  tea-board,  with  its  gaudy  equi 
page,  65 

Farewell !  we  must  part;  we  have  turned  from 

the  land, 320 

Father  and  I  went  down  to  camp, 73 

Flood-tide  below  me  !    I  watch  you  face  to  face,  493 

For  sixty  days  and  upwards, 357 

Forth  from  its  scabbard,  pure  and  bright, ....  338 

For  this  true  nobleness  I  seek  in  vain 275 

Friends,  push  round  the  bottle,  and  let  us  be 

drinking, 86 

From  cold  east  shore  to  warm  west  sea, 556 

From  fall  to  spring,  the  russet  acorn 205 

From  Lewis,  Monsieur  Gerard  came 74 

From  the  hills  of  home  forth  looking,  far  be 
neath  the  tent-like  span, 262 

Gaily  bedight, 238 

Gallants  attend  and  hear  a  friend, 40 

Give  me  the  splendid  silent  sun,  with  all  his 

beams  full-dazzling, 523 

Give  me  truths, 206 

Give  me  your  hand,  old  Revolutionary 518 

Give  to  barrows,  trays  and  pans, 205 

Glooms  of  the  live-oaks,  beautiful-braided  and 

woven 465 

God  help  us !    Who's  ready  ?    There's  danger 

before! 334 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still, 300 

God,  to  Thee  we  humbly  bow, 331 

Gold  and  Iron  are  good, 207 

Good-bye  my  Fancy  ! 541 

Good-bye,  proud  world  !  I'm  going  home 195 

Great  guardians  of  our  freedom,  we  pursue, . .  91 

Great  Nature's  watchful  Eye,  the  Sun, 32 

Great  things  have  pass'd  the  last  revolting 

year 113 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee, 158 

Had  Adam  stood  in  Innocence  till  Now, 31 

Hark  !  hark  !   the  sweet  vibrating  lyre, 35 

Hark  !  'tis  Freedom  that  calls,  come,  patriots, 

awake ! 66 

Has  the  Marquis  La  Fayette, 85 

Has  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with  the 

boys? 436 

Hast  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a  gun  ?  206 
Hath  not  the  morning  dawned  with   added 

light? ....  346 

Hats  off  in  the  crowd,  Present  arms  in  the  line  !  327 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay,  434 

Have  you  read  in  the  Talmud  of  old, 400 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells 236 

He  is  dead,  the  beautiful  youth, 419 

Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me, 227 

Hence  with  the  lover  who  sighs  o'er  his  wine, .  85 

Here  are  old  trees,  tall  oaks,  and  gnarled  pines,  186 

Here  falls  no  light  of  sun  nor  stars, 576 

Here  is  the  place;  right  over  the  hill, 263 


Here  room  and  kingly  silence  keep, 563 

He  spoke  of  Burns:  men  rude  and  rough 276 

He  stood  upon  the  world's  broad  threshold; 

wide, 278 

How  are  songs  begot  and  bred  ? 544 

How  beautiful  it  was,  that  one  bright  day, . . .  417 

However  we  wrangled  with  Britain  awhile, ...  109 

How  grace  this  hallowed  day? 350 

Ho !  workers  of  the  old  time  styled, 245 

How  stands  the  glass  around  ? '.  59 

How  sweet  is  the  season,  the  sky  how  serene, .  69 

How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town, 241 

How  the  mountains  talked  together, 446 

I  am  the  God  Thor, 405 

I  broke  the  spell  that  held  me  long, 179 

I  cannot  forget  with  what  fervid  devotion, 179 

I  cannot  tell  when  first  I  saw  her  face 359 

I  celebrate  myself, 474 

I  do  not  count  the  hours  I  spend, 218 

I  du  believe  in  Freedom's  cause, 287 

If  ever  two  were  one,  then  surely  we, 8 

If  I  could  put  my  woods  in  song, 221 

If  the  red  slayer  thinks  he  slays, 216 

If  there  exists  a  hell — the  case  is  dear, 107 

I  gazed  upon  the  glorious  sky, 179 

I  had  a  little  daughter, 282 

I  have  been  every  night,  whether  empty  or 

crowded, 149 

I  hear  America  singing,  the  va/ied  carols  I  hear,  513 

I  heard  or  seemed  to  hear  the  chiding  Sea 217 

I  heard  the  bells  on- Christmas  Day, 418 

I  hear  it  was  charged  against  me  that  I  sought 

to  destroy  institutions, 513 

I  hung  my  verses  in  the  wind, 218' 

I  know  not  why,  but  all  this  weary  day, 345 

I  like  a  church;  I  like  a  cowl 199 

I  listened  to  the  Phantom  by  Ontario's  shore,  497 

111  fits  the  abstemious  Muse  a  crown  to  weave,  197 

I  love  thy  kingdom,  Lord, 124 

I  love  to  start  out  arter  night's  begun, 301 

I'm  a  friend  to  your  theatre,  oft  have  I  told  you,  147 

I  met  a  little  maid  one  day, 553 

Immortal  Love,  forever  full, 272 

In  a  branch  of  willow  hid, 117 

In  a  chariot  of  light  from  the  regions  of  day, .  66 

In  calm  and  cool  and  silence,  once  again, 251 

In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 228 

In  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes,  197 

In  my  sleep  I  was  fain  of  their  fellowship,  fain,  470 

In  spite  of  all  the  learned  have  said 110 

In  the  beginning  God, 564 

In  the  days  when  my  mother,  the  Earth,  was 

young 560 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys, 232 

In  the  old  days  (a  custom  laid  aside 274 

In  yon  small  field,  that  dimly  steals  from  sight,  118 

In  youthful  minds  to  wake  the  ardent  flame, . .  125 

I  pity  him,  who,  at  no  small  expense, 114 

I  reached  the  middle  of  the  mount, 207 

I  remember — why,  yes !  God  bless  me  !  and 

was  it  so  long  ago  ? 437 

I  said  in  my  heart,  "I  am  sick  of  four  walls  and 

a  ceiling 569 

I  said  I  stood  upon  thy  grave, 256 

I  sat  beside  the  glowing  grate,  fresh  heaped, . .  180 

I  saw  him  once  before, 423 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES 


719 


I  saw  in  Louisiana  a  live-oak  growing 512 

I  saw  thee  on  thy  bridal  day, 226 

I  scarcely  grieve,  O  Nature  !  at  the  lot, 345 

I  serve  you  not,  if  you  I  follow 216 

I  shot  an  arrow  into  the  air, 375 

I  sit  in  the  early  twilight, 193 

I  stood  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 373 

I  think  it  is  over,  over, 365 

I  thank  you,   Mr.   President,   you've  kindly 

broke  the  ice; 438 

It  is  a  sultry  day;  the  sun  has  drunk 171 

It  is  done ! 267 

It  is  not  what  we  say  or  sing, 447 

It  is  time  to  be  old, 222 

It  may  be  through  some  foreign  grace, 345 

It  was  a  tall  young  oysterman  lived  by  the 

river-side 421 

It  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  the  long  au 
tumnal  rain, 246 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 238 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 369 

It  was  the  season,  when  through  all  the  land, .    412 
It  was  three  slim  does  and  a  ten-tined  buck  in 

the  bracken  lay 463 

I've  heard  in  old  times  that  a  sage  used  to  say,     87 

I  wait  and  watch:  before  my  eyes, 266 

I  walk'd  and  did  a  little  Mole-hill  view, 21 

I  would  not  have  this  perfect  love  of  ours, 275 

John  Brown  died  on  a  scaffold  for  the  slave, . .    329 
John  Brown  in  Kansas  settled,  like  a  steadfast 

Yankee  farmer, 317 

John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie  spake  on  his  dying 

day, 265 

John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the 

grave, 330 

John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mould'ring  in  the 

grave, 329 

Joy  to  Great  Congress,  joy  an  hundred  fold, . .      78 

Kind  solace  in  a  dying  hour ! 224 

Last  spring  this  summer  may  be  autumn  sty  I'd,     16 
Last  week — the  Lord  be  praised  for  all  His 

mercies, 254 

Lay  down  the  axe;  fling  by  the  spade, 189 

Libera  Nos,  Domine. — Deliver  us,  O, 90 

Life  ever  seems  as  from  its  present  site 345 

Light,  warmth,  and  sprouting  greenness,  and 

o'er  all, 250 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear, 401 

Lists  all  white  and  blue  in  the  skies, 460 

Little  I  ask;   my  wants  are  few, 433 

Little   thinks,    in   the   field,   yon   red-cloaked 

clown, 197 

Lo  '  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 228 

Lord  of  all  being!  throned  afar, 438 

Lo !  'tis  a  gala  night, 232 

Low  and  mournful  be  the  strain, 220 

Madam,  twice  through  the  Muses  Grove  I 

walkt, . . .- 13 

Major  General  Scott, 325 

Maud  Muller  on  a  summer's  day, 253 

Me  imperturbe,  standing  at  ease  in  Nature, . . .    513 
Men  of  this  passing  age  ! — whose  noble  deeds,    115 

Mercury  shew'd  Apollo,  Bartas  Book 13 

Merrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed, 187 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of 

the  Lord 332 


My  aunt !  my  dear  unmarried  aunt ! 423 

My  coachman,  in  the  moonlight  there, 295 

My  generous  heart  disdains 42 

My  Love,  I  have  no  fear  that  thou  shouldst  die,  275 

Myself  and  mine  gymnastic  ever, 515 

My  task  is  done.  The  Showman  and  his  show,  257 

Nay,  blame  me  not;  I  might  have  spared, 440 

Not  as  when  some  great  Captain  falls, 549 

Not  in  the  solitude, 183 

No  trumpet-blast  profaned 192 

Not  what  we  would,  but  what  we  must, 552 

Now  I  believe  Tradition,  which  doth  call, ....  15 

Now  warmer  suns,  once  more  bid  nature  smile,  36 

Now  warm  with  ministerial  ire, 50 

O  Age  that  half  believ'st  thou  half  believ'st, . .  452 

O  a  new  song,  a  free  song 524 

O  Captain !  my  Captain !  our  fearful  trip  is 

done 537 

O'er  the  bare  woods,  whose  outstretched  hands,  259 

O'er  the  rough  main  with  flowing  sheet, 99 

O  even-handed  Nature  !  we  confess, 445 

O  fairest  of  the  rural  maids ! 170 

Of  all  the  ages  ever  known, 77 

Of  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time, 257 

O  fresh,  how  fresh  and  fair 358 

O  friends !  with  whom  my  feet  have  trod, 268 

Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town, 399 

Oft  have  I  dreamed  of  music  such  as  thine, ...  543 

Oft  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door, 418 

Oh!  could  L  hope  the  wise  and  pure  in  heart, .  176 

Oh  !  here  I  am  in  the  land  of  cotton, 324 

Oh  !  let  me  weep,  while  o'er  our  land, 321 

Oh,  say,  can  you  see  through  the  gloom  and  the 

storm, 325 

Oh,  slow  to  smite  and  swift  to  spare 192 

Oh,  there  are  times 425 

Old  Eighty-Five  discharg'd  and  gone 106 

Old  John  Brown  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave,  328 

O  little  feet !  that  such  long  years 416 

O  Love  Divine,  that  stooped  to  share 438 

O  moonlight  deep  and  tender, 277 

O  mother  of  a  mighty  race, 187 

Once  the  head  is  gray 552 

Once  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands 185 

Once  it  smiled  a  silent  dell, 230 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered, 

weak  and  weary, 233 

One's-self  I  sing — a  simple,  separate  Person, . .  537 

On  sunny  slope  and  beechen  swell 366 

Opinion,  let  me  alone:  I  am  not  thine 467 

Order  A.  P.  Hill  to  prepare  for  battle 449 

O  sight  of  shame,  and  pain,  and  dole ! 538 

O  Star  of  France ! 540 

O  the  sweet  South  !  the  sunny,  sunny  South ! .  330 

O  Trade !  O  Trade !  would  thou  wert  dead !. .  453 

Our  band  is  few  but  true  and  tried, 184 

Our  city  by  the  sea, "...  333 

Our  farce  is  now  finished,  your  sport's  at  an 

end 73 

Our  fellow-countrymen  in  chains  ! 239 

Our  love  is  not  a  fading  earthly  flower, 275 

Our  ship  lay  tumbling  in  an  angry  sea, 310 

Out  of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking 500 

Out  of  the  focal  and  foremost  fire, 336 

Out  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 461 

Over  the  monstrous  shambling  sea, 467 


720 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES 


Perceiv'st  thou  not  the  Process  of  the  Year, . .  33 

Perhaps  too  far  in  these  considerate  days, . . :  441 

Pleasant  it  was,  when  woods  were  green 367 

Pleased  with  the  vision  of  a  deathless  name, . .  49 

Qui  vive  ?  The  Sentry's  musket  rings, 427 

Rake  the  embers,  blow  the  coals, 552 

Rejoice,  Americans,  rejoice  ! 75 

Right  upward  on  the  road  of  fame, 195 

Rise,  rise,  bright  genius  rise, 68 

Robert  of  Sicily,  brother  of  Pope  Urbane, 402 

Romance,  who  loves  to  nod  and  sing 227 

Room  !  room  to  turn  round  in,  to  breathe  and 

be  free 558 

Sail  fast,  sail  fast 4C3 

Says  Satan  to  Jemmy,  "I  hold  you  a  bet, 102 

Science  !  true  daughter  of  Old  Time  thou  art !  227 

See,  the  fire  is  sinking  low, 417 

Seven  years  are  now  elaps'd,  dear  rambling 

volume, 114 

She  has  gone, — she  has  left  us  in  passion  and 

pride, 440 

Slowly  the  mist  o'er  the  meadow  was  creeping,  431 

So  fallen  !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn 249 

Some  thunder  on  the  heights  of  song,  their  race,  358 

Some  time  now  past  in  the  Autumnal  Tide, ...  4 

Sometimes — could  it  be  fancy  ? — I  have  felt, . .  342 

Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street, 374 

So  the  strong  will  prevailed,  and  Alden  went  on 

his  errand, 395 

Southrons,  hear  your  country  call  you  ! 323 

Speak  !  speak  !  thou  fearful  guest ! 370 

Spirit  that  breathest  through  my  lattice,  thou,  183 

Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air, . .  347 

Stars  of  the  summer  night ! 372 

Starting  from  fish-shape  Paumanok,  where  I 

was  born, 505 

Still  her  gray  rocks  tower  above  the  sea, 160 

Still  thirteen  years:  'tis  autumn  now, 296 

Still  was  the  night,  Serene  &  Bright, 18 

Strangers !  your  eyes  are  on  that  valley  fixed,  167 

Superb  and  sole,  upon  a  plumed  spray, 461 

Sure  never  was  a  picture  drawn  more  to  life, . .  60 

Sweet  are  these  kisses  of  the  South 354 

Take  this  kiss  upon  the  brow ! : .  226 

Tall,  sombre,  grim,  against  the  morning  sky,. .  358 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 367 

Thank  God  my  brain  is  not  inclined  to  cut, . . .  581 

Thanks  to  the  morning  light, 212 

The  apples  are  ripe  in  the  orchard, 341 

The  Bardling  came  where  by  a  river  grew, 296 

The  blast  from  Freedom's  Northern  Hills,  upon 

its  Southern  way, 243 

The  bowers  whereat,  in  dreams,  I  see 227 

The  breezes  went  steadily  through  the  tall 

pines, , 67 

The  Comet !  He  is  on  his  way, 424 

The  cordage  creaks  and  rattles  in  the  wind, . . .  279 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 373 

The  day,  with  cold,  gray  feet,  clung  shivering 

to  the  hills, 335 

The  despot  treads  thy  sacred  sands, 348 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 322 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples, 174 

The  innocent,  sweet  Day  is  dead 449 

The  little  gate  was  reached  at  last 296 

The  man  who  frets  at  worldly  strife, 148 


The  maples  redden  in  the  sun 189 

The  mountain  and  the  squirrel 208 

The  night  is  dark,  and  the  winter  winds, 547 

The  pine-trees  lift  their  dark,  bewildered  eyes,  362 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses, 544 

There  are  three  ways  in  which  men  take, 422 

There  breathes  no  being  but  has  some  pre 
tence,  426 

There  came  a  Woman  in  the  night, 551 

There  came  a  youth  upon  the  earth, 276 

There  comes  Emerson  first,  whose  rich  words, 

everyone 290 

There  is  no  escape  by  the  river 572 

There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended,  383 

There  was  a  child  went  forth  every  day 473 

There  was  a  young  man  in  Boston  town, 430 

The  sad  and  solemn  night, 173 

The  Saints  behold  with  courage  bold, 21 

The  same  majestic  pine  is  lifted  high, 361 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 371 

The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober, 235 

The  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming, 295 

The  South-wind  brings, 208 

The  summer  wanes, — her  languid  sighs  now 

yield 323 

The  sun  goes  down,  and  with  him  takes 216 

The  sunlight  glitters  keen  and  bright, 242 

The  sun  set,  but  set  hot  his  hope,  (Character)  207 

The  sun  set,  but  set  not  his  hope,  (Fragments)  222 

The  sun  that  brief  December  day 269 

The  Surgeon-General  by  brevet, 150 

The  twenty-second  of  August 70 

The  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy, 382 

The  various  horrors  of  these  hulks  to  tell, ....  96 

The  wings  of  Time  are  black  and  white, 205 

The  yellow  Moon  looks  slantly  down, 544 

They  slept  on  the  fields  which  their  valor  had 

won ! 356 

Thine  eyes  still  shined  for  me,  though  far, 196 

Think  me  not  unkind  and  rude, 198 

This  age  is  so  fertile  of  mighty  events 113 

This  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine,  it  tells  of  good 

old  times, 429 

This  is  he,  who,  felled  by  foes, 218 

This  is  my  world  !  within  these  narrow  walls, .  356 

This  is  the  Arsenal.     From  floor  to  ceiling, . . .  372 
This  is  the  forest  primeval.     The  murmuring 

pines  and  the  hemlocks, 376 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, . . .  432 

This,  then,  is  she, 583 

Thou  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew, 184 

Thou,  born  to  sip  the  lake  or  spring 116 

Though  loath  to  grieve, 211 

Though  thou  shouldst  live  a  thousand  years, . .  554 

Thou  ill-form'd  offspring  of  my  feeble  brain, . .  8 

Thou,  mother  of  brave  men,  of  nations  !    Thou,  559 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  ship  of  State  ! 382 

Thou  unrelenting  Past ! 182 

Thou  wast  all  that  to  me,  love, 230 

Thou  who  ordainest,  for  the  land's  salvation,.  331 

Thou  who  wouldst  see  the  lovely  and  the  wild,  171 

Thou  who  wouldst  wear  the  name, 191 

Thrash  away,  you'll  hev  to  rattle, 284 

Thus  launch'd  at  length  upon  the  main, 115 

Thus,  some  tall  tree  that  long  hath  stood, ....  112 

Thy  merits,  Wolfe,  transcend  all  human  praise,  59 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES 


721 


Thy  summer  voice,  Musketaquit, 217 

Thy  trivial  harp  will  never  please, 213 

Time  was  when  America  hallow'd  the  morn, . .  71 

Time  works  a  Change  on  all  material  Things, .  30 

'Tis  strange  that  things  upon  the  ground 115 

'Tis  the  middle  watch  of  a  summer's  night,. . .  139 

To  arms,  to  arms  !   my  jolly  grenadiers  ! 58 

To  bear  what  is,  to  be  resigned, 554 

Today  the  woods  are  trembling  through  and 

through, 449 

To  have  the  will  to  soar,  but  not  the  wings, . . .  356 

To  heal  his  heart  of  long-time  pain, 468 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 169 

To  horse,  my  dear,  and  out  into  the  night, . . .  576 

Toll,  Roland,  toll ! 319 

To  sing  of  Wars,  of  Captains,  and  of  Kings, . .  3 

To  what  new  fates,  my  country,  far, 575 

Trim  set  in  ancient  sward,  his  manful  bole, . . .  462 
Tuscan,  that  wanderest  through  the  realms  of 

gloom, 375 

Twas  morn,  and  yet  it  was  not  morn, 560 

Two  gray  hawks  ride  the  rising  blast, 562 

Type  of  the  antique  Rome  !    Rich  reliquary, . .  230 

Type  of  two  mighty  continents  !— ^combining, .  250 
Twelve    was    the    hour — congenial    darkness 

reigned 92 

Under  a  spreading  chestnut-tree, 368 

Unknown  to  her  the  maids  supplied, 545 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 266 

Up  from  the  South,  at  break  of  day, 336 

Vain  Britons,  boast  no  longer  with  proud  in 
dignity,  76 

Vigil  strange  I  kept  on  the  field  one  night 521 

Wakeful,  vagrant,  restless,  thing, 89 

Wars,  cruel  wars,  and  hostile  Britain's  rage, . .  101 

Weak-winged  is  song, 311 

Weapon,  shapely,  naked,  wan  ! 486 

We  are  coming.  Father  Abraham,  three  hun 
dred  thousand  more, 332 

We  are  what  we  are  made;  each  following  day,  196 

We  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest, 435 

Weep  not  dear  wife,  children,  nor  dear  friends,  15 

Well,  Miss,  I  wonder  where  you  live, 421 

We  read  your  little  book  of  Orient  Lays 545 

We  twine  the  wreath  of  honor, 159 

What  great  yoked  brutes  with  briskets  low, . . .  561 

What  harmonious  is  with  thee, 553 

What  heroes  from  the  woodland  sprung, 185 

What  mean  these  dreams,  and  hideous  forms 

that  rise, 95 

What  strength  !  what  strife  !  what  rude  unrest !  561 

What  tempests  gloom'd  the  by-past  year, ....  106 

What  time  I  paced,  at  pleasant  morn 462 

What  though  last  year  be  past  and  gone 77 

When  a  certain  great  king,  whose  inilial  is  G.,  102 


When  boots  and  shoes  are  torn  up  to  the  lefts,  1 1 

When  British  troops  first  landed  here, 87 

When  descends  on  the  Atlantic 375 

When  Faction,  in  league  with  the  treacherous 

Gaul, 84 

When  Faction,  pois'nous  as  the  scorpion's 

sting 81 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height, 136 

When  good  Queen  Elizabeth  govern'd  the 

realm, 65 

When  I  heard  the  learn 'd  astronomer, 531 

When  I  sit  down  with  thee  at  last  alone, 576 

When  Jack  the  king's  commander, 72 

When  Johnny  comes  marching  home  again, . . .  337 

When  legislators  keep  the  law, 432 

When  lilacs  last  in  the  door-yard  bloom'd, ....  532 

When  rival  nations  first  descried, 83 

When  the  pine  tosses  its  cones, 200 

When  war  with  his  bellowing  sound, 72 

When  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill 366 

When  wise  Minerva  still  was  young, 297 

Where  are  you  going,  soldiers  ? 441 

Where  tender  love  men's  hearts  did  move  unto 

a  sympathy, 19 

While  I  recline, 351 

Whilst  Heav'n  with  kind  propitious  ray, 38 

White  clouds,  whose  shadows  haunt  the  deep,  251 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew, 170 

Who  are  you,  dusky  woman,  so  ancient,  hardly 

human 539 

Who  claims  our  Shakespeare  from  that  realm 

unknown, 444 

Who  of  all  statesmen  is  his  country's  pride, ...  443 

Wild  was  the  day;  the  wintry  sea, 182 

With  antecedents, 514 

With  eager  step  and  wrinkled  brow, 112 

With  evil  omens  from  the  harbour  sails,. ......  101 

Within  the  sober  realms  of  leafless  t^ees, 339 

Without  your  showers,  I  breed  no  flowers, 110 

Wrapt  in  Aurelian  filth  and  slime, 39 

Ye  Alps  audacious,  through  the  heavens  that 

rise, 130 

Years  after,  shelter'd  from  the  sun, 555 

Years  of  the  modern  !  years  of  the  unperform'd  !  531 

Ye  children  of  my  fondest  care 121 

Yes,  dear  Enchantress,— wandering  far  and 

long, 428 

Ye  see  mankind  the  same  in  every  age, 75 

Yes,  faint  was  my  applause  and  cold  my  praise,  136 

Ye  Sons  of  St.  George,  here  assembled  today,  64 

Ye  Tories  all  rejoice  and  sing 69 

Yon  whey-faced  brother,  who  delights  to  wear,  442 
Your  hand,  my  dear  Junior !  we're  all  in  a 

flame, 147 

You  shall  not  be  overbold, 219 


14 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  i 


.  of  California 


Refrom  which  it  was  borrowe^ 


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